Black Locust Letters (9 page)

At
the next commercial break, nearing the end of her shift, Richard
said, “Righteo, baby girl, you listen to your big brother Richard,
and remember he can be a real dick sometimes, so keep that in mind.
This is what you're going to do. You're going to get a good car
home. You're going to lock up all the doors and windows, then
you're going to get clean and take a good, long hot bath. Sleep. Go
to work. Act normal.

“
Then you go home again, clean up, and you go to your daddy's
dinner and you open your ears and keep your tongue sealed to the
roof of your mouth. Once you've heard what he's gotta say, you need
to stop doggy paddling in the ocean, and you've gotta climb aboard
a ship. Pick the Alpha, or pick the Tango. There ain't but two
choices because the land's too far away to swim to, hotcakes, and
anyone who doesn't board a boat is going to sink long 'fore the
cannons start firing.”

Betty went cold all the way through to the core. “What are
you saying?”

But
he spared her a sad smile and went back on the air, waving her
farewell.

Betty left, called out for a taxi, and confirmed the name at
pick-up. She stared back at the town hall as they left. She hadn't
seen Slim again all evening. Nor Clarkin, for that
matter.

Betty's father sat at the head of the table in a banquet room
reserved for business meetings, the walls perennially decorated
with mouldings and classical oil paintings, handmade things done by
Tetrametrius' art students, and the table itself was a monster
man-o-war of a table, fashioned from ancient oak and carved three
borders deep on all edges and down the legs. Betty actually thought
both it and the room, softened by indoor palms, very beautiful,
just tainted by the presence of the man in black sitting at the top
of the room.

He
was smoking a cigar, tapping the ashes into a blue willow ashtray,
and he stood up when he saw her. “My Betty, my little girl, how
tired you look.”

“
It
is evening for me, General,” Betty said, voice low and steady as
she pointedly ignored Slim who sat on his right side with a brief
case on the table between them as though they had just finished
putting work into it.

When
he heard that Betty was not giving him a warm greeting, her father
sank back down into his chair with a sigh. “Not even a smile for
your old papa?”

“
Not
while you call me a little girl.”

“
Term of endearment, my dove, but if you feel you have
outgrown it, then I will stop using it. Take a seat. They're
bringing out a swan for us today, a proper Thanksgiving feast, just
without the turkey. A bit too uncommon in these parts ever since
the turkey farm had the bird flu.”

Bearing in mind Richard's words of advice, Betty sat down
next to her father, grimly deciding to look at him rather than her
ex. “I've come to listen.”

“
Well, this is a changed Betty, indeed,” her father mused. “I
am glad, my dear one, so very glad. Why don't you start with a bit
of the salad?”

At
the mention, a server came out from behind a door with a chilled
glass bowl and laid down three cold china plates, then served the
endive and radish salad before he left again, one arm tucked behind
his back, prim and proper and straight as a military inspection
day. Stiffly, Betty stabbed a leaf and brought it to her lips,
taking only small bites so she could speak with her father faster
if he called for it.

He
clucked, though if it was in approval or not she did not know and
tried to convince herself that she did not care. He said, “When you
said you were coming to listen, you meant listen and not speak at
all. Just bear in mind that you think constructively and critically
about what I am about to say.”

“
I
will.”

“
No
greeting for your love? Are you two still spatting?”

Betty gently set down her fork, but the clinking it made
would have been less volatile if she'd slammed it down. “We are not
spatting. We are simply no longer together.”

“
Pity, pity,” the general said. “It would be perhaps time for
a renewal of acquaintance? With both of you a bit older and more
mature, the relationship might work this time.”

“
Did
you call me here to champion for James, or is there a less
pointless reason for getting me by your side?”

“
Tut
tut, my dove, James is anything but pointless, but that is a topic
for another day. Yes, you are right, I did ask for you for another
reason.”

Betty took a sip from her water glass, not touching the white
wine which was nearby and her ex fiancé was drinking from heavily;
he used to be of such a stout nature, she wondered if his will had
weakened since she'd last known him or if her presence simply
unnerved him to the extent that he needed a solid drink to face
her. She liked to think the second, but being around her father,
she knew it was probably the former.

“
There is no easy way to breach the subject. You have been
reading the news?”

“
I
do every morning.”

“
The
edited news, you mean. Do you remember who was behind the Cliffdale
Mansion fire?”

Betty frowned. “An electric pyro. Why, was that a cover-up?”
She mentally cheered for her good sense of being able to catch that
no-good police head in a trap.

“
No,” her father said. “It was a murder, an assassination by
the Never Weres. Aaron Riley died in that fire, the day before he
was going to swing the vote in favor of identification cards for
Never Weres.”

Betty went still. She remembered how Clarkin had frozen when
she'd asked him about electric pyros. Was this why? “You're saying
that the Never Weres are killing people who they think are a
threat?”

Slim
chose now to say, “Riley was the most recent, and blatant, attack.
Michael Jovoe, Henry O'Dell, and Margarett Keeclick also died
suddenly and tragically, but there is not enough evidence to
suppose that they were murdered.”

“
However, they each were taking part in legislation which
would impose stricter rules on the things that Never Were. It seems
to be a backlash against the appointment of our new police
chief.”

Betty frowned. “I never heard about this
legislation.”

“
The
news doesn't report on such topics. You'd only hear about it if you
had a daily report of the legislation's actions like I
do.”

She
leaned back, frowning. “I do find it suspicious that the government
is curtailing the rights and freedoms of its citizens so silently.
Who will be next, the immigrants?”

