Disruption (10 page)

‘Is my father a murderer?’ he asked suddenly.

I thought about the question and, strangely, what the answer would mean to him. I grabbed the fresh clothes I’d got from the laundry and handed them to him, not sure I had a response he’d be happy with. ‘They’re my brother’s.’

Seeing through my pathetic attempt at diversion, he snatched the clothes, his eyes flashing with disappointment, and headed towards the bathroom.

I looked at my feet, but gave him the best answer I could. ‘I don’t think he pulls the trigger, if that’s what you meant,’ I said.

Just before he closed the door, I caught his quiet response. ‘No, that’s not what I meant.’

It was a while before he reappeared. When he did, he left without another word.

I
don’t know how I’d let myself be suckered into this field trip. I had things to do, intel from last night that needed to be sifted through. But when Quentin had called me first thing in the morning, insisting we visit one of the rehabilitation farms so widely advertised on television and city billboards, I’d caved.

We were changing onto the orange line at Rosslyn Metro station, where I’d caused a delay by running above ground to grab a breakfast burrito.

‘Did you have any trouble ditching your babysitter?’ I asked.

Quentin’s brow lifted in question.

‘Your driver,’ I elaborated.

He put a hand in his pocket and leaned against the wall, looking completely at ease. ‘Security is important to my family, but my brothers and I learned a long time ago that staff all have a price.’

‘You’re paying off your driver?’

He shrugged. ‘More like, sending him on some other errands for the day.’

‘With compensation.’

He grinned. ‘With compensation.’ His eyes dropped to my hands. ‘Is that chilli?’

I took another large bite, shifting my feet apart to accommodate for the drips, and nodded. Okay, so it wasn’t technically a ‘breakfast’ burrito as much as an extremely tasty way to start the day.

‘That’s disgusting,’ he mumbled, even as he kept eyeing it.

‘Want some?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

I rolled my eyes and looked away.

‘You don’t think much of me,’ he said, breaking my study of the waffled cement ceiling. Since it wasn’t really a question, I didn’t answer. He nodded slowly, my silence apparently enough, and reached to pull a bottle of water out of his bag. As he did his arm grazed mine, his hand skimming my forearm. Goosebumps shot across my arm and down my back.

I clenched my jaw and threw the last bite of my burrito into a nearby bin.

‘You’re angry?’ Quentin said, his tone unnervingly intrigued. ‘At me?’

I was. Working to control my damn heart rate around him was becoming a constant task. It was infuriating. I kept my gaze averted. ‘It’s going to be a long day, that’s all. Why do you even want to do this?’

He pondered my question, letting go of his own for now. He was a Mercer and that meant almost everything was accessible. In his world, desires were simply there to be met by others, so the level of consideration he seemed to be giving my question was intriguing.

‘I’ve only visited the farms on official tours. You know, with media and liaisons. I want to see one of them when no one knows I’m there. I need to do this.’

He needed more proof. This, I understood.

‘Okay.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay? You’re not going to try to tell me I’m being stupid?’

I stubbed my booted toe into the subway station floor. ‘Nope. But be prepared to be disappointed.’

Seeing the truth of the rehabilitation farms would open Quentin’s eyes once and for all. In fact, it was even a good idea, as long as we could get close enough and remain undetected.

‘Right now, disappointment would be little surprise,’ he said, watching pensively as the red lights flashed along the platform edge, signalling our train’s arrival. I wondered if he was remembering what had happened last month. The image of the desperate man as he broke free of the M-Corp guards and leaped in front of that train had most certainly imprinted on my mind.

We rode the first half of the trip to Fairfax in silence. A group of girls had boarded the train after us, and it was soon obvious they’d recognised the Mercer heir. Quentin kept his attention on the floor as the group shuffled closer to us, continuing their whispers until they disembarked at East Falls.

Once we were moving again, Quentin turned to me. ‘Are you scared of the negs?’

I understood the question and why he was asking it. But the answer was not so simple. I looked out the window. ‘Some negs are frightening,’ I admitted. ‘Especially those who’ve been locked underground for a long time. You only have to study how insane coal miners get after being trapped underground to understand what it could do to someone. I can’t imagine anyone being okay with having their freedom stolen from them.’

‘You’re avoiding the question, even though I agree with you.’

