by Trevor Shane
“Did the paranoia ever go away?” Addy asked.
“No,” Evan answered, shaking his head for emphasis. “It just got more intense. After two years of tae kwon do, he made us quit that so we could drive two towns over to start taking boxing classes. It was the same as before. Chris didn’t think he was learning fast enough in tae kwon do. He never thought he was learning anything fast enough. I tried to help him relax. I tried setting him up on those dates—some of the girls we went to high school with were into his brooding, like they thought he was a character from a teen romance or something—but the dates never went anywhere. The girls thought the brooding was cool. They weren’t ready for everything that went with it.”
“It sounds lonely.”
“I think he was lonely, but I think he was too caught up in everything else to even notice how lonely he was.”
“He’s lucky he had you,” Addy pointed out.
“Maybe I should have done more for him.” Evan’s heart thumped in his chest. He began to feel guilty that he didn’t try harder to understand his friend. “But what could I have done? No matter how old I was, Chris always seemed older than me. He’d become a grown-up when we were twelve. By the time we were seventeen, it was like he was twice my age.”
“Did you ever wonder if he was crazy?” Addy asked.
“No,” Evan answered. “I was always sure that he was the sanest person I knew. Even then, if someone asked me if he was crazy or the rest of the world was crazy, I would have told you that the rest of the world was crazy every day of the week and twice on Sunday.” Evan thought about everything that had happened to him over the past couple weeks. “I just never would have guessed how crazy.”
“Did other people think he was crazy?”
“I don’t know,” Evan answered with a shrug. “I never gave a shit what other people thought about him.”
“What do you think now? Now that you know the story about Christopher’s real parents? Now that you know about the War? Now that you know everything?”
Evan shook his head in protest. “I don’t know everything,” Evan answered. “All I know now that I didn’t know then was that Chris actually had reasons to be paranoid, and now he’s gone.”
Silence engulfed the two of them. Addy let it fester. “He’s not dead, Evan,” Addy suddenly blurted out. She’d been keeping her secret long enough.
“What?” Evan shot Addy a confused look. “You said—”
“I said he was gone. That was the truth. I never said that he was dead.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“He came to me the night before our compound was raided. He told me he was leaving. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going. He asked me to try to convince you to go home. He said he knew that if he told you he was leaving, you’d try to follow him. He didn’t want that for you.”
“So he just left us?”
“I don’t think he knew what was going to happen, but yeah, he just left us,” Addy said, sounding as despondent as Evan. “I tried to get him to explain.”
“I can’t believe that he didn’t say good-bye. I can’t believe he would abandon us like that. There has to be more to it. What happened to him?”
Every time Addy looked at her phone, she was hoping she would see some news about Christopher, but no news ever came. Even though she knew that he left before the raid, she wondered if he was even still alive. “I don’t know,” Addy said, “and it doesn’t matter anyway. The two of us still have to move on. We still have to get to Florida and find help.” Addy finally spoke the words that she’d been saying to herself over and over again for the past five days.
“It does matter,” Evan said to Addy, a tinge of anger at being kept in the dark this long sneaking into his voice, “and you know it.”
It did matter—to Evan, to Addy, and to the uprising. Addy knew that it mattered, but ever since the night that Christopher told her that he was running away, she’d been trying to convince herself otherwise.
Thirty-one
It took me almost the full two days before I was comfortable with my part in the plan. At the end of our second day in the hotel in Philadelphia, Michael told me that he had something for me. I remembered the picture he’d given me and the gun he’d given to Reggie and wondered what type of gift he had for me now and what the gift would mean. He handed me an unwrapped white paper box. I opened it. Inside was a black knife in a sheath.
“What’s this for?” I asked as I slid the knife out of the sheath. The knife was thin but solid. It had a black handle and a black blade. The blade was symmetric, sharp on both edges, and came to a point at its tip.
“Protection,” Michael said. “It’s called a boot knife, but you can hide it almost anywhere. You don’t need a lot of practice to use it. You pull it out and stab or cut. It’ll work.”
“But I already have the gun,” I reminded him.
“That’s fine,” Michael answered. “Keep the gun. Carry it. But guns are loud and difficult to use at extremely close range.” I didn’t like the sounds of those words—extremely close range. “Hopefully, you won’t need it,” Michael continued. “But you should have it.”
“Okay,” I said. He gave Reggie a gun, but he gave me a knife.
“I’d hide the sheath on the inside of your waistline with the handle sticking out beneath your shirt. You can access it quickly there, but it will be well concealed.” I nodded to Michael. I planned on listening to him. Michael knew knives. I’d seen enough to know that.
“So, do you think you’re ready for this?” Michael asked me.
