Jane didn't open her eyes at first. She was so weak and so tired, and the air was so cool and the bed was so soft, she didn't want to move. She wanted to stay here forever, still and quiet. She felt as if she was nothing and it felt good. Jane inhaled deep and slow the unscented air, and registered that a breathing mask covered her nose and mouth. Curiosity won over contentedness and her eyes eased open.
She understood that she was in a bed and that bed was surrounded by white curtains that rippled under an air-conditioned breeze. The pillow that cradled her head was so large it smothered her ears and blocked all peripheral vision. The ceiling was covered in decorative white tiles, dozens of ornate squares filled with flowers and flourishes. Everything was so pretty and clean. Everything felt nice.
Ernest's face hovered over hers. "Hey, there."
"Hey," she drawled.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good. Really, really good."
"Well, with all the pain killers you're on, I'm not surprised."
"Feel real good."
"Are you thirsty? Hungry? You haven't had solid food in days."
No food, but her mouth was really dry. It was always that one little thing that kept perfection at bay. She mimed tilting a cup. "Drink," her throat scratched out.
Ernest disappeared for a time, some shuffling noises, and the tip of a straw touched her lips. A few sips of iced water and everything was good again. Her skin was cool to the point of being numb. Thoughts eased into her mind and dissipated like smoke. She was empty of everything and free.
"I wanted to say thank you. I'm so sorry you were hurt in the process, but you saved a lot of lives."
His words felt wrong. She remembered different, bodies in cars, limbs misplaced, blood pooled everywhere. She winced from memory. "People died."
"A lot less than were supposed to. A lot more are alive because of you."
She remembered something unclear, a ghost of a recollection. "The child..."
"Is fine," he finished. "People jumped in the water to help. One said you handed him a baby; another went in to retrieve you. They had to revive you, and with your injuries, it was touch and go for a while, but you should be okay."
Their environment was too elegant to be a hospital. "Where are we?"
With a smiling mouth and saddened eyes, he said, "A splendid manor."
A new wave of lethargy washed over her and she relaxed back into her pillow. "We should stay here forever."
"You can't. You don't deserve this. You need to go back and live your life."
"I don't want to. I want to stay here with you."
"I'm fine. I will be. I wasn't able to see a future before, now I can. So many possibilities, but I don't see any with you in them, so I need you to go back." He reached in his pocket and withdrew some envelopes. "I need you to see the others. Give them a message from me."
***
The final death toll was sixty-two, less than in the foreseen Monument attack, and far less than there would have been had the nuke exploded. Weeks of unrelenting news coverage narrated a fictitious account of the warehouse raid. The infant, Brooke Frazier, was in fair health and was heralded as a miracle and a sign of hope from the tragedy. As the child of a single mother with no known relations and no clues as to an identifiable father, thousands lined up to adopt the orphan.
Catrina's Catina was where the members of Madrigal said their goodbyes. Without the coverage Ernest had provided, Graham didn't want the government finding his home. He showed in spirit, as his face filed a laptop screen that sat in the back of the restaurant booth, and five webcams on the table allowed him a view of his former comrades and the décor around them.
The crisis averted, Deanna returned from whatever hiding place she had crawled into and arranged their final gathering. The cantina was radiant with colored Christmas lights criss-crossing the ceiling in one direction while yellow, red, and green flags fluttered the other way. The walls sported cartoonish murals separated by all sorts of kitsch. Each chair was a bold fluorescent blue, green, pink, yellow, or orange, and every tablecloth and drapery boasted stripes of a dozen colors. Deanna's sanity may have been in question, but not her taste.
Their booth sat in the back while most customers chose tables near a stage commanded by a five-piece mariachi ensemble. Each performer wore traditional black garb, including the lead singer, whose face paint and costume converted him to a Day of the Dead skeleton. His gloves created the appearance of bones for fingers, and he sang with a vibrant jubilation belying each ballad's macabre subject. Graham ran a translation program meant to display the English equivalent on the monitor, a process that failed with spectacular and amusing results. Monty explained the latest song's story without a line-by-line breakdown. It was a tale of a beautiful woman cursed from birth with a fatally poisonous tongue and of a new wanderer in her village. Monty converted one stanza he liked: 'Her kisses were like dreams / but those dreams were always of death.' Their group's conversation distracted him, and he missed whether the woman was able to find love and avoid her destiny or if the kiss of the lover sealed the traveler's fate.
Monty leaned against the corner of the booth. "So, you think he's gone for good."
Jane sat across from him and sipped from her wine. "That's what he implied."
