The Deluge, page 56
“I told you, Em, they’re heading to Maryland.”
“And y’all live in Tallahassee? Isn’t this outta your ways a bit?”
Trying to concoct this cover story on the fly had not been the best approach. Only now did Shane wonder why Allen had told Quinn he was alone. She watched him beside her at the table, and his parched eyes darted to her, communicating something she couldn’t decipher, and then gazed back over at his wife.
“I just haven’t seen Professor Ford in a few years,” said Shane. “I figured it wasn’t that far.”
ALLEN Tried to catch Shane’s eye. He could see Quinn doing something this reckless, just showing up at his house without warning to prove a point. He wondered how careful they’d been. Although it wouldn’t matter to him soon, they risked dragging Emmy into this. He wanted to pull Shane aside as soon as possible. He knew this could not have been her idea.
Emmy seemed satisfied with this and reached into the oven with two mitts to pull out a vegan pot roast, which she placed on the table and explained that this recipe was about a century old, passed down from a great-grandmother, upgraded with synthesized plant protein, and they all had to have at least a taste. “Should we go get our sick one?” Emmy asked about the dog.
“Nah, let him rest. He’ll smell it and come down,” said Allen.
“Girls, Allen, take off your hats,” said Emmy. “You’re at a dinner table. Relax and stay a minute.”
They did as told. Jansi and Quinn kept exchanging furtive glances, trying to communicate with only their eyes. Emmy went on talking about a coyote that was harassing their chickens, and Shane wished she could be alone with Allen to talk. Finally, Jansi cleared her throat.
EMMY Tried to signal her husband with a quick, flirty look, Which one of them is it? Surely it couldn’t be all three! But she knew Allen well enough after forty years to see when he was tense. He was a ball of tension now. She sent him a quick text under the table telling him to relax but the stupid thing didn’t go through. Most of that forty years they’d been open, but typically the old horndog went for men during his extracurriculars. She figured that was half the reason he started his little woodworking business. He was staring at the quiet Latina. She was chunky and past pretty, but Emmy could see it from days gone by. She began to try another text, If you and señorita want some alone time…. But something about his face stopped her, and she deleted it.
“Mrs. Ford, I was wondering…”
“Honey, please. Emmy.”
“Emmy, I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a quick tour of the farm. Before dinner.”
Emmy licked pot roast broth off her fingers. “Now? No, it’s dark. We’re about to eat.”
Jansi put a hand on Emmy’s arm. “You know, the roast has to cool, so we have a minute. Why don’t we give these three a chance to catch up, and you show me the chickens real quick? I’m from a farming family myself, so maybe I could even give you a bit of advice on the coyote.”
This sounded absurd to Shane, and, from the looks of it, Emmy. Jansi looked like she’d be more at home in a lit class at Sarah Lawrence than a farm.
“Like are you using chicken wire on your coop?” Jansi continued. “Even raccoons can get through that. You need wire mesh.”
Emmy’s southern hospitality slipped a bit. “Of course we use wire mesh.”
“Hon, yeah, why not?” Allen said suddenly. “Go give her a quick look—they drove all this way. I’m sure these two have stories from all their, their, their…” Shane didn’t think he’d be able to finish whatever unwieldy lie he was concocting on the spot. “Their travels.”
Clearly Emmy Ford knew something else was going on here. And yet she went with it. Sometimes the urge to remain polite trumped all else.
“Sure, why not,” said Emmy. “A quick tour of the chickens, then we eat. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” said Jansi, standing and zipping her hoodie. “Let’s get a look at these suckers.”
Shane, Quinn, and Allen waited while Emmy threw on a light jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and she and Jansi went through the sliding glass door in the back, Emmy warning, “The dog was shitting everywhere in the yard before we took him in, so watch your step.”
Jansi slid the door shut behind her, and the motion sensor light outside illuminated the two women walking into the gloom. When they were far enough away, Allen said, “Emmy’s wonderful. This year is number thirty-eight together, you know that? Two more till our ruby year.”
