Gabriel's Stand (27 page)

A few weeks later in Manhattan, reporter Max Cahoon found himself behind bars. He was allowed one phone call. It was to James Schlier, his former colleague, sometime drinking buddy, and somewhat reliable friend.

“Jim, you asshole, pick up. This is Maxwell Cahoon. I wasn't kidding. Get down here tonight and make my bail. I'll pay you tomorrow with interest. Thirty-third Precinct.”

A few humiliating minutes later, Cahoon, an almost famous reporter for the Times, was led to his cell, dressed in jail orange. Because he knew the sergeant on duty, he was allowed, contrary to policy, to bring his small tape recorder with him.

“That was my last free phone call until court,” Cahoon dictated. “Since then, I've been alone in this holding cell, grateful for my solitude—at least after I saw the company I could be keeping. Jim is not much of a friend, but he'll bring my bail money. I'd do the same for him. We reporters stick together…especially these days.

“Did I say my name? Maxwell Sherman Cahoon. You've probably seen my bylines. The
Journal
. The
Times
. The News services. You might remember my coverage of the McKernon assassination in Washington State and my series on the Vector Pharmaceutical bombing. But this isn't about me.

“Last night, when I first saw her, I had no idea who she was.

“I had returned to Manhattan from DC, left my bag in a hotel and found my favorite bar. It was very late when I stepped outside and I was startled by the moving, wet grayness. The raindrops were invisible in the dark air until the passing headlights limned their trajectories in midflight. Around each street lamp, a silver halo formed out of cascading water.

“Stop.”

Cahoon paused his dictation, stretched his sore back; then he resumed, standing.

“I had heard rumors, of course, but seeing
her
in person was a surprise. She was a small, but compelling figure, standing in the light of a street corner lamp. She was neatly dressed in a black blouse and long, black cape, her hood thrown back revealing a bright crimson lining and her shoulder-length black hair. A crowd had gathered around her, chanting, ‘Hawke! Hawke!'

“Their faces were eager and expectant. I found myself staring at her striking gray eyes, high cheekbones and strong, intelligent face. My, she was beautiful! And a little familiar, like classically beautiful women are.

“I surveyed the crowd. It swelled as I watched, all types, including a number of well-dressed professionals. Families with children. At least eighteen hundred people, I think, and scores more arriving every minute. They just poured out of the nearby buildings as if they knew this legendary Hawke woman, the renegade preacher, was in the neighborhood.

“It was amazing to see. They pressed around her in a semicircle, spreading into the street on either side of her position next to the street lamp.

“She began speaking softly and conversationally. I noticed her amplified voice was carried by several tiny speakers attached to a pole. There was a distinguished looking man, slightly older, holding the speaker pole. He was dressed in a gray, full length coat, a yarmulke on his head.

“Her voice was clear. ‘Did you hear about the Stage raids in New Jersey last week? No? Has anyone heard about them?' I saw a few hands go up.

“‘Good. Tell your neighbors! A young man was shot to death by Commission agents. That makes
five
—that we know about.' The crowd reacted.

“‘This is the beginning of the real crackdown.
Your
neighborhood is next. Day after tomorrow at dawn. Here. A nine block area, starting on this corner, and running three blocks uptown and three cross town. If you live in this zone, you can say goodbye to your medicine, your electronic books, the smart prosthetics, and all the rest. Stage Three searches are very thorough. It will be jail—if they catch you holding.'

“I knew I had seen Hawke before. But just I couldn't access the occasion. Then she looked directly at me. We made eye contact and I nodded.

“She smiled at me and changed the subject. ‘Remember the week after our Senate ratified the Treaty?' She paused, studying the faces of the people who crowded around the streetlight. ‘I was only twenty-one then.'

“A faint memory tickled at the edge of my mind. I really had seen this woman before. But where?

