Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (26 page)

The Peacemakers deposit us inside, and I have a moment to take in the large, marbled rotunda—above us, inside the dome, are painted stars and moons and gods and goddesses. Mulvey pushes me to our immediate left, through heavy doors under the words
HALL OF THE EYE
; Blackmore shoves Peter behind us. It's an old exhibit, suffused with blue light, one wall lit with images of the cosmos, and I scan corners, seeking possible exits. Then I feel Peter's touch, his warm fingertips on my forearm. When I turn to him, I see his stare fixed on the center of the room.

Pierce Masterson stands there behind a long oak table; when he sees us, a smile spreads across his face. Beside him, looking tired and thin, lost behind a pile of papers and what appear to be several open copies of his own incoherent tract, is the Prophet Beaton Frick.

“Come closer,” Masterson commands genially. “We're not going to bite.”

Mulvey and Blackmore urge us forward, pushing us into the empty chairs across from Frick. The last time I saw him, he was unkempt, unwashed, and unmedicated. Today he seems peaceful and calm, though still far from the imposing figure I first glimpsed in YouTube videos. He has a straggly gray-black beard; his eyes are rheumy red. I glance quickly at the papers scattered across the table and read distinctly the words
New Apocalypse Edition.
When I look up, I see Masterson watching.

“We're working on a new version of the Book to release in the days after the apocalypse,” Masterson explains, his tone perfectly relaxed. I'm reminded again of a cat, this time stretching lazily in a pocket of sun. “Correcting some mistakes and omissions in the original draft. No offense intended, Miss Apple, but I was actually hoping we'd get hold of Miss Janda first—it seems to me she's the brains of your operation. Sharp writer. I'd love to get her working on recording some of the Prophet's newest visions.” He gestures to Frick as he says it, and to my surprise the old man blushes under his beard, like he doesn't want the attention.

“Well, if she's anything like her friend here,” Mulvey mutters, picking up a stack of the papers and glancing through them, “she's going to take an annoying amount of convincing. Pierce, you remembered to include the bit about the new lifestyle brands at the megastore, right? ‘The Lord blesses us with designer goods at low prices' or whatever it was?”

Masterson ignores her. Mulvey falls into a chastened silence and sits at the table beside Blackmore, who scrolls through a tablet. I begin to sense what Peter meant when he told me that Masterson made him nervous. There's nothing particularly threatening about him: he's tall and slim, dressed elegantly in a linen suit with a flower in his lapel; his smile remains fixed firmly in place. But somehow he seems to exude power over the entire room.

“Convincing?” He smiles at me. “I like a challenge. But I admit I'm always surprised by how many reject Beaton's story. Don't misunderstand me—the man is obviously insane.” He pats Frick's shoulder patronizingly. “And yet I've always found his vision of the world quite beautiful in its way. It's simple. Everyone has a role to play, and all God asks is that each person play it. Men are men and women are women. The rich thrive; the poor starve. Good triumphs over evil. Sacrifices are made for the welfare of us all. No shades of gray. I find it quite moving.

“I do think, though, that this new edition will improve upon it slightly. It seems shocking to me that Beaton would leave out a messiah. A messiah is the best part! A suspenseful buildup and then—a miraculous savior appears. So
satisfying,
don't you think?”

I stare into his amused eyes. “Sacrifices,” he said—is that what my father was to him? Just a part of Frick's story? Something that had to disappear to make it seem true?

“Tell me why you don't like the Church of America, Vivian.”

All eyes are on me now, even Frick's. I hesitate—the last time I spoke, Mulvey hit me in the face. This ought to be a trap, but Masterson's tone is curious. I take a breath and try to sound as calm as possible.

“I don't like that you think you can decide—you think you get to choose who's allowed to live a reasonable life, and who isn't. I think you're careless with people. You only let a small fraction consider themselves human.”

Masterson nods thoughtfully. “That's very well put. I take your point—to be entirely honest, I don't think you're wrong in the slightest. And yet I think you'll find these are tenets that can be found in plenty of religions and plenty of cultures throughout the whole of human history! The Church of America didn't invent the idea.”

“But you're the ones making a profit off it,” I reply.