NEW ORLEANS When Allen met this young lady—not yet “Shane”—she’d been more than a good chat. As a teacher, you learn who the sharp ones are very quickly. It hadn’t hurt that she was pretty, of course, but this was not a concern. She was also extremely guarded, never said much about her people, though she alluded that she was from the Gulf. Allen had liked her right way and grew to trust her instincts implicitly. Even when she steered wrong, as she had in Wisconsin, he had nothing but faith in her.
“What were you thinking, Allen?” Quinn held the napkin ring. She’d placed the cloth on her lap, and now she slipped the metal band over the knuckle of an index finger. “You send us that message, and what do you want us to do?”
“Well,” he said, calmly. “I didn’t expect you to show up at my front door unannounced, I’ll say that.”
“You didn’t leave us much choice.”
“You should’ve contacted me first. Via the code. You’ve put everything in danger by coming here.”
“No,” said Quinn, slapping the napkin ring down on the table. “Goddamnit, we’re not putting anything in danger. You are. You are, Allen.”
Allen’s communiqué had arrived in her mailbox the evening before, and Shane had sat in her car outside the fishing cabin in Tonganoxie decoding it. Stunned, she rushed home to contact Quinn through their VR dead drop and was nearly an hour late picking up Lali from daycare.
“It’s like I said, we were sloppy, and two men are dead because of it,” said Allen. Shane stared at the lacquered surface and all the dark knots in the amber grain. Surely Allen had built this himself. “Both men were fathers and husbands. When we started this, I did so with the understanding—and the promise to myself—that we would never hurt anyone. Not a single human life would be lost as a result of our actions. And for a long time, we were successful.”
“We apologized for it, Allen. It was a mistake,” said Quinn.
“It was,” he agreed, nodding his head sadly. Allen folded his arms and looked down at his sleeves, a weariness on his face that made Shane want to tell him she was sorry. “And I didn’t mean to alarm any of you. But what happened in Anacortes, that was us. We did that. An apology isn’t enough. Not nearly.” He swallowed. “It’s not just about our principles as a resistance. It’s about my conscience. I contributed to those men’s deaths. I’m not asking any of you…” He reached out and put his hand on Shane’s. It felt rough and callused and old. “Or Murdock or Kai or anyone else to take responsibility. You should keep going. But I need to make amends for what happened. You see what I’m trying to do? We have to prove we’re different. Our resistance is about peace. We believe in something because it is just and because it is right.”
SLEEP IN THE RAIN That summer in New Orleans there’d been one quiet moment when Kai wasn’t around. When he was alone with Shane and she mentioned her time in foster homes and then group residences for teenagers. Where were her parents? he’d asked. And she said, very bravely, he thought, “I had to learn fast how to make my own way. Now I know how to sleep in the rain.” He never forgot the way she put that. Now I know how to sleep in the rain.
“And you prove that by turning yourself in?” Quinn demanded.
“By turning myself in. That’s right.”
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, and they could hear how old the house was, creaks and sighs in the walls and floorboards. Allen continued to hold her hand. Finally, Shane spoke up.
“There has to be another way, Allen. We can make amends another way.”
“No. There’s no other way,” he said, almost mourning his certitude. “If I don’t do this, we’re betraying what we stand for. Those families went to funerals for people they loved. Someone has to come out of the shadows and own up to this.” He palmed the skin at the top of his scalp, pulled it tight and then released it back to wrinkles. “We have to remember why we’re doing this in the first place. If we want to start a movement that cannot die, we need to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We need to be a light that shows the way, not just another set of sociopaths murdering people indiscriminately.”
“And it’ll mean the end of us. 6Degrees.” Quinn said their full name, the one they’d agreed on in the cabin nearly twenty years ago. “Everything we worked for, everyone we’ve inspired—it’ll all be gone.”
“No, it won’t. You all can carry on. I will not give you up.”
“You don’t know that.” Quinn slammed her hand against the table again. “Have you ever dealt with the FBI? Or a federal prosecutor? I have! And they are relentless. They’ll go after your wife. They’ll go after your kids. If any of them have so much as a parking ticket—”
“My family will be fine,” he said.