“‘Now listen closely,' she said. ‘From the beginning, everything that has happened was in the master plan of the Gaia Organizational Directorate. The G-O-D. Everyone in the movement took their orders: The Earth Restoration Alliance, The Greenspike Coalition—all of the groups took their orders from the same activists, whether they knew it or not. The Directorate even ran the G-A-N, which stands for Gaia's Antibody Network. Terrorists by any other name. And their secret cult, the Earth's Sisters, was a front for the G-O-D. The Sisters were the inner circle of the terrorist puppet master, Louise Berker.'

“‘I knew six of the Earth's Sisters very well.' She paused for effect—the crowd was fixed on her every word. ‘And I learned from them how the G-A-N conspired to set off the worst ecological disaster in modern times in order to stampede the Senate into ratifying the Treaty.'

“'How did I know? You see, as a student, I was an activist. Eventually I was in their inner circle. Just before the Treaty was ratified, I became one of the Earth's Sisters.' There was an audible reaction from the crowd.

“‘In truth,' she said, ‘my given name is Helen Snowfeather Lindstrom.'

“Oh my God, I thought. This is my lead: Senator's daughter turned demonstrator, turns against the cause…

“As if on cue, somebody yelled out, ‘You are a traitor to Gaia!'”

“'Gaia is not a living creature and certainly is not God. These are lies upon lies. These clever television commercials are a masterful con job: the scary examples, the promise of a beautiful future without technology? It's a con because you and I won't be there to enjoy it. The dirty little secret is that
the Commission's Retirement orders are kill orders
.'

“She was on a roll. ‘You doubt this?' she asked. ‘Last month I saw what happens when you apply Retirement Confiscation to medicine.' She finally located the guy who'd been shouting at her. ‘You there! Do you doubt this? Or do you even care?' He was silent.

“‘Remember the airborne staphylococcus infections of seven years ago? Pray it doesn't come back. The antibiotic effective against Staph 5 was Retirement Confiscated last year. You think Staph 5 was bad?'

“‘Tuberculosis 6 is far, far more contagious. And its progress in your body is very fast. What can I tell you about TB 6? At St. John's Children's Hospital, sixteen children, all under seven, died of a single disease—Tuberculosis 6. As of this morning, thirty more are about to follow them and the doctors and nurses can't stop it. Then sixty. Then one hundred twenty. The geometric progression is really scary. We are seeing a doubling every three weeks. And it's not in the news. But I know. Because I am there.

“‘Want to hear the gory details? Nothing quite like this strain has ever appeared before. All the older versions of tuberculosis were relatively slow killers. But this form of tuberculosis incubates for about three days after exposure. A nearby sneeze can start an infection. Once you catch it, things go fast, producing a huge number of tubules in the lungs in the next three days, death within a week, ten days if you're very strong.

“‘Even the worst of the strains, TB 5, was still curable with a regimen of commonly available antibiotics. But it takes a brand new antibiotic technology to kill TB 6. The Commission has made it a felony to possess even a single dose. St. John's ran out of the black market antibiotics that were partly effective against TB 6 three months ago.

“‘Did I say the mortality rate is 100%? Did I also say it is completely curable in forty-eight hours? But only if your doctor can find the drugs.

“‘Of course Commissioner Longworthy has all he needs for himself and his family.' Her voice was acid. ‘I think about that a lot as I hold a dying child's hand. Interested in prevention? Good vaccines exist for TB6. But don't bother to see your doctor for a shot. The vaccines have also been seized.

“‘Why would they do that?' She paused again, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. ‘You don't suppose they actually want to kill you?' The wind kicked up, blowing her cape back. Do you know when the Retirement order was issued, taking out the treatments for TB6?' She looked around the crowd, her anger seething. ‘At the first recorded outbreak. Did you hear that? The timing of that decision by the Commission is chilling.'

