Nation of Enemies (5 page)

 

Chapter 8

Safe District 149

“O
VEN
,
PREHEAT
TO
four hundred,” Lily instructs. “House, play acoustic channel.” The oven's digital screen lights up and hidden speakers infuse the room with soft guitar music. This house's modernity makes her grieve for the charm of their old home with its winding staircase and wide floor planks. Maybe she should hang some pictures.

Finished with dinner prep, she sits down at the kitchen table and rests her feet on an adjacent chair. Cole should be home from his shift any minute. Suddenly, the front door opens and laughter travels down the hall.

“It's us!” Kate's voice.

“Down the hall, in the kitchen,” she calls.

The smooth tenor of Sebastian's voice carries, but she can't make out what he's singing. At first, she hadn't trusted him—­all cheekbones and charm. Even a scar across his chin seems aesthetically placed. And the FBI isn't a selling point. As Kate's only living family member, she had to be skeptical. Then, about a year ago, she'd asked him about his family. His voice had quavered when he told her about his father, killed in a senseless bombing. It was a glimpse into a different side of him, vulnerable and genuine. Finally she stopped judging him. It's a good thing, since he and Kate are now engaged.

They're all smiles as they enter. Lily hugs Kate. The touch of her sister makes Lily's eyes water. It's only been a few weeks, but she hasn't seen her since they left for London. Sebastian hugs her warmly, kisses her cheek. In silence, they take in the new house. Under her shirt, heat rises on her chest, her face grows hot. The Safe District house, the bulletproof cars. Surely they think she and Cole have gone to extremes.

“I've always wondered what these houses looked like,” Sebastian says.

“Not exactly your style, Lil,” Kate adds.

“Style has moved down on our list of priorities.”

“It's nice.” Kate wraps an arm around her. “Just a little stark. With some paint and artwork you can make it your own. I can help you unpack.”

In search of wineglasses, Sebastian tries different cabinets until he finds them. He places four at the table and they all sit. Kate reaches a hand over and gently squeezes Lily's arm. Since they were kids, they could say much without uttering a word. Lily's only solace after their failed journey is being with her sister again. Lily watches as Kate twists her waves of blond hair into a messy bun. She's always been envious of it. Both have blue eyes and a multitude of freckles. Other than that, they're night and day.

Sebastian selects a bottle of red and pours liberally, with a half glass for Lily. Everyone seems to take a deep breath.

“Cole had his hands full this morning,” Sebastian says.

“I imagine you were just as busy,” Lily says.

Seemingly lost in thought, his gaze rests on the table. He nods absently.

“Seb, honey, you okay?” Kate reaches a hand over, rests it on his arm.

“What? Yeah, of course.” He sips his wine. “Sorry. Long day with not enough resources.”

“You'd think there'd be ample funds in counterterrorism,” Lily says.

“We're casting a wide net during a war, a recession, and a mass emigration. All in an election year. Money's spread pretty thin.” His tone is frayed, with an unfamiliar edge.

“National Tourism seems to have plenty of money.” Lily strokes the stem of her wineglass. Since she stopped working, she's both admired and envied Kate's career track, from office assistant to director of the Northeast Division for National Tourism.

“I don't know how he did it, but Richard Hensley almost doubled our budget this year,” Kate says. “I met with him today to go over the event we're having at the State House.”

“Is Hensley your speaker?” she asks.

“No, James Gardiner.” Kate's face wrinkles in distaste. “He's a hypocrite. Just a few months ago he publicly came out against increased funding for tourism. But now that he's the face of the Liberty Party, he's apparently doing what he's told.”

“Maybe he thinks international visitors heighten the threat level,” Sebastian adds.

“Actually,” Kate says, “starting with this event, we're solely focusing on U.S. citizens. For Americans traveling within the fifty states, there's no bureaucracy with MedIDs and travel costs are relatively cheap.”

“Fantastic.” Sebastian brightens, leans in closer to her. “Take me on vacation.”

“Who's going on vacation?” Cole appears from the darkened hallway. He kisses Kate on the cheek and shakes Sebastian's hand. “Great to see you guys.”