I let out a deep breath. ‘What do you want me to say? Yes, they … Some of them are dangerous, the type you hope you never run into in a dark alley. But others … I don’t know, maybe they’re destined to do or become something horrible like they say, but they haven’t become that yet. They seem normal. Lost. Desperate.’ I huffed, struggling to communicate my jumbled thoughts. ‘I don’t know the answer exactly. But people should have the right to become whatever they’re going to be
before
they are judged and sentenced.’

After a few minutes, he simply looked back at me and said, ‘I agree.’

I blinked, surprised by his assessment of my opinion.

‘Tell me about your father,’ he tacked on, again catching me off guard.

I swallowed the fast-forming lump in my throat. Just thinking of Dad …

‘He was …’ I caught myself. ‘He
is
a good person.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Quentin said softly.

When I didn’t respond, he elaborated. ‘To do what you’re doing, to risk everything the way you are. He must be an amazing man. He’s lucky to have you.’

The compliment only triggered all of my feelings of failure. All of my fruitless trips into the tunnels. I shook my head sharply. ‘I’ve done nothing to help him.’

‘But you will, won’t you?’ he said, as if he was already certain.

I blushed, but my reply was firm. ‘Whatever it takes.’

He nodded, as if he were pleased with my response. ‘I have no doubt.’

Good to hear, I suppose. Considering he was the ‘whatever’ it was going to take.

Fairfax County is vast. Once we arrived at Vienna Metro, we hailed a taxi. Though Quentin knew the location of one of the rehabilitation farms near Manassas, we asked the driver to instead take us to a prestigious golf course that neighboured the facility.

The rehabilitation farm was hidden in plain sight, like so many things M-Corp. It was almost as if Garrett Mercer took pride in laughing at the world’s blindness.

We paid the taxi driver and crossed through the back paddocks of the golf course. I was grateful we didn’t come across any roaming golfers.

‘We’ll have to cross through the forest. It’ll take about half an hour,’ Quentin instructed. I’d had a close look at the map this morning and the location of the farm was nestled within the bushlands of Hemlock Overlook Park. I’d expected we’d have to walk, but it felt odd not being the one making the decisions. Nonetheless, I nodded and let Quentin set the pace.

It was refreshing to be outdoors. I seemed to spend all of my time now entrenched in urban landscapes. Or below ground. The clean air, the sounds of rustling tree leaves and nearby birds calling, reminded me how much I missed country life. It also served as an affirmation of what I was doing. If I could get Dad back, I knew he’d make things right and get us out of the city.

We made good time. Both of us were fit and capable of taking the most direct route, even if we did have to push through some dense forest along the way. Before long we came to a large barbed-wire fence, most of it blacked out by a dark tarpaulin. We travelled the perimeter until we found a gap that we could look through. Beyond, we could see a farm site. It was a large plantation-style home, and there were a number of people outside, in what looked like lines. But we were too far away to see much.

‘We could cut the wire. I brought cutters,’ Quentin suggested.

Well, wasn’t he nifty?

But I shook my head, pointing to the electrical wires. ‘Cut them and it will set off an alarm instantly.’

‘What then?’ he asked.

I smiled. It was good to be back in the driver’s seat.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a piece of my own black tarpaulin along with two pairs of gloves.

‘Sometimes the old-fashioned way is the one they forget,’ I said slyly, unfolding the tarp.

Quentin watched me dubiously. ‘Will the tarp protect us from the barbs?’

‘Not completely, hence the gloves and …’ I looked him up and down. He was in jeans and a distractingly well-fitted navy T-shirt. ‘It will protect the important bits,’ I said with a smirk.

‘Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,’ he mumbled while I laughed.

The tarp would do its job. It wasn’t the strongest material, but it matched what was already surrounding the perimeter. If a guard was to look up and see it flapping in the wind, he would just think it had come loose from the fence. Anything else would entice unwanted interest.

‘Put these on,’ I instructed, handing him a pair of thickly padded garden gloves. ‘Use them to hold down the barbs when you go over. And be quick. We have no idea what the security’s like here. They could have eyes on the perimeter at any time.’ It wasn’t how I liked to do things, but from everything Gus had been able to pull up this morning, it didn’t seem like there was much more than hourly sweeps by guards on foot.

Quentin shoved his hands in the gloves and reached for the fence, only to snatch his arm back.