"Did you tell them I'm the expert in his health issues?" Sheshai said. She replaced her hijab with a deep charcoal turtleneck sweater in order to blend in. Everyone wore some measure of black, as they understood that the reunion was an ending of sorts.
"He talked to me about it, how he didn't want you spending your life ministering to him."
"It's my life. It should be my choice, not his."
"It's not just his choice."
"The government," and she looked down the glass before her. "They don't trust me."
"It's not that."
"After all I've done, my own country doesn't trust me."
"His concern was not that they wouldn't trust you, but that they would."
"Well, that's stupid," Deanna chirped.
Jane looked to everyone, even Graham, best as she could through a small camera. "He doesn't know the details of our fates, that for as much information as he's given, they restrict his knowledge of our futures. Originally, you had stayed, as you passed a thorough vetting process."
"So, if they trusted me," Sheshai asked, "what was the issue?"
"According to Ernest, the CIA was interested in you before this. The perception is that you were someone who strayed from their faith, your brother kills a bunch of infidels, you rejoin your faith, and are rewarded with a lottery windfall. In the wrong hands, you'd be a powerful propaganda tool." Jane pulled some envelopes from her purse. "The government was looking to put you in the wrong hands."
Sheshai blinked. "You mean as an undercover? If I could tear those bastards apart from the inside, what's the problem?"
"He said the problem was that you did volunteer, and that they did put you in the wrong hands, the very worst wrong hands. Something went wrong; very, very wrong. He didn't specify, but in his words, your death was extended, horrific, and televised."
"But did he say if I got any good intelligence?"
"Good god," Monty said, "Did you hear what the man said?"
Deanna giggled. "Looks like you're vying for the tiara of craziest here."
"It still should be my choice."
"He remembers it. There was a recording, and he has nightmares now of your screams. The only thing that helps him survive it is his knowing that you're safe, that it was no more than a dream. He doesn't want you to be tempted, so his deal with the government says that you're off-limits. He asks that you take some time out to rest, to find what makes you happy, even for a little bit. He knows that he'll never hear you say it, but he wants you to promise."
Sheshai bowed her head. "I promise."
Deanna tossed her hands in the air. "He said he couldn't hear you."
"He said that this is for you." Jane handed Sheshai a sealed envelope. "For later."
Sheshai nodded and put the envelope away. "Hey," a voice interrupted. "What about me?" Graham said, a pizza slice in his hand. "Anything on my misadventures?"
"Only that the government wasn't pleased with your electronic forays both before you met Ernest and after, alternate timeline or not. They're willing to not investigate you so long as you stay away from their systems. They don't have your name, so don't mess with them and they won't with you. Otherwise, they promise you no quarter." She held up an envelope. "Ernest found several future hacks that you'd like. The government has this information as well, so don't try it on their systems, but you can use them for your own purposes. If you rob anyone, or steal anything, though, all bets are off. I'll drive up later and give it to you."
"I'll do it," Sheshai volunteered, and took the envelope. "I have to go back for my stuff."
Jane nodded and looked at the next envelope before letting her gaze drift up to Monty's eyes. In a slow, solemn movement, she passed the envelope to him. The table was still, and not even Deanna moved, though a malicious grin grew from anticipation.
The envelope wasn't sealed, but he did not open it. He touched the flap several times, watching it bounce. "Is this a name?"
"No. I'm sorry." Jane said. "Lilian was located because an anonymous call reported a hand sticking out of the ground. One day next year, the same anonymous caller will report seeing another hand sticking out of a different patch of land. The authorities will respond to find the same number of girls and women in the same positions in that new location. The man who killed your daughter, he didn't die or go to jail. He moved from your daughter's burial ground to a new one."
Monty held up the envelope between two fingers. "So this is...?"
"The coordinates of the new site, and, by forensic best guesses, there would be ten or so bodies there already. In the future, they never caught him, but you will know the one place he's going to be at least four times in the next twelve months. That's the best Ernest can do."
"Thank you," Monty said. "It's far more than I had."
"Before you kill him, call me," Deanna said, tugging on his arm. "I want to watch. You know, for moral support."
He pulled his arm away. Graham snorted from the comfort of his computer lab. "More like, immoral support."
Monty rotated the envelope over and again, still not looking inside. Deanna tossed a dismissive wave in his direction and said, "To hell with him," and she reached both hands across the table. "Gimme, gimme, gimme."