“I didn't hear you come in,” Lily says. He stands behind her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.

“So where are we vacationing?” Cole asks.

“Can I entice you to visit beautiful Bar Harbor?” Kate fills his glass.

“No offense—­I love the Northeast—­but I'm thinking Florida Keys,” he says.

“White sand, turquoise water.” Lily closes her eyes.

“They're heading into hurricane season,” Sebastian adds. “Not to spoil your trip.”

Lily pats her belly. “We're heading into our own hurricane soon.”

Cole grins. She gestures to a cheese and crackers platter on the counter and he retrieves it, sets it in the center of the table. Silence creeps in as everyone sips and eats. Lily strains to think of a neutral subject; she doesn't want to talk about the obvious.

“Speaking of travel,” Kate says. “We haven't had a chance to hear about—­”

“Not now,” Lily interrupts.

“Let's just get it out there,” Kate insists. “When we said goodbye at the port, I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again.”

“That's dramatic.” Lily shoves a cracker into her mouth.

“Not really.” Kate's eyes glisten. “Selfishly, I'm glad you're back. I still don't understand why you'd even attempt it with your MedID number.”

“We want our kids to be safe. It's that simple.”

“You guys are everything to me. And now you're back. And well-­protected.”

Sebastian reaches over and rubs Kate's back. “She's been worried about all of you. Not sleeping, not eating.”

“Well she got what she wanted,” Lily says.

Kate stares into the depths of her glass.

“Sebastian,” Cole says, “you've bitten your tongue this whole time. Even before we left. You think we were fools for trying?”

“Fools? No.” He pauses, clearly considering his words. “But you knew the odds were against you. I don't understand giving up the life you've built here when the MedID numbers are clear. And, in the big picture, if everyone runs away, the terrorists win. The government, the country, needs our support. Without it, we might as well quit right now.”

Cole shakes his head. “Maybe. But millions of ­people are suffering because of genetic classism. Companies don't hire ­people with subpar DNA. Unemployed ­people can't afford homes. Can't afford to feed their families. Desperation kicks in. And either they go looting or they join some organization with an antigovernment bent that promises to feed and clothe them. Why would those ­people fight on behalf of a government that's taken their lives from them?”

Sebastian runs his hands over the day-­old stubble covering his cheeks. “I get it, I understand. But we need to fight to restore the country. The cities. We could build again. Then we might actually gain some ground. We might not have to live in places like this.”

“Part of the reason I love my job is that I remind ­people about the beautiful parts of this country,” says Kate. “We can't just leave it all behind.”

“Beauty is a luxury,” Lily says. “The walls of this house and this district are the only things between us and the war. Put aside politics, right and wrong. For us, for our kids, the decision was simple.”

The scent of roast chicken suffuses the room and reminds Lily she should see to the food. She steps away to check on the various dishes and then returns, avoiding her sister's gaze.

“Listen.” Cole looks pointedly at Kate and Sebastian. “We can talk around and around this for hours. So let's agree to disagree. We're family. I'm sure we all consider that to be the most important thing.”

Slowly, everyone nods.

“To family.” Kate holds up her glass and they toast.

A sudden kick to the ribs jolts Lily. She feels the spot, presses gently against it. It's as though the baby is telling them to shut up. Kate reaches over and Lily positions her hand over the action. They wait. Finally another kick.

“This is what we should talk about,” says Kate. “This is what's right about the world.”

“I'll drink to that.” Cole refills the wineglasses.

Footsteps make them all turn in the direction of the hall. Ian's sneakers look three sizes too big for his short, lean body. A smile appears as soon as he sees his aunt.

“Hey Aunt Katie.”

She wraps an arm around his shoulders. “How's the studying?”

“Math test tomorrow.”

They both make a disgusted face.

“Want me to quiz you?” Kate says.

“Yeah.” Ian goes to a glass jar on the counter filled with cookies. His hands are full as the pair disappears down the hall.

Lily watches them go. The past few years have brought so much sadness to all of them. But now they have Kate's wedding to look forward to, and soon, a new baby to celebrate. They deserve to let go of fear and embrace some happiness.

