Nine-Tenths (39 page)
Authors: Meira Pentermann
Her tears released and flowed without restraint as she pressed the side of her head into Leonard’s chest and stared at the city before them.
“I wish Mom were here,” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head. A burning sensation moved slowly up the back of his throat and his vision blurred.
“Me, too.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A few months later, the Tramers had settled in, renting a small house just west of downtown. Natalia was delighted with her new, desegregated school. She seemed surprised that the middle school had never been segregated in the first place. Most of the kids in Mesa County were either natives to the area, or they had left Denver before the Department of Education seized control of the public school curriculum. Thus, they had never even heard of Inbreeds and Melting Pots. They flocked to Natalia, regarding her as a worldly young woman with curious stories about the captive world and its cruelties. This gave Natalia a boost of self-confidence, helping her emerge from her shell.
Leonard procured a position with the IT organization responsible for jamming satellites and feeding false information to the Feds. Affectionately nicknamed the Nerd Brigade by Leonard’s project leader, Seamus McAllister, the company owned an impressive array of equipment. Leonard settled in nicely within a week, cataloguing information he remembered about the Stasi project and developing a plan which would potentially enable the Nerd Brigade to hack into the DID computer network.
“Theoretically, we could take control of the Stasi Satellites while they’re in orbit,” Leonard said, his eyes ablaze. Obsessive dedication to impossible projects was, after all, his specialty.
“I have great faith in you,” McAllister replied absentmindedly. The tall, wild-haired redhead appeared possessed, his hands flying across the keyboard. Suddenly, he leapt from his chair, walked across the room, and sat at another terminal.
“Seamus,” a familiar voice called.
“Wicker,” Seamus cried.
“Have you told him?”
Leonard spun around. “Told who what?”
Wicker punched her boyfriend in the arm. “I can’t believe you.”
“Let’s keep him guessing.” Seamus grinned.
“You’re incorrigible.”
Their blithe manner comforted Leonard. Whatever the news, it was something pleasant. Still, he had to wonder if it was his destiny to work in the presence of roguish, Irish redheads.
“Why don’t you tell him?” Seamus said.
“I would be delighted.” She pulled up a chair and wheeled herself to within a couple of feet of Leonard. “We got news from Shinskey. Dr. Marsh-Tramer is back in practice at the Neil Nelson Medical Center.”
Leonard’s heart flipped. “Oh my God. How?”
“Typically, the Feds put on a show trial for political prisoners not
infected
with CARS,” she explained. “The DA works for the Feds. The court-appointed defense attorney also works for the Feds. The judge is either well lubricated or living in continuous fear of an unexpected dismissal. You get the picture.”
Leonard nodded.
“It usually takes less than forty-eight hours to convict,” Wicker continued.
“So what happened?”
“Seems a guy named Carlyle…You know him, I think. He’s the commander of the Denver base of the DID?”
“Yes.” Leonard cringed.
“Anyway, this Carlyle character stepped in to defend Alina.”
Leonard’s relief deteriorated into anxiety. If Carlyle helped Alina, it was because he wanted her for himself.
“Are you listening?” Wicker said.
“Yeah, but if it was Carlyle, his intentions were not honorable.”
“I know. He’s the one who wanted
visiting rights.
”
“So why be joyful? Alina is now that pervert’s sex slave.”
“Hang on. Don’t get ahead of me,” Wicker cautioned, as if talking to a toddler. “He intervened, pulled a few favors, and got Alina acquitted on the first day.”
“Okay.”
“He gave evidence that everything was your fault, Leonard. That you arranged the entire getaway.” She smiled. “But then several guys stepped forward and accused Carlyle of having ulterior motives, of wanting Alina in a
personal
way. They accused him of being a soloist. You know what a soloist is?”
“I’ve heard the term.”
“Someone who acts on their own behalf, not for the good of the people. An individualist.”
Leonard tipped his head sideways and acknowledged this definition. “Is that a crime?”
“In certain cases. Carlyle thwarted justice. He chose his own desires over the safety of the community.”
“So they still think Alina’s a political criminal?”
Wicker shook her head. “No. She was acquitted. The judge, bless his otherwise politically purchased heart, refused to see her tried twice for the same crime. He said the judgment stood.”
“What happened to Carlyle?”
“In the midst of the whole drama, he mysteriously contracted a nasty case of CARS.”
“No!”
“Yes.” Wicker laughed.
Her merriment should have disturbed Leonard after his experience at the infirmary. Nevertheless, he pictured the passive-aggressive Carlyle squished into a fourteen-by-fourteen inch closet, and he felt not an ounce of empathy.
“So Alina is safe and sound,” Wicker said. “She insisted that Shinskey get a message to you and Natalia.”
“Will she be coming to Mesa County?” Leonard asked hopefully.
Seamus broke in. “She’s got to lay low. Not a good idea to try anything at this point. Look at how difficult it was for you to escape.”
“Right.” Leonard paused to manage his emotions. “It’s good to know she’s safe. Thank you. Both of you.”
“Thank Carlyle,” Wicker said, laughing. “The revolting little soloist.” She winked and stood up. “Meet me for lunch, Shay?”
“Sure,” Seamus replied. “At the deli?”
“Sounds perfect.” She waltzed away gracefully. Leonard beamed as he watched her go.
