Three Days in April (13 page)

“On your ATV?”

His scowl deepens.

“That does not matter. What matters is that NatSec has evidence that she was present in Hagerstown, and that she did not die there. I do not believe this has come to the attention of anyone who matters—­but if it does, I fear that I will not be able to protect her.”

I roll my eyes. He's right about that, anyway.

“So,” I say. “What exactly do you intend to do about this?”

“This is why I need your help,” he says. “I intend to destroy the evidence before it is noticed.”

G
ary throws open the door just as I'm raising my hand to knock.

“Evil Wizard!” he says. “Cave Lady! Welcome! What brings you here so soon after we finally managed to get rid of you?”

“Hello, Gary,” I say. “Can we come in?”

“Sure,” he says, and steps aside with a flourish and a bow. “Why not? I run a boardinghouse now. Make yourselves comfortable.”

We enter, and he closes the door behind us.

“If you're looking for Anders, he's up in his room doing super top-­secret stuff that I'm not supposed to know anything about. I've got it up on the living-­room wallscreen. Wanna watch?”

“No,” I say. “Not really. We actually came to talk to you.”

Tariq perches on the edge of the couch. I sit beside him, and Gary drops into one of the recliners. There's what looks like some sort of molecular diagram rotating on the wallscreen.

“Hey,” Gary says. “Here's a fun fact: Last night, I'm pretty sure I watched your pal Dimitri whack a guy. Care to comment?”

I stare at him. He stares back, with bland half smile on his face.

“What are you talking about?” I finally ask.

“Dimitri,” he says. “You know, the super scary guy who showed up at my door on Sunday morning looking for Anders, presumably because he was peeved at your little . . . whatever it is you two have going on?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know who Dimitri is. You saw him hit somebody?”

“No,” Gary says. “I did not see him hit somebody. I saw him whack somebody: one Christopher Cai, in fact—­noted racist, UnAltered rabble-­rouser, and man about town.”

“I believe,” Tariq says, “that Gary is saying that he saw your friend commit a murder.”

“No,” I say. “He's not.”

“Yes,” Gary says. “I am.”

I look at Tariq, then back at Gary.

“You're saying that you saw Dimitri kill someone last night, in public, in full view of every drone and spy eye in Baltimore?”

“No,” Gary says. “I am saying I saw him kill someone, but I don't think it was in full view of anyone but me and Anders. Dimitri's NatSec, right? I'm guessing he was ghosted.”

“Just to be clear,” he goes on after a pause, “I'm more than willing to give old Dimitri a pass on this one murder. The guy he killed was a serious douche-­nozzle, and had himself just gotten done trying to kill a very hot barista. I'm not condoning extra-­judicial executions in general, but in this particular case, I think the guy probably had it coming.”

I'm really not sure what to say to that.

“Look,” I say finally. “I don't know what you saw, or didn't see, or whatever, but I don't really want to talk about Dimitri right now.”

“Yeah,” says Gary. “Me neither. This is boring. How about some
SpaceLab
?”

The wallscreen blinks on. I need to head this off right away.

“No,” I say quickly. “No
SpaceLab
. We actually need to talk about something important.”

He raises one eyebrow.

“Important, huh? Fine then.” He winks, and the wallscreen goes blank. “What can I do for you?”

I look at Tariq. He shakes his head. His face tells me clearly that he thinks I'm putting our lives in the hands of a lunatic. Apparently, I'm gonna have to be the spokesperson.

“Well,” I say. “We have something that we need to get done, and I was thinking that either you or someone you know might be able to help us with it.”

Gary laughs.

“Oh boy, I can't wait to hear this. Do you have any idea what I actually do?”

“We need you to crack a server, and remove some data from it.”

“Huh.” Gary scratches his head. “I guess you do know what I actually do. Okay. Whose server, how tight is their security, do they have cloud as well as local storage, and do you need the data extracted or just destroyed? Please answer these questions as accurately as possible, because my estimates are not binding, and if I wind up going over on either time or materials, you might end up with a really outrageous bill.”

“We just need to have the data destroyed,” says Tariq. “We do not need to retrieve it. And I am fairly certain the data are localized.”

“Good,” says Gary. “That makes things easier. Maybe you'll only need to sell one kidney each to pay for this. Whose server are we talking about?”

I look at Tariq. He shrugs.

“NatSec's,” I say. “We need you to destroy whatever video the sentinel unit got of Elise in Hagerstown on Sunday afternoon.”

Gary laughs again. He looks from me to Tariq, then back to me. We are not laughing. His smile fades.

“Get out,” he says.

“Wait,” I say. “We've actually got more resources available than you think. If you need to bring someone else in to get this done, we can afford that. This is really important.”