He has a funny look on his face—surprised, but not displeased, like he's enjoying the debate. He touches a finger against his nose, points to me. “Sharp. Very sharp. Although extremely naive, of course. I see what you mean, Michelle—hard to convince. Still, maybe we'll have better luck with Miss Janda. Ted, can you check her blog to see if there's been any update today?”

“I just did,” Blackmore replies, not looking up from his tablet. “Nothing.”

“What time is it?” I blurt.

I want to take it back the second it's out of my mouth—it sounded too eager, too anticipatory. All three of Frick's Angels turn their watchful eyes on me. Beside me, Peter goes very still. Masterson flicks his wrist to check his watch.

“Quarter to eight. Whatever made you ask?”

“I don't know! No reason!” But my voice trembles. Everyone is right—I'm truly the worst liar of all time. I make an effort to let my expression go blank, to look as I ought to at this moment: confused and frightened. But inwardly, my thoughts are spinning—why isn't Joanna's story posted? Harp said it would be up by dawn. The demonstration should start gathering outside the Chateau at any moment. Perhaps it already has. So why have none of these three highly placed people—the core of the Church of America—received so much as a phone call?

“Vivian, honey.” Mulvey's voice has gone syrupy again, as though she hasn't recently gouged my face with her fingernails. “Is there something you want to tell us? Is Harp in trouble? We can help,” she assures me when I glance away, “but only if you tell us what's going on. You'll be in absolutely no trouble whatsoever, I promise you.”

I stare across the table. Frick flips through the pages of his own Book with a mild expression, as though he's trying to pretend he doesn't hear the conversation.

“You know what I think?” Blackmore says after a long pause, putting down his tablet and circling the table to stand behind me. He claps a meaty hand on my shoulder. “I think Vivian might have some idea of what Amanda Yee has planned.”

I must look startled, because Masterson smiles and says, “Oh, Vivian. Did you really think we didn't know about Miss Yee? You must think we're so
stupid.
No one else has the resources to hide you so well; no one else could have cloaked your online presence so thoroughly. Who did you suppose we thought whisked you away from San Francisco the night we finally found you? If there's one thing Miss Yee is good at—and, sadly, I'm afraid there really is only the one thing—it's hiding. She and her associates have made a number of sloppy attempts on the Church over the years—I remember in Florida, she hired a young man to do away with poor Beaton here, only the assassin burst into the wrong office and frightened Phyllis in accounting half to death.” The three Angels chuckle at the memory. “Amanda Yee has grit, certainly, but no sense of execution.”

I catch Peter's glance out of the corner of my eye. Is any of this true? Was Amanda's plan for the demonstration less foolproof than it seemed early this morning? Has something gone wrong to keep it from happening? All at once and far too late, I realize that I have never trusted Amanda's judgment before—what made me think it was right last night? Across the table, Masterson frowns.

“Please don't tell me you've put all your faith into Amanda Yee. I know you're smarter than that. Listen,” he says, leaning forward, his tone becoming conspiratorial, “I'm serious now. I know what you think of us, but you have to understand—we're trying to do what's best for
you.
For the whole country. Miss Yee has strong convictions, but she's dangerous. I'm afraid if anyone you care about plays any part in her plan—I'm thinking of poor Harp, of course—they're in trouble. Amanda doesn't care if innocent people get hurt, by accident or design, if it means making a statement.”

I remember what Amanda told Winnie a month ago:
When you're gone, they're not my problem.
Like she expected my sister to die filling her desires—like she wanted her to. Masterson is not wrong about her. And yet—giving her up would mean giving up Harp and Winnie, too; Diego and the soldiers; Edie and the Orphans; just about everyone I care about in this imploding world. I take a breath and look Masterson in the eye.

“You'd know all about hurting innocent people, though—wouldn't you? You pompous,
evil,
unrepentant douchebag.”

Despite his attempts to go unnoticed, Frick starts at this. Peter bursts out laughing, but he stops when Blackmore grabs my shoulder and throws me to the floor. Peter charges Blackmore; he lands a blow directly on the Angel's jaw, but Blackmore is quick and hits him back, sending him stumbling toward Mulvey, who leaps on his back to hold him down. Masterson comes around to crouch beside me; Blackmore places a heavy foot on my chest. I notice now a gun that Masterson has removed from some unseen holster; he holds it casually against his knee and asks, “Do you know what the Book of Frick says about young ladies with sharp tongues?”