Seamus slapped Leonard on the back. “Great news. I’m happy for you. Score one for the good guys, huh?”
“Yeah. Score one.” Leonard turned to face his computer and tried to focus on his work, but he remained slightly distracted throughout the morning.
Alina is free,
he thought, over and over again, and some of his entrenched guilt loosened and slipped away. He had not ruined her life completely, and Natalia would be so relieved to know her mother was safe.
Maybe it’s enough for now.
Seamus, humming behind him, further added to his inability to focus on anything productive. The redhead, rolling from one computer to another, multitasked like no one Leonard had ever met.
A little before eleven o’clock, a video clip purred to life on one of Seamus’ computer screens.
“Even as a toddler, President Stehlen demonstrated remarkable potential,”
a voice announced brightly.
Leonard dropped his head in one hand. “Seamus, what the hell are you doing?”
Seamus laughed mischievously. “I just like to see what the government controlled media is up to. They’re wildly entertaining, those sycophants.”
“Forming complete sentences before the age of two, he delighted his caretakers. One of his nannies told our investigative team ‘Every day he surprised me. Such a precocious boy.’”
“Really, Seamus. I snuck past the Wall in Idaho Springs, spent an evening in a fourteen-by-fourteen inch closet, hiked to the Eisenhower Tunnel, and drove all the way here for this?”
Seamus chuckled and started to whistle. The more Leonard griped, the more amused Seamus became.
“Born Thomas Richardson, the president was nearly killed in a horrible accident that took his mother’s life.”
“Such a shame.”
Something stirred inside of Leonard and he turned his head slowly. On the screen, a picture of a mangled car gave way to a photo of a blond man with stylized hair.
“The driver who caused the accident—”
“The irresponsible cretin—”
“Was unavailable for comment as he was transported to an infirmary during the first wave of CARS roundups.”
“Wait,” Leonard shouted as he jumped out of his chair and rushed to the computer. He sat down and swished the mouse several times.
“Relax,” Seamus said, wandering over. “You’re such a baby. I’ll turn it off.”
“It was as if the boy was meant to survive to fulfill his destiny.”
“Can you rewind?” Leonard asked, frantically searching for the pause button.
Seamus sighed. “Yes, Nervous Nelly. Give me a second.” He paused the video.
“Just go back thirty seconds.”
“Got it. Got it. Relax, will ya?” Seamus hit the rewind button.
“There.” The picture of the mangled car flew by in reverse. Leonard grabbed the mouse from his colleague’s hand and waited anxiously. Seamus returned to his work, mumbling under his breath. The video resumed.
“Born Thomas Richardson, the president was nearly killed in a horrible accident that took his mother’s life.”
With the words
horrible accident
a wrecked blue sedan lying on the grass popped up on the screen. Then the video zoomed in on the mangled left side of the car.
“Such a shame.”
Leonard fumbled with the rewind button.
“Born Thomas Richardson, the president was nearly killed in a horrible accident—”
With a quick click of the mouse, Leonard paused the video. He examined the crumpled vehicle, lying on its back in the middle of a greenway. He knew that place very well. It was just off Interstate 225.
“Thomas Richardson,” Leonard whispered, his heart racing. “Tommy.” The word fell from his mouth like a rock and landed with a hollow thud.
At that moment, Leonard understood with horrifying clarity that nine-tenths of a second can, indeed, make a difference. Nine-tenths of a second is just enough time to slightly alter a series of events, allowing a red Ford truck to tap its brakes and a yellow sports car to slip across three lanes, causing an accident that killed the mother instead of the child. Leonard spent his life chained to nine-tenths of a second that had the power to alter the course of history. In the end, he succeeded. Nine-tenths of a second changed the world.
Acknowledgements
I truly believe that life-changing moments can occur within a fraction of a second, although we may not be aware of them at the time. Someone you meet, a bit of advice you hear, or a book you read can make the difference between who you were and who you will become.
This story was born the day I met my husband, Emo, but I would have laughed if anyone suggested such an outrageous idea. At the time I was a disgruntled, anti-American, child of a filtered education who had no idea why someone would leave their homeland in search of the American Dream. Emo, for your countless lessons in how the world works and what is worth fighting for, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and dedicate this story to you.
I must also acknowledge my daughters, Anna and Danielle, who put up with the long hours of research and writing. I beg your forgiveness for the number of times I gave you
that look
when you entered my office.
Gale Haut — for designing this brilliant cover. Your creative instincts and artistic talent gave Nine-Tenths the power to jump off the shelf.
Tracey Garvis-Graves — one of those people who crossed my path at the precise moment I needed her — for all your support and advice.
Patty Dutton — your enthusiasm for the story propelled me.
Carrie Penaloza — for your endless support of my writing career.
Anne Victory, Victory Editing — your eye for detail is invaluable.
Friends who intervened at critical times throughout my life — Todd Hughes, Joy Brooks, Rose Pressey, and many others — whose encouragement and faith in me changed the direction of my life.
Lee Doren — for his savvy, entertaining coverage of How the World Works.
Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, author and director of the award-winning German film, DAS LEBEN DER ANDEREN (THE LIVES OF OTHERS). Your beautiful film was the spark that ignited Leonard’s dysfunctional world.
Victims of the Stasi and the Soviet government who shared their stories with brutal honesty.
People all over the earth who believe in individualism and fight for freedom.
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