Jane moved the envelope away from her reach. "He asked that I read this to you in front of everyone." Jane pulled the card out and scanned the script. "Oh, Jesus," she whispered with a sigh. Another intake of breath and a false start before, " 'Deanna, You are a wonderful person. You are smart and beautiful and creative. You have so much to offer this world, and it is a better place with you in it.' " Deanna smiled and beamed at those around the table. Jane continued. " 'I have nothing to offer you, but this: With your gifts and means, you can be an incredible force for good in the world. Were you to focus your talents towards humanitarian ventures, you could perform wonders. Think of all the lives you've saved, the lives are for the better because of you. You still have the ability to help people, and I hope that you still do. All my best. Ernesto.' "
Jane replaced the card, and then handed the envelope over. Deanna pulled the card back out, stared at it with confusion, and then turned the envelope upside-down and shook it, much in the manner of a five-year-old wondering why their grandmother's birthday card was missing the traditional ten-dollar bill. She returned to the examination of the card before speaking.
"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life."
There was a quiet pause before Sheshai burst out in hysterics, full throated laughter. Her eruption of joy infected the others, and even Monty and Jane were overcome with mirth as he covered his eyes with a hand and she was assaulted with a flood of giggles. Graham disappeared from the screen for a moment as he fell out of camera view and struggled for breath. Deanna was not amused as she held the card at eye level, examining the print at an angle.
"Do you all think that maybe there's a code?" she asked. "Invisible ink?" She scowled at those around her. "It's not funny. This is horseshit. I got screwed."
Their merriment drew the attention of an attractive young man who approached their table. He wore dark blue jeans, a fine fitting t-shirt, and a Braves baseball cap. He glanced at Monty before the ladies, then back to him. Monty raised a hand and looked away, as if to say he didn't lay claim to anyone there. The man stepped up to them and nodded back to the bandstand, where another song started to percolate up. "Would any of you ladies like to dance?"
"No," Deanna snarled, sunk in a sulk. "I could never fuck a guy wearing a baseball cap."
The man's dropped jaw reflected her table mate's exclamations. "Jesus," Monty said.
"Why? That's where he's heading," and she philosophized on mating rituals when Sheshai extended a hand to the man, allowing herself to be led to the dance floor as a raucously jovial tune bellowed from the band. The shock of her actions was enough for Deanna to freeze with wonder as Sheshai danced, at first with her partner before entering a world of her own. Jane knew little Spanish, but she assumed that in the lyrics, 'hey' meant 'hey' and 'ho' meant 'ho' and 'oh' meant 'oh' and 'no' meant 'no,' but for the rest, she didn't know. Monty mentioned a part about compass points, but the direction of their attentions were fixated on the woman who seemed desperate to dance herself free from something inside that was dying to be set loose.
***
He drove up next to her McLaren 650S; she drove away from his Bugatti Veyron. He chased her through the streets of the Vegas Strip; she sped as if she had not a care in the world. He followed her to the front of a building; she had stopped in front of his hotel. He exited his car with a fifty for the valet; she exited her car with a wink and a laugh. He smiled at her; she laughed at him. He talked to her; she laughed some more. He appraised her appearance; she welcomed the inspection. He wore a tailored Italian suit; she wore expensive name brand clothes. He was cute and fit; she'd make a good fit. He offered an escort to the exclusive nightclub; she accepted his invite and proffered arm. He had enough money to buy the place; she strutted about as if she owned the place. He offered to buy her a drink at the bar; she finished the first before all the others. He was a fantastic dancer; she was ever so much better. He presented her pills; she pocketed them. He mentioned the penthouse suite twenty floors up; she squinted as if she sought to see the sky. He looked to the nearby exit and started to leave; she looked bored with her surroundings and started to follow. He held the elevator door for her; she pushed the penthouse button for him. He opened the suite door; she strode right in. He removed his jacket; she kicked off her shoes. He headed to the minibar and said, "Care for a drink?"
She twirled in the room and said, "I think you know the answer to that."
"What would you like?"
"Whatever's most expensive." She focused in on him. "I'm not talking about top shelf. Brokers that feel they've earned their nut when they make six-figures buy top shelf. Common folk pinch their pennies for special occasions to celebrate with top shelf. Anyone can drink top shelf. Just because it's on the top shelf, that don't mean it's out of reach. I want the good stuff, the stuff that makes the heart ache to empty the bottle just a little, the kind of drink where you remember where you had every glass. That's what I want."
He reached inside the cabinet under the bar and pulled out a decanter. "The car you arrived in, the clothes you wear, I can tell that you are someone accustomed to the good life. Most women I meet aren't." He handed her a glass of scotch and walked over to her with one of his own. He waved his drink towards the window. "So, what do you think of Vegas?"
"Oh, I didn't know you were going to impress me with a view of the skyline." She took a sip and watched him from over the view of her glass. "I was hoping you'd try to impress me with a view of your cock."
"Wow," he said, taken aback, but with a smile. "You're a hell of a woman."