Father shook his head. “The question you should be asking
yourself is this: What do they want with you, and how are they
going to use you to get to me? I promise you, they will. You are my
only child, and they took your mother from me so early into our
marriage...” He trailed off, as though reminiscing, but Betty
gritted her teeth and was determined not to feel anything for
him.

He
would lie, cheat, steal, praise, anything to tug on her
heartstrings and bring her back to him. And she was much too
susceptible to fall for it, and she knew that, which was why she
did her very best to avoid him at all costs.

“
If
that is all...?” Betty prompted, wanting to get away as fast as she
could.

The
general looked hurt. “I find a reason to meet with you, and you
wish to run away again? What did I say to upset you so? It's been
such a long time, and you didn't see me over the
holidays.”

Despite herself, Betty felt guilty. She'd promised her mother
that she would always spend New Year’s with her father, and so she
had, even that first one right after breaking up with James, and
the one after. Both times had been wretched experiences.

Her
father had been so kind to her that she felt guilty for living by
herself, and she had sworn to see him more often. Then as she did
so, he by stages asked more and more of her, until she balked and
they got into a huge fight that reminded her of why she was better
off in her quiet house alone.

Resolved, she said, “I came to listen. If you have nothing
else of importance to say, I will leave.”

But
just then the main course came, with it such a train of servers
that it would have been nearly impossible to leave without
disturbing a dish and making them pick it up off the floor. And
once her plate was filled with a slice of swan, which did look
remarkably like turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy, a
hot roll, and walnut topped honeyed sweet potatoes, Betty's stomach
gave a growl. She never cooked like this for herself, unless she
wanted to eat for a week. It seemed extremely rude to the cook if
she were to leave a full plate, so she ate.

Thankfully, her father and particularly James, were quiet
during the meal except to make occasional comments on the food or
the weather, but even so she tried to listen for any code words.
Nothing that she could tell, but code could be changed so quickly
and so often that she doubted she would have any idea what they
would be saying anyway.

“
My
daughter,” her father said at last. “I will come to the real
meaning. I need you to be safe, and I can't do that the way things
are now. It is just too dangerous and if Never Weres get a hold of
you, I'd do anything—anything at all—to get you back. Think about
that. You know my position. You know how many hundreds of thousands
could die.”

Betty paused and had to admit that with the weapons she knew
her father controlled, she had to admit that he was right. He could
start another worldwide war, one that would be greater than the
Great War and the World War put together. The thought made her
shiver. A war like that would have no non-combatants, no age
limits, and no sympathy. The war might start and end in a day, but
the effects would continue for generations.

Her
father continued, “If you agree, I will put a guard on you, someone
who won't interfere with your day to day activities, but will be
there if you need assistance.”

This
was all too similar to the vein that Clarkin's attentions had
taken. She frowned. “Why am I so important?”

“
You're my daughter. Please. You can grow up, but that's all
the further I'm willing to lose you.”

Betty shook her head. “That isn't what I mean. Why am I so
important? What does the City Council need?”

“
Wave talkers,” said James, as though annoyed with her
insistence. “They need wave talkers, and you're
perfect.”

She
felt a burst of appreciation for James, and one of sadness for her
father. Still the manipulator. “So if I accept a guard, I will have
to make payment by saying a few lines for the Council?”

Father nodded, though he still glared at his aide. “Just a
few words, nothing more. You'll be safe and we can put a stop to
the menace.”

“
I
need to think about it.” Betty knew better than to slap down
anything that came from the Council unless she had an escape plan
in mind, one that did not include any place that she had been to in
the last few months, nor any vehicles she had used in the last
year. Leaving Sanctuary was hard enough, but to do so in a flash
was nearly impossible.

Father relaxed. “That is all I am asking from you. I knew you
were smart enough to see our view.”

Any
belief she'd had in what he said was splattered by that last
sentence. But he had raised questions. Questions about electric
pyros and the mysterious deaths over the last several months, and
about what bills were in the council and why they were even there
to start with. These questions swirled in her mind as she
left.

Outside the Brick Oven, the sun shone bright and warm,
cutting through the crisp autumn breeze which tickled leaves and
made them dance on their stems. In the clear, invigorating
afternoon, there was a rejuvenating quality to the day which made
her spirits lift despite the confrontation.

Dressed snugly in winter-weight black tights, her long blush
trench coat, and a now-finished burgundy scarf, Betty breathed in
the scent of fallen rain and forced the trembling of her hands to
settle. She turned to the Library, knowing that a copy of bills was
maintained there, stored there every new moon.

When
she arrived, Betty headed down the perfectly-trimmed lawn strewn
with sunbathing university students, passed between two columns of
squares, and entered through a door which did not appear to be the
primary entrance.

Inside, the library was deserted, its musty fences of books
blocking out the fluorescent lights put on a ceiling which had not
been made high enough, and she milled her way through the hedges of
paper until she found herself in what she knew was the south-west
corner, then took the stairs to the basement.

Through a door which said AUTHORIZED PERSONAL ONLY, Betty
once more sighed, thinking that it would be a warning sign indeed
if they ever found a librarian who could spell to run this place.
They'd had fewer misplaced books when the dyslexic nun had been in
charge.

For
five years, the library had been petitioning for a new shelving
system for the Congress records, and three years ago, they had
given the funding, only to rip it away again as soon as the old
shelves were out. As a result, all the records were shoved into
cardboard boxed rescued from the grocer's burn pile.