“She paused. When she spoke again, her voice became subtly more menacing, an amplified whisper. ‘My people, the Sioux, the Nez Perce, and the Shoshone, all the Native Americans on this continent, were among the first major victims of accidental and deliberate germ exposure in history. Even smallpox can kill you if you lack immunity and there is no available treatment or vaccine. For Native Americans, it might as well have been the Bubonic Plague, except the people in Medieval Europe got off easy.'

“She paused. Snowfeather held this audience in complete thrall… Even in the silence, I could hear only the background city noises. ‘So maybe you understand my anger. What more do you need?'

“‘You know what they said in private, these Earth's Sisters? I was there. I heard it.' She paused. Other than the cry of a single baby there was not a sound from a crowd of two thousand people.

“‘They said: humanity is a disease that has infected the world.

“‘They said: curing the human infection is their crusade.

“‘They said: the cure is genocide.

“‘They said: our proper place is the grave.'

“I couldn't take my eyes off the crowd. Everyone, even the original heckler, seemed to be trapped in this woman's spell. Then a distant siren sounded among the cacophony of traffic. Rain continued to streak past the street lamp. I shivered.

“‘Yes we allowed our cities, our industries, and our technologies to damage the ecology. But we are learning from our mistakes. Do we deserve extermination by a select few?'

“I was slow spotting the approaching cops. Snowfeather had already dropped from sight when those final words came out of the speakers. I had just begun to back away, seeking the edge of the crowd when agents and police poured out of at least nine patrol cars.

“Oh what a spell this woman could weave. Her charisma, her electric effect on the crowd, was something else. Yes, I was afraid, but more for her…

“When I felt the hand on my shoulder, I just turned.

“
‘You're coming downtown buddy.'

“So that's how I ended up here, dictating into an illegal mini recorder, waiting to be bailed out of a Manhattan jail by my colleague, Jim, with whom I am barely on speaking terms. I wonder if they ever caught her. If anything happens to me, and you get this recording, I, Max Cahoon hereby give you permission to post it, print it, and tell it. If Snowfeather has the guts to tell it like it is, then we have to be able to honor her courage and get the message out.

“Right now, this reporter isn't going anywhere. I've seen inside of jail cells before so I'm not whining, you understand… But where the hell is Jim? Tape off.”

In Manhattan, the following week, a small van hissed through the rain, slowing a block from the next intersection.

“The crowds are getting bigger,” Roberto said from the driver's seat. “Now they know who you really are.”

There was a long silence from the passenger seat. “Sorry,” Snowfeather said wearily. “What did you say?”

“You are drawing more and more people each time.”

“We'd do better if you'd just tell a few jokes. I like that one about the Pope and the Chinese Rabbi.”

“You
are
tired.”

“You think?”

“This time was too close a call.” Roberto's voice was hoarse and anxious. “Way too close. I don't think we have enough bail money for a celebrity like you.”

“Yup, I am. And the police are getting smarter,” she said. She leaned her head against the cool window of the van. “The training effect.”

“You get some sleep, okay?”

“I'm so tired, Roberto, I can't frigging move. I think I'm asleep even when I'm awake. If close my eyes, I think I may not ever wake up.” Their van was stalled in traffic on Lexington. The windshield wipers snicked back and forth, and Snowfeather's mind wandered.

“I will be right here,” she had said, while Jenny Ryan lay dying. An involuntary tear had run down her cheek under the mask. In the car, her cheek against the window, she was dry…empty of tears. The sky weeps for everyone who can't…

After an hour of storytelling, Jenny had fallen asleep. Snowfeather had stayed at her side for the next seven hours. In the last hour, Jenny had slipped into a coma; her breathing became increasingly difficult, then it stopped.

Code blue.

“Crap,” Snowfeather said aloud.

“Crap, what?” Roberto asked.

“Too many sad memories.”

“I hear that. So please let me make your hospital rounds tomorrow,” Kahn said. “Just this once. You need rest. You
will
wake up.”

“Roberto, as if you haven't been through enough already.”

“And you haven't? Hey. It'd be the Christian thing for me to do, wouldn't it?” Roberto was smiling. “Besides I could do my lawyer thing. Hand out my ‘sue these people for malpractice' cards.”