"Yeah. No shit. Take off your pants." She knocked back her drink and tossed the glass on the sofa behind her as she undid his belt.
He grabbed her wrists. "Hey, let me make one thing clear. I'm not looking for anything long term. No relationships, no romance, no reuniting months from now. No offense."
"Oh, Romeo. If I ever planned on making myself rotten with a baby, it'd be with someone way richer and far more powerful. No offense." She grabbed his pants by the zipper and guided him backwards towards the bedroom. "There are two types of people I sleep with. The pretty lacking wealth are often great in bed, as it's the only thing that gives them worth, but they'll bang cute barbacks or someone they'd meet in a coffee shop, and they're not as selective in the vetting process when it comes to health screenings. In the long run, they end up a bunch of filthies you wouldn't want to fuck without a hazmat suit and decontamination procedures. Rich folk deal with a better class of people, like myself, so they're more disease free, but sometimes they expect to be serviced because they feel entitled. No skill, no effort, lots of attitude."
She dropped his drawers, stepped on the pile of pants, and pushed him back on the bed. "A handsome rich man is something else. Cleaner than most, but when they have everything, expectations are higher. One can be pleasing to the eye because of genetics or money, but family can't provide technique. That has to be learned and earned." She tugged off one straggler pant leg before hopping on the bed to straddle his form.
He reached to open the front of her pants while she pulled her shirt over her head. "I guess you have everything figured out."
"No. I still can't figure out whether you belong with the Pretty or the Wealthy."
He reached behind her and ran his hands down her posterior, her clothes slipping away with the brush of his hands. "Why not both?"
"You can't do that." She grabbed the front of his dress shirt and tore it open, sending buttons scattering on either side of the bed. "I can't have you sitting in two different books."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," as he planted his face between her breasts.
She laughed as she felt the first kisses. "Oh, sweetness. You're such a card."
***
Montgomery finished his observation post and it was good. There was plenty of natural brush to hide his presence, but not so much that he could not see the area of interest. The clearing was a small area right off a forest service trail in the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest, six hours from Fort Bragg. Montgomery dug his OP into the graded slope so that any approach from behind would be undetectable. Unless someone sought it, the entire post was invisible.
He had developed it over the course of a week and approached the post from a different direction each time to prevent the creation of a trail to his position. The entrance was two feet wide, but the interior was five feet square and seven feet deep. His money afforded him to purchase the finest, softest outdoor sleeping gear for his comfort, and a nearby storage facility was stockpiled with enough MREs, water, and supplies to survive several small apocalypses. Montgomery now only left the post for supply runs, and always returned within an hour's time.
The water was the greatest labor to haul every week. A bucket with a cushioned toilet seat held a plastic bag filled with sawdust, and Montgomery dug a deep hole in the back corner as a backup. He camouflaged the opening with green mosquito netting that sealed the inside to prevent the encroachment of snakes and rodents, though insects still snuck their way through.
Two other critical pieces of equipment were in the post. The first was the camera system with a state-of-the-art high-resolution zoom lenses for data collection. A car could be filmed for its model, color, tags, and details, and the resolution was clear enough to fill a television screen with a person's face, down to the stubble on his chin and the redness of his eyes. They could even adjust for drastic lighting changes like those from tonight's skyworks.
If a person's face was visible enough to focus in on, then Montgomery was prepared with his most important equipment. A pair of identical sniper rifles sat affixed on a stand facing the clearing. Montgomery rotated the rifles daily, the backup assuring that one was always ready to go if the other jammed or was dismantled for cleaning. The setup was utilitarian and comfortable, and with the exception of supply runs, Monty would be able to stay there for months, years even. Monty leaned back on his cushion, stared down the scope of his rifle, and waited.
***
Sheshai sat on the pew and examined the iconography around her, the framed parables on the walls, the pictures of Jesus, the wooden cross, and the stained-glass triptych. The sun barged through the colored panels and she wondered about the stories these figures told, whether the trio of images told one story or three, and whether they were to be viewed in order from left to right, as a tale for those inside for worship, or as a story meant for those outside of the church.
Today was a special day, a dual anniversary; one for America birthing herself, and the other for the day her parents became citizens themselves. They each worked two jobs to support the family while they learned the ins and outs of a democratic republic, and worked harder to ingrain that knowledge to their children. Sheshai remembered with such clarity that magical day where her whole family stood in a room with others of so many different races, all reciting some mantra from someone in the front of the room. She was young, and though she had picked up the language better than her older brother, she couldn't understand most of what was said. Suddenly, the crowd roared with joy, and the little American flags in everyone's hands fluttered as everybody cheered. Sheshai shook her flag as well as strangers began to hug one another, and it was the first and only time she could remember seeing her father cry.