“Yes,” I answered. I slid the knife slowly back in its sheath and quickly pulled it out again for practice. I hadn’t been ready. That morning, Michael gave me our target’s file. He told me to take the day to look it over. He knew that I didn’t feel ready yet. He thought rereading our target’s profile might help me to overcome my hesitation. I knew that I was being a hypocrite, letting other people do my dirty work for me but suddenly developing a conscience when I had to do it myself. I was ashamed. I thought I’d be ready after what I’d done under the highway in New York. I wasn’t. It was different when it was planned. It was another step. I took the file to the public library to study the material. I found a nearly empty spot at the back of the reading room on one end of a long table. The table was broken up into reading cubicles with high wooden walls on each side for privacy. I sat down at the table and dropped the manila envelope in front of me. I read and reread the file. I read about the people that our target killed, the people that he tortured. I also read about the kids that he taught. I wanted to be sure that by following through on my part of the plan, I’d be doing something positive for the world and not just something positive for you and for me. I couldn’t. Our target was too full of contradictions to be sure about anything.
After a few hours of rereading the file without finding the magic potion that would make me okay with my part in this man’s execution, I stood up. I needed to try to get my bearings. I felt dizzy. I grabbed the papers and slipped them back inside the envelope. I put the envelope under my arm and walked. I needed a moment. I walked out of the reading room and headed for the front door. I thought the fresh air might do me some good. Before I got to the door, however, I noticed a computer lab to my right. Seven of the ten computers were taken. Three of the computers were free. I decided that the fresh air could wait. I had to check something first.
I sat down in front of one of the computers. I pulled up the Web site for one of the local New York newspapers. I knew what section I wanted to read. I’d read that newspaper every day when I was in New York, searching for a way back into the War, searching for murders, trying to figure out which ones were related to the War and which ones were truly random. I could never tell. I don’t suppose anyone could unless they knew something.
This time, I knew something. I clicked the link to the local
crime section. The story was already a couple of days old, but I found ancillary stories from that day that linked back to the original. The original story was about a nighttime shooting that took place beneath the FDR, along the East River, just north of the South Street Seaport. It was a story about a botched robbery. According to the story, a white man and a white woman ambushed an Iranian street vendor as he was pushing his food cart back to his storage location, hoping that he would be flush with cash after a full workday. The perpetrators were said to be carrying a large knife. When they approached the street vendor, he pulled out a gun to try to defend himself. During the ensuing chaos, shots were fired. The shots were reported by the cars driving by on the highway. The event came to a tragic conclusion when both perpetrators were shot and the street vendor was stabbed. All three died at the scene before the police or ambulances arrived. In the story, they identified Dorothy using a name that I’d never heard. I suppose it was probably her given name. I wonder if her family knew where she was or if they only found out when they saw their dead daughter’s picture in the newspaper.
I searched the Web site for a bit, looking for information about another incident, perhaps another shooting. I looked in the local Brooklyn section. I didn’t find anything. The paper didn’t have any record of any other murders or any other shootings over the past three days. That meant one of two things: either Reggie had gotten away or they were able to completely bury Reggie’s murder. I flipped back to the story about the street vendor. I scrolled to the bottom of the page. At the bottom of the page, they had pictures of all three of the dead. On one side of the page was a picture of Dorothy next to the picture of the man that I had shot. On the other side of the page was the picture of the Middle Eastern man. In Dorothy’s final image to the world, her face floated next to the faces of her enemies, next to the faces of the men she’d spent her life trying to save people from, next to the faces of the men she’d died trying to save Reggie from. It wasn’t right. Dorothy was better than them. She deserved better.
I went back to the reading room. I threw the envelope back down on the table. I took the contents out. I didn’t need fresh air anymore. That need had been subsumed by an internal fire. I flipped to the pages describing the mark’s thirty-one confirmed kills. I skipped the rest. I ignored the contradictions. The mark was one of Them. He was the bad guy. It didn’t matter which side he was on. They were all bad guys. Dorothy was the good guy.
The plan is simple. I’ll pose as a student. I’ll approach our mark, pretending to have an interest in next year’s track team. With all the expulsions, suspensions, transfers and truancy, the school has enough students coming in and out of its halls that it shouldn’t be unusual for our target to meet a student he’s never seen before. All I have to do is pass for a high school student. That shouldn’t be a problem. When I look at myself, I see all of the weariness and worry, but I’m still only eighteen years old. I’m still only five feet, two inches tall. It’s only my eyes that worry me. My eyes have aged beyond their years. I’m counting on being able to cover up the wrinkles and bags around my eyes with makeup. I’ll approach our target inside the school after he’s coached track practice and ask him about the track team. The goal is to lure him into a specific classroom to talk. Michael will be waiting outside, with a clear view of the classroom’s windows. If Michael sees me enter the classroom with the mark, he’ll know that everything is going as planned. That’ll be his cue to move. If I feel like something is wrong, I’m not supposed to go into the classroom. If I feel like anything is wrong, I’m supposed to walk away. Once Michael comes into the room, all I have to do is leave, locking the door behind me. The classroom doors have keys that lock only from the outside, presumably so that students can’t lock themselves in. Whatever their intended purpose, it makes for an ideal trap. My only job is to act as the bait.
“You have the key to the door?” Michael asked.
I held it in my hand. “I stole a copy from the janitor’s closet.”