Gary closes his eyes, rubs his face with both hands, and then pulls his dreads back into an awkward, greasy-­looking ponytail.

“I bet it is,” he says. “So are we giving up on the whole ‘Tariq and his shiny ATV' story? Are you gonna tell me what really happened?”

I would like to say that Tariq still hasn't told me what really happened, but now is not the time.

“Tariq really did save Elise,” I say. “How, exactly, isn't important. The point is, NatSec has video of Elise in Hagerstown, and they probably have at least some video of her getting out of Hagerstown. And if anyone notices that fact, they're going to come looking for her.”

There's no humor at all in Gary's expression now.

“Yeah,” he says. “You bet your ass they will. They'll come looking for her, and anyone who's had any interaction with her. Shit! I knew I was gonna wind up eating a crowbar over this somehow.”

“None of us needs to eat a crowbar,” Tariq says quickly. “If we destroy the data, all will be well.”

Gary stares at Tariq silently for a moment.

“Sorry,” he says finally. “I'm not great at reading ­people. I'm still trying to figure out if you're yanking my chain, or if you're just really, really stupid. I'm not sure if I mentioned this story earlier, but when all this started, one of my colleagues tapped twenty-­some seconds of NatSec internal chatter. Just tapped, mind you, not destroyed. Even with that, I still have no idea how he managed it. Twelve hours later, NatSec agents were crawling all over his place, which fortunately for him he had already completely flash-­burned. I like this house a lot, and do not have any wish to flash-­burn it. Moreover, what you are asking is about three orders of magnitude more difficult than what Inchy did. I'm sorry, but it just can't be done.”

Tariq looks like he's about to reply, but just then we hear footsteps at the bottom of the stairs. A woman who looks a lot like Elise walks into the room and looks around at us. She's wearing khaki shorts and a yellow polo shirt with the Green Goose logo over her ridiculously perky left breast, and a towel tied up around a mass of wet blonde hair. I can feel my stomach slowly twisting itself into a knot.

“You know,” she says to Gary, “your roommate is kind of an ass.”

“So true,” he says. “Bar Floozie, I'm pleased to introduce you to Cave Lady and Evil Wizard. Cave Lady and Evil Wizard, this is Bar Floozie—­another one of my endless string of uninvited house guests.”

“Wow,” she says. “So you're kind of an ass too. Nice to meet you two. I'm Charity. You're Gary's friends?”

“Sure,” I say. “Let's go with that.”

Charity takes a seat in the other recliner, and starts working the towel through her hair.

“Don't let me bother you,” she says. “Just go on with what you were doing.”

Tariq gives me a sad, pitying look, and I wonder how much he can read on my face. Gary suddenly looks almost gleeful.

“So,” he says. “Where were we? You were trying to convince me to commit suicide, right?”

“That's a good idea,” says Charity. “You're a burden on your friends and family. Is this a Hemlock Society thing?”

He shakes his head.

“No, more like a ‘Charge of the Light Brigade' thing.”

She grins.

“You mean they're trying to convince you to do something so monumentally stupid that it almost looks brave?”

Gary's eyes light up.

“Something like that. You a Tennyson fan?”

Charity lowers the towel and flips her hair back over her shoulders.

“Half a league, half a league, half a league onward. All in the valley of Death, rode the six hundred. My degree was in English literature.”

“Ah,” says Gary. “Hence the career in food and beverage delivery.”

“Yeah, right.” She gives her hair a final shake, and drapes the towel over the arm of the chair. “So really, what are we talking about?”

“We were actually talking about Anders,” says Gary, “and what a fine hunk of meat he is.”

“He's a fine hunk of something.” Charity looks like she's bitten into something rotten. My stomach gives a hopeful flutter.

Sweet Jesus, I am a prepubescent girl.

I
knock softly, wait a moment, and open the door. Anders is lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling with his fingers knitted behind his head.

“Hey,” I say.

He shifts his eyes to me, then back to the ceiling.

“Terry,” he says. “You are not who I expected to see.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I sit down with my back to him, on the edge of the bed. Thunder rumbles in the distance. It's been threatening rain all morning, but the streets are still dry.

“So,” I say. “Charity seems nice. How did she wind up falling into your orbit?”

Anders sighs.

“She works at the Green Goose.”

“So I gathered. Did you dump a drink on her, too?”

He laughs.

“Nah. I threw a sandwich at a guy who was trying to shoot her in the face.”

I lean my head back, and roll my neck in a slow circle.

“Ah,” I say. “I'd have slept with you if you'd done that for me.”

He laughs.

“You slept with me anyway.”