She stared upon the triptych once more and wondered how it would appear in a few hours when the night skies were alight with bright colors and ecstatic explosions. She sipped from the foam cup of tolerable coffee and listened as the person in the front of the room spoke.
***
From under the bed sheet, the woman pulled out her head, bearing a dreamy smile and a joyous rumple of hair, some of which tickled her eyes. She brushed a strand away and giggled. "Now I have a name for you. Wildcard."
"Well, you're quite the freak yourself. No offense."
"None taken. There'll probably be some noise complaints. You're quite the screamer."
He hadn't been the one making all the noise, but he'd let it pass. "The walls and floor are insulated. I had the music at maximum last night; not a peep."
"Peep, peep," she said as she sat up and turned to look out the window, her backside exposed to him. "Still dark out. It's been hours; figured the sun would be up."
She picked his dress shirt up from the floor and donned it, affixing the remaining buttons. The sleeves covered most of her palms and the bottom draped a third of the way to her knees. He watched as she went to the bureau across the room and opened a bottle of cabernet, pouring herself a glass, and he came to a realization as to what was bothering him about her. She was gorgeous, stylish, obviously rich, and fantastic in bed, but there was an overarching problem.
He didn't like her.
It wasn't the words she would say, but her attitude, how she acted as if everything were beneath her. An example was how she drank from his liquor and offered him none, and then turned up her nose when she inspected the label on the bottle. On the other hand, in bed...
"You know," he said, "the view of the fireworks tomorrow night should be spectacular."
"Can you afford another night here?"
That tone again. He let it go. "Actually, when I arrived, they offered everything on the house because of who I am." She didn't ask who he was, and for some reason he wanted her to. Why did he want to impress her? Maybe to wipe that smug look off her face. "I have a standing dinner reservation at Mi Trida Te, as well as ringside seat at the Muldoon-Alvarez fight tonight." She seemed the type that would get a thrill from blood. "If you'd like to be my escort."
"Oh, I don't do that anymore," she said with a bored shrug, "but I will accompany you."
That explained a lot. "Well, just know if we go out, you will owe me."
"Please," she laughed. "If there's anyone here who owes anyone, it's you, me. You're only here because of me."
Heat rose up in him as he stepped out of the bed. "And just how do you figure that?"
There was that sanctimonious grin again. "Seven months ago in Atlantic City, you were drugged up and drunken and driven to drive, and you were going to crash with a face full of glass, but I stopped you. Stopped you from smashing into a family car full of familials; stopped you from becoming a vegetable dude. So... You. Owe. Me."
Despite the air conditioning and his nudity, he was burning up. He remembered that night, leaving the club to find four slashed tires on his car. The security cameras were useless, and the insurance company determined the vandal was some maniac with a straight razor, but the incident never made the press. She shouldn't have known about that. He grabbed her arm by gripping the cuff of his shirt. "Are you stalking me like some crazy bitch?"
"Don't call me that," as her eyes thinned and darkened.
She was angry. Good. The first unscripted emotion he had seen from her. His other hand grabbed her by the throat, as he knew her hair was a wig. "Get your shit together and fuck off." He pushed her back, and she stumbled, spilling her wine while retaining hold of the glass. He grabbed her closest piece of clothing and tossed it in her face as she came towards him. He didn't believe in hitting women, wasn't raised that way, so he did it as infrequently as possible, but she was charging at him, fingernails outstretched, so self-defense would be more than reasonable, and he knocked her arms away, backhanding her across the temple. Experience told him it wouldn't leave a bruise, and it would settle her down. After all, what else could she do after that?
***
Graham plugged in the last monitor and admired his new setup. Without having to share his workspace with anyone, he was able to spread out more. Instead of cramming everything in a small area, he now had spaces for his Windows, Mac, and Linux setups, and he commandeered Sheshai's desk for his modded gaming rig. He had computers for both work and play, all operating on the highest processing power available, but he liked to keep them separate.
He was ambivalent about being on his own once more. He didn't miss Sheshai and Ernie so much as he had grown accustomed to their presence. He didn't dislike them; far from it. Ernie was nice and kind, and Graham felt a kinship with Sheshai as she took on a big sister persona and was an excellent cook. It had been cool to be able to tell people about his digital victories, and neither ever got in his way once rhythms and routines were established, but he enjoyed the freedom of being able to work on whatever project he desired. In the past few months, he felt he had been designated the typist of the group because of his words-per-minute, and though only he knew how to navigate the Darknet without ending in sketchy places, he felt that he was only producing search engine results. He liked being able to waste time trying the newest gaming release without the everyday hassle of the job. Madrigal had been awesome, but it was relentless. If he didn't help, extra work fell to Sheshai and Ernie, along with the potential of lives lost, and that wasn't right. They were a team, but sometimes one needed a break from the team.