“And you’re confident that you can make sure that our mark is unarmed?” Michael asked.
“I’ll take care of it,” I told him. I saw the skepticism in his face. “I won’t go into the room if I’m not sure,” I assured him. “If you see me walk into that room, you’re good to go. I won’t do anything that puts you in more danger than you’re ready for. Trust me.”
“Okay,” Michael said, “I trust you.”
Thirty-two
I leaned closer to the mirror and began to apply my makeup. I tried to be subtle at first, applying a base to hide the wrinkles developing around my eyes. Once that was done, I added color. Subtlety was no longer important. I wanted to look like a sixteen-year-old girl. I used eye shadow that matched my dress and dark eyeliner to surround my eyes. I lingered, enjoying feeling like a girl again. Then I puckered my lips and applied dark red lipstick to them. I had gone to a mall near our hotel to buy clothes with money Michael gave me. I bought a blue skirt and a loose-fitting white top that tied up the neckline in the front. The top was cut lower and the skirt shorter than I was used to. Still, I’d look conservative compared to most of the other girls in the school. I put the outfit on and looked at myself in the mirror. I was in the best shape of my life. I could see the outline of the muscles in my shoulders through my blouse. I could see the clefts in my calf muscles. I stared at the woman in the mirror. My eyes looked gray. Your father used to tell me how much he loved my deep blue eyes. I had been beautiful for him, but he’s not around to be beautiful for anymore. Instead I have to be strong for you.
I stepped out of the bathroom. I wanted Michael to see me before I left. I wanted to make sure that he knew exactly what I looked like, so that he would be sure it was me walking into the classroom and not somebody else. When I stepped out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the floor, stretching, his legs spread apart, his torso bent all the way down to the ground between his legs. He looked up only when he heard the bathroom door click closed behind me. He stared for what seemed like minutes. I felt more naked than if I’d been naked. I could feel my cheeks begin to grow flush.
“How do I look?” I asked.
“Like jailbait,” he answered.
“I suppose that’s a good thing?”
I waited for an answer that didn’t come. “Five thirty?” Michael asked instead, confirming the time.
“Five thirty,” I repeated.
“Lift up your shirt,” Michael said out of the blue.
“What?” I responded, the blush on my cheeks intensifying.
Michael looked at me like I was a fool. “Lift up your shirt,” he repeated. “Just a little.” I finally realized what he was asking. I lifted my blouse a few inches above the waist of my skirt. When I did, Michael could see the hilt of the knife he’d given me sticking out of the waistline. He nodded in approval. “And the gun?”
“It’s in my purse,” I said.
“Good.”
I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know the pre-assassination customs, so I simply turned to walk out of the room.
“Maria?” Michael said as I walked away from him.
“Yes?” I didn’t turn around.
“Be safe,” Michael said. “If anything happens, if anything feels wrong—anything—bail out.”
I couldn’t turn to face him. I wanted to but couldn’t. “That doesn’t sound like you, Michael,” I said. “You’ve never been the bail-out type.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t have to be,” Michael said, his voice deep and resonant. I could feel its bass in my joints. “We’re not the same. I’ve always had more to fight for than to live for.”
Our target was unwaveringly punctual. It was a trait I imagined he developed due to the War. We knew his daily patterns. Michael had studied them while Reggie and I were in New York. We knew where he would be almost by the minute. The timing was important. I had to approach him after track practice but be
fore he had a chance to get back to his classroom to change. He wore sneakers, short socks, athletic shorts, and the type of T-shirt that is supposed to wick away the sweat from your body during track practice. It was an outfit that left very few places to hide a weapon, and all I had to do was get him into that classroom without a weapon.
We chose the classroom where I was supposed to lead our target for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it was along the route that he took from the track to his classroom. It was also around a corner from the most crowded part of the school. In the early evening, the foot traffic in front of this classroom would be nearly nonexistent. According to Michael, our target was often the only person walking those halls after five o’clock. Finally, it was the classroom whose door could be most clearly seen from the street where Michael would be waiting. Michael would see us as soon as we entered. Then he would make his move.
I snuck into the school and waited in the hallway near the classroom. I leaned up against a set of lockers, trying to play the part of an ordinary teenage girl. I was beginning to feel more comfortable in the outfit. I didn’t get any strange looks from the other students as I walked down the hall. They didn’t see who I really am: a widow, a mother, a killer. I took a deep breath, trying to focus on the job. I looked down at the hem of my skirt. It fell about an inch above my knee. I reached down and grabbed the skirt’s waist. I lifted it another half inch so that the skirt rode even higher up my leg, careful not to drop the knife. I looked at my watch. The mark was supposed to walk by any minute.
I heard his footsteps coming down the hallway before I saw him. I could tell it was him by the purpose in his steps. I held my breath and counted my heartbeats to try to gauge my heart rate. It was beating too quickly to count. I could back out. If it felt wrong, I could abort the whole plan, but my time for that was running short. I took another deep breath. How would I know if something felt wrong? Everything in my life felt wrong. Right didn’t exist anymore, only gradients of wrong.