“And maybe worse,” added Shane. Quinn’s anger was not getting through. She brought her other palm to Allen’s hand and squeezed it. She found his eyes. “The gloves are coming off, Allen. That’s what Vic Love and the new Congress have in common.”
“Have you ever thought of what it’s like to be kept awake for three days straight with music blaring or dogs barking?” Quinn asked. “Maybe they stick you soaking wet in a cold cell and let you nearly freeze to death over and over again.”
Shane ignored her. “Don’t you see, Allen?” She thought of walking with him along the Port of New Orleans, clouds rolling in over the Crescent City Connection. She thought of crying into his shoulder in that frigid Wisconsin winter. “We are terrorists. Never forget that. They will find a way to undo you. And you’ll tell yourself you can’t stand it anymore. And then you’ll talk. And everything we’ve worked for will be gone.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re confusing your own fear with mine, Shane. And I don’t blame you. But I’m not asking any of you to follow my lead. Like I said, I’m doing what my conscience demands. Nothing more. So I suggest you call my wife and your friend back in here, and we eat dinner, and then you all get on your way. The only people who’ve put you in danger here is yourselves by ignoring protocol.”
“It’s too late for that, Allen.”
Quinn stood and reached behind her, fumbling with something. It caught in the loose fabric of her cashmere sweater. When she removed the gun and held it at her side, Shane felt something so familiar. It was what she felt when she was driving away from the taqueria those many years ago, the back seat empty. Some sensations you never forget. The feel of the anti-spiritual. Of a bitter abyss yawning.
“Jesus Christ,” hissed Allen, jumping back in his chair. But he gripped Shane’s hand harder. “What are you doing with that? Put that away. Christ, before Emmy comes back in here. Christ.” She’d never seen him afraid before. He was crushing the bones in her hand.
“You did this, Allen,” said Quinn, and her voice cracked. “Not us. You did this.”
“I didn’t do a goddamn thing,” he barked. Spit foamed at the corners of his mouth, his body stock-still. “Get out of my house. Get out right now.” Quinn didn’t move. “Get the hell out. Shane”—his head snapped to her—“Shane, get her out of here before she hurts someone.”
Had she known about the gun? Yes. No. Yes. Hard to say. She knew about it the way she knew when her mom began hiding bottles around the house. The way she’d known her heart would lead her to a place like this someday. As far back as distant relatives spinning romantic tales of resistances being led in the black cover of jungle, she’d been readying herself. Righteous paths always wind through darkness.
“Please,” he said, already moving from anger to bargaining. “Please, just leave. It’s over. You win. I won’t— I won’t do anything.”
Quinn glared at him, blinking, licking a pink lip gloss.
“I’m sorry, Allen. We can’t risk it.”
She stepped forward, grabbed his sleek, clean scalp with one hand and stuffed the barrel of the pistol under his chin. Shane lost her grip on his palm as he tried to fight off Quinn, but in that moment his age showed, weak arms unable to fend off this younger woman’s strength. He cried out, “No— Hold on— Wait!” And when she pulled the trigger, there was a crack—Allen’s protestations cut off by the bark of the pistol. Fragments of his skull blew outward, one still attached to that bright pink scalp. Red-gray brain bursting and blood splattering. Skull and skin whipped up and then fell against Allen’s ear and dangled, meat and fluid drizzling to the hardwood floor behind his chair. All she could think was that Quinn had almost shot her own hand off. When the woman pulled the trigger, Shane’s whole body had contracted, and there was now a before and after that moment. She stared at that piece of scalp dangling against Allen’s ear as he slumped forward, like he’d suddenly dozed off. She still had her palm cupped like she was holding his hand.
Then a scream from outside. “Allen!”
The motion light clicked on. Emmy stood just at the edge of the floodlight’s beam. In the dark, of course, she would be able to see into the kitchen. She’d likely watched the whole thing. Shane stood up, but she wasn’t sure why; her instinct was to go to Allen’s wife and tell her everything was going to be okay, that they’d clean this up and everything would be fine. Then an arm emerged from the gloom behind Emmy and put a pistol to the back of her head. Emmy Ford’s wail ceased as her face exploded in a stew of gore, and she buckled, first to her knees and then into the grass. Jansi lowered her gun. She stood bathed in the cheap white light, her eyes wide with disbelief and delight.