Sheshai promised to visit and she was one to keep her promises. She said she'd swing by one day soon with homemade goodies and an industrial strength feather duster, whatever that meant. He had no hopes of seeing Monty again, just because the man would be preoccupied for a while. Graham conveyed that if Monty needed any help, he would move digital heaven and earth to be of assistance. Monty deserved that much, and the man seemed appreciative of the offer as he collected arms and a vehicle before departing the garage.
Deanna, he could take or leave. She was amusing at times, but more of an irritant, an attractive one though. He never could get anything done when she was around, through both her moving stuff around on his desk or the way she'd try to sit in his lap when he was working. He always protested, though sometimes his heart wasn't in it, but without Sheshai or Ernie to rebuke her, he couldn't imagine himself alone with Deanna for any period of time, besides, of course, like that obvious one time, but that was just the once, and never again, and he needed to stop thinking about it, which he rarely did, except for the times she was around, or when he was alone... He waved his hands in front of himself, trying to shake such thoughts from his mind. He could just see a time when she strolled right in, bored and looking for someone to amuse her. Graham immediately started changing the access codes to the doors.
Then there was Jane. Their conversations were few and short, and nothing in depth, but Graham didn't feel anything from her. With inscrutable Sheshai, there was a smothered fire in her eyes and voice that would flare up as they would close in on a target. Monty had an unrelenting drive even while sitting still in a chair, waiting for new orders. Ernie was motivated by the idea that he was chosen for a reason, and that this was a calling or destiny that he could not walk away from. Deanna was a goddamn whirlwind, vibrant at times to the point of nervous frenzy, practically shivering beneath her skin for one of her beloved little envelopes of cards. With Jane, it was if someone had said she was required to do the work that they did and that there was no choice in the matter. A need, but not a desire, as if working endlessly was her cross to bear.
Graham surveyed his monitors. Things were running at a brisk pace. He had abided by the government's edict of staying away, but today was different. Today was the country's birthday, the day when the people said they would create a structure that maintains freedom throughout the land, and those freedoms cannot be protected without transparency, and transparency cannot exist when everything is hidden.
Graham wasn't naïve. He knew that some things, a lot of things, had to be removed from public view. In domestic politics and international relations, no one really wanted to know how the sausage was made. However, he decided he was going to treat himself. Nothing much, only twenty-four hours to poke around. He was curious. Would Ernie's name turn up anywhere? Could Graham sneak in and out unseen in under a day? Were the tales of government backdoors in search engine and data compiling companies true? Was he as good as he thought, or was his track record more due to precognitive help?
Sure, he had stopped the anarchist hacker Gostor from unleashing a PLC virus on the Bad Creek Hydroelectric Dam, but that was with Ernie letting him know how the Gostop virus worked and where it attacked. It was two against one. Graham always considered himself a magician on the keyboard, transmitting sorcery through his fingertips, transmuting biologic thought into electronic reality. He was even of wizard's blood, the seventh son of a seventh son. Could he have beaten Gostor by himself? He didn't know. Graham wanted a chance to test himself again, just one day, and that would be it.
Over the years, he had collected log-in names, company procedures, and information purchased from the Darknet. He warmed up his computers, caffeinated his own systems, connected to dozens of VPNs around the globe, and started to sniff around a few choice DHS contractors. His interest was not so much with those that protected systems or dealt with cybersecurity, but with smaller companies that had contracts to provide janitorial supplies or paper.
One small business, Tudco Industries, located ninety minutes from D. C. in Martinsburg, distributed office supplies to some of the lesser-known intelligence agencies. The shipping orders allowed a tiny crack into some subsystems. All he would do was take a little look...
***
In the office of Tudco Industries, alarms went off and technicians went to work. The little distribution company served as both an NSA front and a honeypot to provide a perceived weak spot for hackers to try to penetrate. The subtlety and sophistication of the breach was exquisite, and the technicians took note as they worked to trace the hacker's intrusion back to the source.
***
He lay bloody on the ground; she stood above him. The pain was excruciating, a foreign sensation unimaginable. He never had dental work or surgery, and never been in a fight. He couldn't process the broken fingers or the punctured organs or the sliced cheeks. All he felt was an utter agony and confusion as to what was happening and why. He crawled on his stomach on the slick tile floor, slick with his blood, and he turned to see her lording over him, a broken wine glass in her hand with the base in her palm and the stem protruding between her fingers like a red-tipped crystal shard, and as she stepped towards him, a banshee drenched in blood and shadows, she hissed. He raised his one good hand to ward this creature off.