“So I did.”

I look down at my hands. They're knotted around each other, clenching and un-­clenching.

“Did she?” I ask finally.

“No,” Anders says. “She did not.”

Gary's laugh carries up from the living room. I left him introducing Charity and Tariq to the wonders of
SpaceLab
.

“Hey,” says Anders. “Do you drink BrainBump?”

I turn my head to look at him. He actually looks concerned.

“What? No. I don't have any interest in corporate nanobots crawling around inside my brain.”

He nods.

“What about Elise? Does she?”

I shake my head.

“Elise won't even eat GM corn. She wouldn't touch a can of BrainBump unless she was wearing a full-­body condom.”

“Huh.”

His eyes slide away. I can almost see the wheels turning.

“Why are you asking about BrainBump? Did someone break into Gary's stash?”

“No,” he says. “Just wondering.”

Thunder rumbles again outside, and a sudden gust of wind rattles the window in its casement.

“Storm's coming,” says Anders.

I smile.

“About time. This heat has been killing me.”

His hand presses against the small of my back, then slides up to my shoulder. He pulls gently, then a little harder. I let him ease me back until I'm lying with my head on his belly and my feet on the floor.

“Look,” he says. “About yesterday . . .”

I shake my head.

“Don't talk. It just gets you in trouble.”

His hand still rests on my shoulder. I slide my own up, and twine my fingers with his. Lightning flashes outside the window, and thunder follows a second after, loud as a bomb in the street. A few drops of rain spatter against the window, then a few more, and then the sky opens up. The wind rises to a howl, and a wave of hailstones batters the side of the house. Anders' fingers tighten around mine. Gary is laughing again, and as the wind dies down I hear Charity join in.

“So,” says Anders. “Why are you here?”

I shrug.

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop by to say hello.”

“Got it.”

He brushes my hair back from my forehead with his free hand, and then slowly works his fingers down to the nape of my neck. I roll my head around again in a slow, lazy circle.

“You know I'm not a dog, right?” I ask after a while.

“Sorry,” he says, and pulls his hand away.

I reach up and pull it back.

“I didn't say to stop.”

The wind is rising again. The rain pounds on the roof above us, and the roar of the storm outside the window sounds like the end of the world.

 

12. ELISE

“S
o,” says Aaliyah. “Was my brother right in his fears? Has meeting his mad sister caused you to regret your hasty decision to wed?”

I smile, raise my teacup to my lips and sip.

“Not yet,” I say. “There's a very thin line between crazy and wise. I still haven't decided which side you're on.”

She laughs. We're sitting across from each other at the table in the sitting room, with a pot of tea and a plate of sticky sweet rolls between us.

“You are too kind,” she says. “If I am wise, it is only in the sense that the admission of ignorance is the beginning of wisdom. And even at that, I am less than sure.”

“Tariq believes you are wise.”

She shakes her head and bites into a roll.

“Tariq believes many things,” she says. “Tariq believes you are fool enough to marry him. How does that speak to his judgment?”

“I would say it speaks well,” I say. “I was fool enough to marry him before he saved my life.”

She shakes her head again, chews and swallows.

“Perhaps,” she says, and takes a sip of tea. “Tariq asked me not to speak to you of our faith, and I agreed that I would not. But he has left you here in my clutches, and we cannot speak clearly if you remain completely ignorant of all that is around you. And I cannot tolerate sharing my home with you if we cannot speak clearly.”

She drains her cup, reaches for the pot and refills it.

“What you hear now, it cannot be unheard. You understand this?”

I nod. I've heard the sales pitches of missionaries before—­Catholics, Jehovah's Witnesses, Scientologists—­they always think what they say will change your world, but I've never been able to figure out what they're getting so worked up about.

“You say that Tariq saved your life,” Aaliyah says, “but you cannot say how he might have done this. He has told you, but you do not believe him. Is this not so?”

I shrug.

“The story Tariq told us about what happened on Sunday makes no sense. There's no way he should have been able to get me out of Hagerstown once the NatSec cordon closed.”

She smiles.

“No, that is not so. Tariq certainly had the ability to help you, and he could have explained to you how it was done. Why do you suppose he did not do so?”

I think about that for a moment.

“He's protecting me,” I say. “He's always protecting me. Maybe he thinks that if I know what really happened on Sunday, it'll make me even more of a target for NatSec.”

“You are partially correct,” Aaliyah says. “Tariq is protecting you, but not from NatSec. Tariq is protecting you from me. He is protecting you from the faith.”