Shane sat down again because she felt dizzy. Nausea swelled as she gagged on memories barely bygone. She thought about going for the kitchen sink but what was the point? She put her head between her knees and tried to breathe, found herself dry-heaving, rancid burps popping, her stomach with its own plan, and even with her eyes squeezed shut she kept seeing it: that piece of skull bowing, distending, shredding free but still attached to the skin.
Jansi slid open the glass door and came back inside. Quinn put her hand on Shane’s back, and she could feel the woman’s hand trembling violently. It’s okay, Quinn kept saying. They had a plan.
“They’re down the road. Maybe five minutes out,” Jansi told them, her eyes wide and thrilled. “Jewelry. Computers. Anything valuable.”
Jansi bounded up the stairs. Quinn knelt in front of Shane, her black medical boot squeaking as it pivoted on the hardwood. She’d tucked the gun back in her jeans. Shane stared at her own arm and the tattoo she’d had inked the same summer she met Kai and Allen: BUILD THE PATH.
“This was his fault,” said Quinn, swollen eyes pleading. “He told us he was here alone. You see what he did, right? He thought we wouldn’t do anything. Once his wife saw our faces, he thought he’d be safe. We gave him a chance to keep her out of danger, but he invited us in.”
Shane’s mind was a white cloud, her ears drumming with blood. Her gaze moved across the kitchen, coming to rest on a bowl of sugar and the small silver spoon Emmy had placed in it like a shovel in soil. She nodded only because her muscles understood what Quinn’s searching eyes wished to extract from her: reassurance that this had been the plan all along. Jansi came galloping down the stairs, a laptop and a jewelry box in hand.
QUINN This was the fucking plan! she wanted to scream. Why else did you tell me to get that overnight flight? Why else did you say we had to shut him down and stop this, no matter what? But Shane looked like she might pass out, and there was no time for that. No time for regret or second-guessing. They had to move fast now. Things would change quickly. This was only step one.
“There’s an old VR in the bedroom too.”
Her big legs took the stairs two at a time and returned a moment later with a bulky headset and a violin in a case. Headlights washed over the windows as a car pulled into the drive. Shane hadn’t moved. She kept taking quick glances at Allen, now fallen to the floor with blood collecting around his shattered head. His eyes bulged, frozen in awe and fear. What had her dad said? Just before he was gone and her mom was gone and she was left to pinball through the mercy and misery of foster care? Fear is useless. You act in the moment, figure out what comes next, and get another mile down the road. In her dad’s estimation, fear conscripted your whole mind, rationalized irrational behavior, and the worst part was when people who were acting out of fear became adamant that they were not.
A man and woman came through the front door, both Black, both wearing gloves, booties, and carrying jugs of bleach. The man had long dreadlocks and a tattoo of a rose peeking from beneath the collar of his shirt, the woman had a military flattop fade and a broad, muscled back bulging from a tank top when she removed her jacket. Shane didn’t know them. They were not Jansi’s comrades from Second, which meant they were from Third Cell. The firewalls were crumbling. The two from Third Cell barely spoke a word. Jansi handed the woman the jewelry, violin, and laptop and then helped the man remove the main TV in the living room. He yanked the plug out of the wall just as The Pastor appeared, muted, raging above a chyron that read THE PASTOR SLAMS REPUBLICANS FOR ELECTION LOSS.
THE FIRST TIME Quinn knew only that the man’s name was Marlon and the woman’s name was Niana. They had been recruited with specific skill sets in mind. They were improving their army, growing stronger. This was all a part of that process, she told herself. And just beneath that sensation, a yawning terror. She would ask Kellan Murdock later if this was what it felt like the first time: terrifying and sickening and electrifying.
Quinn and the other two ransacked the house for valuables and began spray-painting swastikas and crucifixes on the walls. They emptied the silverware drawer into a pillowcase, pulled decorative plates from shelves and tossed them willy-nilly into a trash bag. The Third Cell woman looked at Shane, who still had yet to stand and help, and asked Jansi, “Is she going to be okay?”