"No. Please, don't. No."
She looked at him with a tilt of her head and said, "God says... yes," and she struck.
***
Hello, my name is Sheshai, and I'm an alcoholic. I haven't had a drink in six months, and I haven't been to a meeting in three. It's not that the meetings aren't important, it's just that my job provided me with the same support system that I receive here, and things have been good, really good.
Sorry. This is not my usual meeting. Everyone there knows my story already. I was a doctor, still am, technically. I never lost my license, just my job. I came from a restrictive background; not abusive or oppressive, just very proper. My family wasn't originally American, and where we're from, women do not go to school, let alone medical school, but my father was more open-minded. He scraped and saved his whole life growing up, earning enough money to bring us here. He loved America, the freedoms it provided and the opportunity for any one of any class to achieve something. He understood that hard work was no guarantee of success, but he loved the idea that one could control their own destiny, that a man who worked twice as hard had the chance to achieve twice as much. He did not see this as a relinquishing of beliefs or values, but the idea that a daughter could be allowed to strive and succeed, and that a son could be afforded more choices in life.
When I chose a path to medicine, he was not pleased, but he respected my choice. I think that he hoped I'd be a doctor's wife and not a physician myself, but I had his blessing. I managed to get into Vanderbilt, and I studied and studied, and in the little free time, I socialized. I loved being American, I still do. I liked going to clubs and loved dancing and I got really good, too.
I did pretty well in school. Could have done better, maybe top five percent, but I wanted that small sliver of a social life that I'd never have had in my birth country. Once my internship started, I spent my time between the job and partying. Nothing serious, just nights out with the other women from the hospital, and occasionally the men. I didn't think my parents would approve, and my brother certainly didn't.
My brother didn't approve of anything I did, the partying, the drinking, my being a doctor, or even being educated. He and his friends were rigid fundamentalists who visited our homeland often, and when he returned, he was no longer the sweet kid I remembered. He brought back the ideas that our family had fled. He said he thought a woman's place was only in the home and in service to a husband chosen for her. We had screaming fights over how we lived our lives. He claimed I was sinful, and I said he was jealous. He said I brought shame to our family and name, I said he was an embarrassment to our family because he couldn't hold a job.
It was an ongoing battle, one he took up not just with me, but our parents. He blamed them for my actions, saying that they hadn't raised me right, that my indignities and disrespect were due to their failings to follow the teachings. He said that my father had allowed America to corrupt him, and that he was an outcast amongst his friends because of me. He felt the need to redeem our family's name and prove his devotion, so one day he went to our family home and stabbed my father with a butcher knife and cut off my mother's head before heading to the hospital where I worked and shooting eleven people.
I wasn't even on duty that day. When I heard about the shooting, I rushed there, knowing nothing except that people were injured. He wasn't killed. The officer that shot him hit his eighth vertebrae, and he's now paralyzed from the waist down. He was wandering the halls, firing, screaming my name. He didn't know the hospital or in what department I worked. He shot every female orderly, nurse, and doctor he could find, and anyone else who tried to stop him.
When I found out, I couldn't process it. I started drinking in earnest, every night, every day. My leave turned into my resignation. My parent's life insurance covered my expenses and kept the payments on my medical school bills, and their mortgage was paid, so I was able to spend a good year inebriated out of my mind. I lived in the house where my family was killed and spent so many hours sitting in the hallway where my father died. I drank myself into a sweet bliss of mental oblivion, and time was accounted for by the passing of the sun.
And then one day, he showed up, a man that would help regain some of my life, as much as one could. He introduced himself outside of the house during one of my liquor store runs, and told me that what had happened was not my fault, and that even if I thought it was, I could make up for it, and make the world better, safer, and save some lives. He showed me the future, and that it could be better, and that he wanted, needed my help to do it. Save lives, save the world one piece at a time, stopping things like that from happening ever again, and in that moment, it was exactly what I needed to hear.
Cleaning up was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Not the rehab or the detox, but having to come face to face with the world and what had happened. I joined the program and got a sponsor. When we started the work that we were doing, I couldn't discuss it, and it was hard keeping that stuff private, but as time went on, I felt better. For months, I was doing things that no one else could. When I left my position in the hospital, another doctor would be found to take my place. Someone else could diagnose or stitch or operate, just as when I was off my shifts, but what we were doing, it was amazing.
