“Good,” he nodded. “That’s good. Take time. I won’t officially process the resignation right away. Give it some thought, that’s all I ask.”
She hesitated, but nodded. “Fine, sir.”
“Alright,” he said. “I can expect your report by the end of day Wednesday?”
“Can’t wait to type it all up, sir,” Cora replied sarcastically.
He offered his hand. Cora shook it and headed out of the chamber. She couldn’t wait to be free of the place. A quick chat with the guard outside got her tacky, matching purse back, with her Arcadia and earpiece inside. She walked through the halls of the Pentagon, blindly following exit signs. She was not about to ask for help, but she had to get to fresh air. Putting in the earpiece, she tapped the comm button as she strapped her Arcadia back to her wrist.
“Call Gideon,” she said.
The number only rang once before he picked up. “Yeah, Cora?”
“Enjoying your first day back on American soil?” she asked.
“Oh, I didn’t miss cavity searches, or having my internal tech scanned and poked by a bunch of G-Men,” he replied sarcastically. “They could have at least bought me a burger first. Anyway, what do you need?”
“You’re writing the report of what happened, right?”
“That’s part of my pardon agreement, so yeah,” Gideon replied. He groaned. “Wait, why?”
“Would you mind writing mine, too?” Cora asked. The door ahead to blue skies was in sight. She picked up her pace.
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” Cora replied.
“No,” Gideon said. “Write your own damn report.”
“I’ll give you fifty thousand credits to write the report,” she said. “I’ve got a road trip ahead of me today, come on.”
She pushed through the door. The air in Washington wasn’t exactly what she’d call clean, but it wasn’t the recycled nonsense piped through the building. Gideon huffed and puffed on the other end of the line.
“Fine,” he said. “Wire me up, I’ll do it for fifty. It’s a bargain, remember that.”
“You’re the best,” Cora replied. “Talk soon.”
“Miss Blake?”
Cora heard a woman’s voice call her, but she kept walking, pretending she had not. Some general’s secretary was not making her go back in there. The cement steps ahead meant freedom, to go to the overpriced parking garage and get her bike, to leave the UNS, to feel the wind against her face.
“Miss Blake!”
The woman called again, closer and more persistent. Cora turned around. A twenty-something intern carried a medium-sized cardboard box as they chased after her.
“Can I help you?” Cora asked.
The girl caught up, out of breath from jogging in heels. “Sorry, I have been running all over the building trying to find you. This arrived in our mailroom earlier. Marked urgent. It’s for you.”
Cora’s brow furrowed. “From who?”
The girl looked down, examining the box for a label. “Umm...Doctor Richard Toller?”
The color drained from Cora’s face. She reached out and grabbed hold of the box.
“Thank you,” she said. Cora held the box in her hands and fixed her gaze on the girl until she took her leave.
Cora balanced the box on the metal rail at the top of the cement stairs while she fished into her purse. She pulled out a switchblade, popped it, and cut through the tape. The box was light, and nothing seemed to rattle as she handled it. Once open, she pulled away a piece of packing paper to expose the inside. A black jewelry box, one meant to hold a necklace, lay at the bottom.
She pulled out the velvet-covered box, dropping the cardboard to the ground at her feet. She turned it over and around, but no markings indicated anything about the contents. With a delicate hand, she pulled it open.
Inside, she found a hair piece of Native design. A long, thin strap of leather, ancient and well-worn from its appearance, was decorated with beads and feathers of yellow and blue. It was beautiful. Beneath where it rested, Cora could see there was a note or card of some kind.
As Cora grabbed the hair piece between two fingers, a jolt like an electric shock ran up her arm. Every muscle in her body locked. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Images flooded her mind, so fast she couldn’t keep track of it all. The images turned to movies, playing out like memories.
She recalled a time as she sat down in a tent, alone at night. The stars in the sky were so bright, she didn’t want to sleep. She recalled a dream she had the night before. Men in blue woolen uniforms descended on her camp by the dozen, like a swarm. They fell into the camp on their backs, like dead insects. Native men gathered around her to hear her recall the story.
Another flash of memory came. She was running to a hill, blood pumping through her veins hot, surging with a tiny ball of magic within that she couldn’t reach. The Native men around her cried out, their chiseled, shirtless physiques rippling as they clashed with the blue-coated soldiers. By rifles, the soldiers fell. By the ax, more fell. The blood on their hands was justice. The Lakota would follow the Greasy Grass and uproot the United States soldiers from their land.
She recalled the tactics and plans for their attacks, and how she commanded her men. She remembered the life of a revered medicine man amongst her tribe. She remembered what it felt like to make her enemies fall in battle.
Cora’s head snapped back, her eyes wide. The sun felt like a laser on her sweating brow. She heaved, trying to catch her breath. She looked around, reaffirming she was still outside the Pentagon. Like it was yesterday, though, she could not forget the memories of her battle with the United States Cavalry. She remembered the strategy she used, the orders she gave, all in the voice of a man. The name Greasy Grass rolled over in her mind. That was what the Sioux called the Battle of Little Bighorn, she remembered that from history class. The rest of what she remembered, though, that came from the hair piece in her hand. It was the memory of actually being there. It was the memory of living as Sitting Bull.
“What the hell?” she gasped, staring at the hair piece. She remembered wearing it, even though she’d never seen it before today. Her head dizzied as she tried to wrap her brain around the conflicting truths.
The feathers danced in her quivering hand. She removed the piece and grabbed the small paper card in the box. Opening it, there was a small message, hand-written in black ink.
This one was yours. Welcome to the game. Yours, Lucius.
THE END
About the Author
D.C. Fergerson is an author, husband, father of one, humorist, and storyteller currently residing in Charlotte, NC. From an early age, through the fog and confusion of adolescence and early adulthood, the only thing he wanted was to tell stories.
Follow him on Twitter @DCFergerson or stay up to date on his blog http://artofthearcane.com. If you loved this book, don’t forget to leave a review!
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