I bit down on the inside of my lip to stop my smile. ‘Oh, by the way, there’s probably an electrical current running through the fence to keep wildlife away.’

He threw me a sharp look. I gave up trying to suppress my amusement. ‘I’m sorry,’ I laughed, holding up my hands in surrender. ‘It’s only a little current to frighten them away. It won’t do any lasting damage.’

He grunted and we both began to climb. I quickly realised the little current wasn’t quite as
little
as I’d thought. Without trying to look obvious, I powered to the top first and pushed down the barbed wire, hauling myself over it, not worrying about the tears in my jeans or incisions being made along my forearms. I just kept moving down the other side, jumping the last portion to escape the electrical jolts shocking my body.

Quentin landed beside me, sporting similar tears in his jeans and T-shirt. Once we’d both finished shaking the ghost tremors from our arms and legs, he raised his eyebrows. ‘For just a little current, you seemed to have a big reaction,’ he teased.

‘Bite me,’ I snapped, adjusting my backpack and walking towards the trees while he chuckled away behind me.

We moved as close as we dared, taking up position behind a large boulder. Quentin pulled out a pair of binoculars. I didn’t need to look. This wasn’t my first visit to a rehabilitation farm. I’d staked one out in the exclusive area of Middleburg over a year ago. Nothing good came of it.

‘When I came here with my father six months ago, it looked so different,’ Quentin said, the binoculars fixed to his eyes. ‘There were animals grazing in the paddocks over there.’ He pointed to an area that now served as a parking space for transport buses. ‘Tables and chairs were scattered in that area out front,’ he went on in a daze.

I looked over the fields now. It was a sombre sight; lines of negs were being herded and numbered. As far as I could tell the rehabilitation farms – when not on show to the world – were simply processing camps where negs were interviewed, then stripped of their identities and personal items.

He pointed to the far corner of the property. ‘They had a meditation centre set up there when I visited. It was … Oh God, there’s smoke … Is that?’ He nudged me. ‘Down there, is that what I think it is?’

I just nodded, even though he wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the chair that a neg was strapped to, and on the silver cylinder being lowered just above the neg’s right hip. This was where the negs were branded. By the time they were taken below ground, they were nothing but a number.

‘What are they doing there?’ he asked, gesturing to a line of waiting negs on the veranda, all headed to a large desk where a number of guards were seated.

I couldn’t make out everything he was seeing without the binoculars, but I’d seen it before and knew enough to explain. ‘Collecting records, employment history, lists of assets, debts, everything. Family members and all of their details too. They download and record everything from the negs’ M-Bands, then they interview the neg’s family. It’s how they control the family’s reactions. For some, they recount the events that led to the neg’s detainment. Sometimes that’s enough. But when it isn’t, they threaten the future of other family members or the loss of social or financial status. Whatever they have to do to make people co-operate. They always find some angle.’

‘Does it always work?’ he asked, watching in horror as a guard started to brutally beat one of the negs in front of all the others. Shows like this were common practice below ground too. It was disheartening to know I was used to them.

‘Most of the time. But I suspect many of the Preference Evolution members have some stories to tell. There are people who still want to fight the system, they just have no way of doing it and no idea what they are really dealing with.’

Quentin put down the binoculars and we both moved behind the cover of the boulder. ‘But you know, don’t you? You see everything.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said, adjusting my cap to shield myself from the now glaring sun.

‘I saw you documenting things as we went last night. You took photos or video of anything you thought was worthwhile. When you thought I wasn’t watching, you’d log them. My guess is you’ve been doing the same thing for a while now and somewhere out there you have a stash of information that could make a real difference.’

I was surprised by his observation. And annoyed. I prided myself on being discreet and I’d never told anyone about my stash, not even Gus. It was my quiet backup. I’d carefully catalogued and hidden all of the intel as I’d gone along.

‘I’m not in this to change the world, Quentin. I just want to find my dad,’ I said, because it was true.

‘Come on, you can’t be serious. Look at those people down there, Maggie. Are you really just going to get your dad out and then walk away from the rest of them, knowing you could make a difference?’

‘Yes,’ I said, my voice flat, my expression neutral. I wasn’t going to have this discussion, or admit that I’d kept all of that data in the hope that maybe someday I might be able to do the right thing for a change. That there might be a chance for some kind of redemption after all this.