It was about that time that I moved back towards my faith. I never thought I lost it, not in my heart, but I wanted all those rules and regulations to help me to stay on this path, to help me stay sober. The hijab helps me remember every day what I am fighting for or fighting against.
I had a purpose, and Ernest, he was amazing in his honesty and simplicity. All his money and power and yet he remained so kind and so humble, content in helping make the world a better place. He didn't give speeches or preach philosophy. He just tried to be a good person, the best one could imagine. He was my best friend, and my inspiration, and I loved him for that.
And now he's gone. The one person in the world who really understood me, who I cared for more than anyone alive, and now I might never see him again or tell him what he means to me, and I can't see how we can keep helping people without him. Today, all of a sudden, it hit me, so I started driving, and I drove and wondered what I was looking for and I soon realized what I was really looking for was the nearest bar and God help me if I didn't see the sign outside for the meeting here and took it as a sign from on high. I need a drink, more than ever, and if I wasn't able to tell someone, talk to someone, say what I'm bottling up inside, I'd probably run to the first bar right after this.
"Miss," a voice said, awakening Sheshai from her daydream. "I see you're new to our group. Would you like to share anything?"
Sheshai looked around at the expectant faces, people who'd seen their share of troubles and thought that their problems could relate to hers. She thought about her life, her world, and the bar down the street.
"No," Sheshai said, "Not today."
***
His body was destroyed, utterly and truly; Deanna smiled. She had been right; he was a screamer. Good thing for those soundproof walls. She hadn't cut loose like that in the longest time, where she acted for reasons recreational instead of professional. It felt good to take her time, to savor and add flair. The broken bottle leaked red wine into the pooling blood trails, and her glass dagger had created imaginative new constellations in his back and chest. She wished he had survived longer to see the corkscrew's effect on the brain, wondering if as she turned it deeper into the skull, if she could have caused him to forget his name or start speaking in tongues. She looked on the naked body sprawled face forward, and in keeping with the wine motif, her mischievous mind summoned a delicious idea as to where to place the cork.
She began her approach when a loud noise from the hallway drew her attention, knocks on the door. "Hello, ma'am? Are you okay? We're with the hotel. Do you need any help?"
Deanna's mind processed these thoughts in seconds: Run / Run and escape / Can't escape / Attacked / He attacked / Self-defense / He beat me / He raped me / He drugged me / Drugs / Drugs across room / Get drugs / Take drugs.
She ran. She had to get to her jacket, the pills, before the men from the hotel entered the room.
She was halfway there when the men from the hotel entered the room.
***
Jane sat on her couch in her new apartment, identical in layout as her old one. Though the furniture was different in materials and textures, everything felt the same as before. A cleaning service showed up twice a week, and the place glistened and gleamed far better than she could ever achieve on her own. Jane checked the refrigerator, but the interior mimicked the minimalist style of her apartment and nothing tempted her today. She sat at her computer, checked some websites, printed some documents, and cleaned out her email folders and accounts.
It wasn't an email that gave Jane some much needed joy, but her mother's call. Her mother's doctors were able to officially state that she was in full remission and that her cancer treatments would be reduced to scheduled monitoring. Jane said that her mother should keep Silly for company, and Silly was amenable to this decision as she now maintained a permanent position in any lap her new mommy provided her.
Jane felt some happiness with this news, and she had felt good enough to take a day for herself. Earlier, she had gone out for a mani and a pedi, and also got a haircut, removing the length for something new. After a bath, she finally decided on her attire as she picked a sweater and blue jeans from the selections she had placed on the bed.
She flipped through her music collection and chose a CD with flame-colored lettering. She cranked up the volume to cover up the sounds of explosions as the night sky flickered green and orange. The first song was about a man given a second chance at life, and Jane allowed the beats and guitar riffs to roll through her as she swayed with the ballad. She let the song flow through her as she rocked back and forth with a glass of burgundy in hand as she allowed tears to stream down her eyes and for the first time in such a long time, she felt at peace with herself.
Jane skipped the second song, which may have had the power to convince her of another course. The third song brought her back to reality, or at least her reality, reminding her of what she had to do. It steeled her resolve enough to where she would let the album play, allowing herself a fragment of joy before it happened.
Jane sat on the couch and stared up at nothingness. She was finally where she wanted to be, and she let the music roll through like the countdown of her life. Every track, every lyric, every hook, every chorus led a procession and progression towards her final beat. On the table before her lay a razor, some pills, and her gun. These were the choices before her, but there really was no choice. She centered her everything around the strum of her heart and the rhythm of her lungs as the final verse, her final song, neared its end.
On the first "good-bye," Jane inhaled deep.
On the second, Jane let her breath slip free.
The last one played.
Jane reached for the gun.