I
t's later, and we're walking together through the neighborhood. Aaliyah made me leave my phone inside, but I'd guess it's a little before noon. It's hard to say exactly, because the sky is a thick, leaden gray, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. A cool, gusty wind is coming down from the north, and I'm pretty sure we're in for one of those crazy, sky-­turns-­green kind of storms.

“What I don't understand,” I say, “is why you're so hesitant to explain things to me. Tariq told me that your faith is dying. Shouldn't you be trying to convince me to convert?”

There's a camera mounted on a pole at the corner. Aaliyah looks up at it, and the lens rotates away from us. She turns to look at me.

“Have you ever owned a dog?”

I smile.

“Sure, when I was young. He was a beagle. We called him Ajax.”

“Was he happy?”

I have to think about that.

“Yes, I think so. He was a dog. What's not to be happy about?”

She nods.

“Did it bother him to know that he would live only a few years, that his whole life would barely span your childhood? Did it bother him to know that your father would have him put to sleep as soon as he became inconvenient to keep?”

I shake my head.

“That's not what happened. But even if it were, no, it wouldn't have bothered him. He was a dog. He didn't know anything about that.”

“No,” she says. “He did not. He knew that his belly was full, or that it was not. He knew that his ears were being scratched, or that they were not. This was enough for him. Is this not so?”

I shrug.

“I suppose so.”

“A dog knows nothing of time, and a dog knows nothing of death. He lives in an eternal present, with no concern for what occurred yesterday, or for what will come tomorrow. This is the source of his happiness. If you could have told Ajax what the future had in store for him, would you have done so?”

I give her a long look. I have no idea where she's going with this.

“I didn't know what the future had in store for him,” I say finally. “He got hit by a car when I was twelve.”

Aaliyah sighs loudly.

“But if you had known, and could have told him, would you have done so?”

“No,” I say. “Why would I do that?”

She nods again, as if I've just made her point.

“This is why Tariq asked me not to speak to you of the faith.”

It takes a minute for that to sink in.

“So in this scenario, I am the dog?”

“Yes, Elise. You are the dog.”

T
he clouds are darker now, and every few minutes, lightning flashes in the distance. The weather has chased us back to the porch. We sit together in wicker chairs, watching the storm roll in.

“What do you know,” Aaliyah says, “of the history of our ­people?”

“Depends on what you mean,” I say. “My ­people come from Norway. I'm guessing yours are from somewhere very different.”

She shakes her head, and her eyes narrow.

“No,” she says. “What you say is a mistake. We are all one ­people. All who are alive today are one ­people, though it was not always so. In the time of the mother-­of-­all, there were many ­peoples, and we were not the strongest. Our cousins spread across the breadth of the old world. Some were taller and swifter. Others were stronger and hardier. We huddled in one corner of Africa, few in number, and dwindling.”

I remember this vaguely, from an anthropology class in college.

“Right,” I say. “But then something happened. The Great Leap Forward.”

“Yes,” she says. “The Great Leap Forward. The Great Leap Forward was the faith.”

“T
he faith was born in the Summer of Burning. That winter, the mother-­of-­all waited for the rains, but the rains did not come. For many years, the mother-­of-­all had lived with her ­people on the shores of a great lake. The lake gave fish and fresh water, and the forest gave roots and nuts, and the odd carcass if the spirits were generous. As the dry winter wore on, though, the great lake retreated, and the streams that fed it shrank and died. Then the winter ended, and the tall runners came in the night. They drove the ­people out of their homes and away from the lake, away from the forest—­away from all that they had known.

“The mother-­of-­all led her ­people out onto the plains, away from the tall runners, and into the lands of the lion and the baboon. Without the great lake, it was hard for the ­people to find water, and when they did, there were hyenas and great cats and crocodiles to torment them. The summer turned toward fall, and still the rains did not come. Clouds brought lightning without rain, and the lightning set the plains afire.

“The flames drove the ­people out of the plains and into the mountains of the east. The higher slopes of the mountains were safe from the fire, and the streams still ran there, but the air was cold at night, and there was little to eat. The ­people spent their days searching fruitlessly for food, and their nights hugging their empty bellies and moaning.

“The mother-­of-­all looked out over her ­people and saw that they were dying. She went to the eldest and said ‘What shall I do? My ­people are dying. We have not the claws of the lion, nor the jaws of the hyena. We have not the strength of the ­people of the north, nor the tireless speed of the tall runners. How are we to live?'

“The eldest pointed to the snows that capped the mountain, and said, ‘Go seek the sleeping place of the Spirit of the Moon. Tell him that your children are dying. Perhaps he will take pity on us, and gift you with a way to save your ­people.'