“Good one. But I'm not into that suffering shtick. I didn't even have a Jewish mother.”

“But your guy did.”

“Who?”

“You know, that famous rabbi from the first century that you Christians worship.”

“Oh, that guy. I guess he did have a Jewish mother, didn't he? Touché.”

“I'm going in for you tomorrow, Snowfeather, just the same. It's my Mitzvah.”

“You win, counselor. Thanks Roberto. I don't know what I'd do if I had to do all this stuff alone.”

“That's why they call it a conspiracy. Takes more than one.”

“Right. Don't take my ‘suffering waif' thing too seriously.”

“And don't you overlook my paternal doting.”

Snowfeather smiled wearily as she retreated into her thoughts.

She had administered Jenny's Last Rites at 6:45 A.M., just as her parents were hailing a taxi at the old Newark Airport.

After Jenny died, she just sat in the hallway outside Jenny's room, holding her journal, the same small leather binder that Loud Owl had given her years earlier. By now it held her darkest musings. She didn't notice the elevator door open at the far end of the hallway. When she looked up, they were there, right in front of her, ashen faced and holding hands. Jenny's parents had been standing patiently in front of her for five minutes, hoping for good news, afraid of the bad.

No, she had thought vehemently, Prayer, alone, is never enough.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“Are you okay?” Roberto asked.

“Did I say something?”

“You were swearing.”

“I do that a lot, don't I? I was just thinking about the Ryan girl.”

“You need a longer break,” Roberto Kahn said. “Take a few days. Nobody can do what we do without time away from it. I went to LA just last month, remember?”

“Deal,” she said finally. “Deal.” Her eyes closed. The tears stung.

“I need to park this at the garage. I'll let you out here, okay?” Snowfeather tried to shake off the spell. “Snowfeather, did you hear me?”

Roberto's voice. Fine,
she thought
. I'll just find a safe phone and place that long distance call. John Owen will remember.
Dad had promised. ‘You can count on John.'

“Earth to Snowfeather. You can get out here,” Roberto touched her arm gently.

The van had slipped into a red zone. Snowfeather stepped out. “Thanks, Roberto. I've just decided something. I'm calling Dr. Owen,” she said.

The passenger window rolled down and Roberto leaned over. “Isn't it dangerous to try to reach him?”

“I guess I'll find out.” A horn honked.

Snowfeather stumbled over then curb and swept past the doorman, hiding fresh tears.

——

The next morning, Snowfeather stared at the object that hung from the handle of the entrance to her apartment. The sign of Earth's Sisters was a line drawing of the earth, a circle with interior lines outlining the continents; from the center of this circle, more elaborately rendered, stared a single, yellow feline eye. Snowfeather peered up and down the hallway for a moment, her robe pulled tight about her waist.

No one in either direction.

She removed the card and closed the door. Her hands were shaking.

“Who was that?” It was Roberto's voice from the adjacent bedroom. He had come back moments earlier from the hospital graveyard shift, too aware of the grim irony in the name, and closed his door.

“Nothing, Roberto,” she said. “Go back to sleep.” Snowfeather sat down, letting her eyes close for just a second. When she opened her eyes, she was momentarily disoriented. She noticed the card, and opened it. Inside, in neat, small handwritten letters:

Snowfeather.

Yes, we know who you are.

We request your presence this day at noon.

Tan

3-992-212-331-4200 ex. 303

A SatCom number.
So much for low tech,
she thought
.

Then all the horrible old memories flooded back. Snowfeather shuddered. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was sitting on the couch in front of a glass table holding a warm tea pot.
When did I make that tea?
Boy, I
am
slipping….

The tiny tea cup rattled as she lifted it from its saucer. She held it fiercely in both hands and sipped. She forced herself to study the ominous note.
What would Dad say?
For a moment, she considered calling him. No. This was her problem.