I remember the Believer mother and daughter in Dylan's crowd at the Grove.
“‘The voices of young girls give Satan much pleasure and Jesus untold grief,'”
I quote, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

His eyebrows rise. “Very good! Chapter twenty-three, verse seven. Do you know the next line of the proverb?” When I don't answer, he continues: “
‘If a girl insists on saying wicked things, better cut out her tongue than hear the devil's laughter.'
Is that what you'd like me to do, Vivian?”

I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the gun.

“I didn't think so. So let's work with each other now. You don't have to give us all the details of Amanda's plan. I ask only for an address. Simple, right? Just the address of where she's been hiding you, and we'll consider ourselves friends. I'd take an intersection, even.”

I move my eyes from the gun to Peter on the floor, Mulvey's knee digging into his back. I don't want to die. If I manage to live through this moment, there's still a chance I could have any number of precious hours to spend with him and Harp and Winnie. I don't know how or when or where, but they could still happen. When I think about it like that, it seems so simple. The name of the bookstore is there on the tip of my tongue. But then I have a flash of memory: Robbie. Not the nightmare of his screaming face, from which I awoke this morning; it's the thought of him dancing last week, banging his head around, kicking wildly, all that glorious energy gone.

“Fuck off,” I say, as politely as I can manage.

Blackmore puts more weight on his leg on my chest. Masterson stands, looking disappointed.

“You, my dear, lack proper appreciation for your own tongue. But maybe that's the trouble.” He strolls to where Peter is held and points the gun at his head.

I'm screaming senseless noise, words like “no” and “please,” and then I realize I'm not the only one. Mulvey has laid herself flat upon Peter to shield him, and Blackmore leaps forward. “Pierce, don't!” he exclaims, seemingly horrified.

Masterson looks impatient. “If the boy dies, you get promoted, Ted. Be sensible here.”

“The public loves him!” Mulvey insists. “We'll need him after the apocalypse to ease the transition! Pierce, don't be rash!”

“This is ridiculous!” Masterson lowers the gun. “He is as much use to us as his father. Neither of them will be necessary once the Messiah rises alongside Frick on Judgment Day! And I don't remember these hysterics when I killed Taggart!”

There's a long, heavy silence. I see Peter raise his head to look up at Masterson, the words wielding their slow and awful effect. Blackmore no longer holds me down, so I rise to my knees—I start to cross the distance between us, wanting to pull Peter close to me. I think the Angels will stop me, but I realize none of them are watching. They're all focused on Frick, who stands trembling at the table, his eyes wide and streaming tears, his hands tearing at his long, tangled hair.

“Adam?” he moans, low and animal. “You sacrificed Adam?”

He collapses on the table, weeping, and now Mulvey and Blackmore rush to his side, petting at him ineffectively, trying their best to comfort him. “Why did you have to break it to him like that?” Mulvey hisses at Masterson. “He's so sensitive, Pierce; you might have sent him into a terrible tailspin!”

“This is
embarrassing.
” Masterson gazes at his colleagues, then strides past me and to the door of the exhibit. He calls to the Peacemakers stationed outside, “Can we get these two out of here while Michelle and Ted pull themselves together? Jesus, what a display.”

I rush for Peter now, but the Peacemakers are quick. They stream into the room and charge me before I'm steady.

“Peter!”

And I see him glance up at me as the Peacemakers pull him to his feet—he looks as though he doesn't know what's happening, as though he doesn't recognize me. I say his name again, but my voice dies in my throat when I feel something slam hard across the back of my head. My vision goes fuzzy around the edges and then it fades to black.

I wake much later in a small windowless room. I hear the echo of footsteps above. My head throbs painfully, but when I touch the cut on my face, I note the blood there is dry. I push myself off the mattress they've left me on and pause, feeling the room tilt. I try the door in the wall opposite—locked, obviously. I throw myself against it, again and again, screaming until my voice goes hoarse. Where is Peter? Is he close enough to hear me? Have they taken him back to the Chateau? Or . . . has Masterson convinced the others that the Church no longer has use for him? The possibility makes me literally sick with fear—I drop to my knees and throw up on the concrete floor.
He's alive,
I tell myself. I try to believe it's a fact, and not a prayer
. Peter's alive.
He's okay. You didn't come this far only to lose him.