“And so, the mother-­of-­all climbed the mountain. For two days, she climbed through grass and trees. For two days, she climbed over bare rocks. For two days, she climbed through ice and snow. She ate insects, and drank snow that she melted in her hands. Her belly shrank as she climbed, her cheeks hollowed, and her eyes sank deep into her face. The hairs fell from her head, and her teeth grew loose in her jaws and bloody. Finally, on the seventh night, she reached the cave at the top of the mountain where the Spirit of the Moon slept through the day. She remembered what the eldest had instructed her to do, but she was too proud to beg a gift of the Spirit of the Moon. She hid herself inside the entrance to the cave, and waited for him to arrive.

“That morning, when the Spirit of the Moon returned to his cave to sleep, the mother-­of-­all pounced on his back. She wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and her skinny legs around his waist, and drove him to the ground. ‘Stop!' cried the Spirit of the Moon. ‘Mother-­of-­all, why are you hurting me?' The mother-­of-­all twisted her arms tighter, and bit down on the Spirit of the Moon's ear. ‘My ­people are dying,' she hissed. ‘You must gift me with a way to save them.'

“The Spirit of the Moon was afraid, because he knew that there is nothing fiercer than a mother who sees her children about to die. But he was also angry that she had come into his house, and that she had come as a thief in the night rather than as a beggar. So he said to the mother-­of-­all, ‘I can indeed gift you something that will save your children. But once I have given it to you, it cannot be given back.'

“The mother-­of-­all bit down harder on his ear, and said, ‘Give it to me. Give me what I need to save my children, and I shall never give it back.' So the Spirit of the Moon reached into his purse and pulled out a certain mushroom. ‘Eat this,' he said. ‘Eat this, and you will see things as they truly are, not as you wish them to be. Then you will know what you must do to save your children.'

“The mother-­of-­all took the mushroom and ate it, but she did not release the Spirit of the Moon from her grip. ‘Let me go,' he said. ‘I have given you what you demanded.' But the mother-­of-­all would not let him go until she knew how she would save her children. Her stomach burned, and she thought that the Spirit of the Moon had poisoned her. She squeezed his neck with all her strength, determined that they should die together. But then she cried out, and her eyes were opened, and for the first time she saw the world as it truly was.

“She saw the world laid out before her, both inside and out. She saw the world as it was, as it had been, and as it would be. She saw the path that each of her children would walk. She saw each of her sons gasp out his first breath in fear, and she saw each of her sons gasp out his last breath in agony. She saw her own death growing inside her belly, and she saw how and when it would find her.

“To the Spirit of the Moon she said, ‘You have tricked me! You promised me a way to save my children from dying!' But the Spirit of the Moon said, ‘Can you not see now, mother-­of-­all? There is no way to save your children from dying. They are already dead, and always have been. If you go on as you are, their dying will be over in a few short generations, and you will be at peace. But look on, mother-­of-­all, and you will see how you can make their dying last for many thousands of generations. Your children will drive out the tall runners, and they will drive out the ­people of the north, until they fill up every corner of the Earth. And I will watch over you, and laugh at your misery for all the ages of the world.'

“And so the mother-­of-­all looked out again over the world. She saw a wild olive tree, but rather than the sweet fruit, she saw how a branch could be cut and carved just so, and another could be carved to fit against the first to allow a man to throw a spear with the strength of a giant. She saw a bed of reeds, and saw how they could be woven together and lined with bark, and used to carry her children to the far side of the great lake. She saw her children being born in greater and greater numbers.

“And then, she saw each of her children dying in agony, while the Spirit of the Moon looked on, and laughed.”

“T
hat's a nice story,” I say. “But I'm pretty sure I've heard it before. Garden of Eden, right? Tree of knowledge? A lot of cultures have stories like this. What makes this one special?”

“True,” says Aaliyah. “Many cultures have stories like mine. Many cultures also have stories of a great flood, like that of Noah. Do you know why that is?”

I shrug.

“I guess one builds off of the other. Someone makes up the first story, someone else hears it and adapts it to their own circumstances . . .”

She shakes her head.

“Many cultures have stories of a catastrophic flood, because many of the cultures in today's world were born in a time of catastrophic floods. At the end of the last cold time, the melting of the great ice sheets raised the level of the seas by hundreds of feet. In some places, the bursting of ice dams released oceans of water in a day and a night. What is now the Mediterranean Sea was once fertile land. Imagine leaving your village to hunt in the hills, and returning that evening to find an ocean. This is a story you would remember, and tell to your children.”

The wind is rising now, steady from the west. Thunder rumbles closer, and a chill runs from the base of my spine to the back of my neck.

“Maybe,” I say. “But your story isn't about a flood. Are you saying that there really was a tree of knowledge?”