 

Chapter 9

Boston

T
AYLO
R
H
ENSLEY
SENSES
the commotion of the press five stories below in front of their apartment building. More questions, judgment, humiliation await her. They've been relentless since her father accepted the vice presidential nomination, and it's only gotten worse since she stepped over the threshold of Patriot's Church. She should be used to it. Thanks to her family name they've been on her since she came out of the womb.

In soft lamplight, she lies next to her daughter, Sienna, on the five-­year-­old's bed. For the millionth time she studies her daughter's smooth skin and long eyelashes. Her nose curves up at the tip and the slope makes Taylor want to run a finger along it. Their nighttime routine gives Sienna structure, but Taylor needs it as much as her daughter does.

“Time for happy dreams,” Sienna says.

“Bad thoughts out.” She touches the tip of her index finger to Sienna's ear and makes a
shhh
noise as though letting air out. Taylor would like someone to expel her own bad thoughts. Though it was five years ago, when she closes her eyes she can still summon the moment the bomb went off. The heat. The blinding flames. The searing splinters of glass and metal that landed in her cheek and neck. And Mason.
Mason
. He should be here right now, beside them.

She continues, “Now let's put in fairies and princesses.” With each new item she gently presses her finger against Sienna's ear, as though physically stuffing her head full of lovely thoughts. “Sunshine, cupcakes, friends. What else?”

“Macaroni and cheese and sparkles and Mommy.”

“Can't fit all that in one ear. Let's seal this one shut.” Taylor clucks her tongue to mimic a door, touches Sienna's other ear. “Mac 'n' cheese, sparkles, Mommy.” Another cluck and the ritual ends.

“ 'Night, my girl.” She kisses her daughter. “I love you.”

Sienna's eyelids close easily. Taylor switches on a mermaid night-­light at the foot of the bed and closes the door behind her.

When the babysitter arrives, Taylor is ready. She steals out through a window in the back of the building, descending the rusted fire escape to her waiting bike. As she cruises down the darkened alleyway, the warm night air is like fingers through her cropped hair. The courier bag slung over her back is heavy, packed tight with her tools, including aerosol paint cans and various nozzles.

Hardly any cars are on the road as she winds through the grid of city streets, crosses over the Boston line. She pedals rapidly, her imagination infused by the sheer freedom of movement. She visualizes her canvas. Wind pulls tears from her eyes. So senseless, the Liberty Party bombing. Every bombing. It's impossible not to think of Mason, as though her husband dies again with each new attack. And her hate for her father grows. If she's honest, the guilt that's lived inside her for so many years grows stronger. After all, she went along with her father's MedID plan. Blindly. Willingly. Stupidly.

Only a few blocks left. She passes abandoned buildings that once held life and promise. It depresses her to no end. Growing up a Hensley, she always felt that Boston—­and the country—­owned a piece of her, not the other way around. Perhaps that's why she chose the city as her canvas. They're unalterably entwined, a marriage of polish and grit. Generations of Hensley senators and their New England families had carved a life for Taylor and taken the guesswork out of her future. Piano, tennis, ski team, private schools, Harvard. After graduating, she had everything she'd ever wanted, replete with a high-­profile corporate marketing career at the MedFuture corporation.

The Back Bay neighborhood is quiet. The only ­people here are those that live on these streets. A few of them nod to Taylor, used to her presence. Some actually change direction when she passes in an attempt to see what her destination is tonight.

The air is burnt. Taylor rubs her nose, slows the bike and hops off. Twisted metal, chunks of cement, and shattered glass litter the pavement. The twenty-­foot cavity in the Liberty Party headquarters gapes at her. She'd volunteered here when she was a kid, later contributed to their marketing efforts. Her whole life was entangled with the party.

The streetlights shed just enough illumination for her to work. She ducks under the yellow police tape and hoists the bag from her shoulder. Methodically, she spreads the paint cans on a patch of charred grass. From inside the bag she pulls a respirator and fastens it over her nose and mouth.

After a few unsuccessful throws, she loops a rope over an iron rod in the facade overhead. From the rod, charred ribbons of the American flag wave in the mild breeze. With a harness tightened around her waist and powerful suction cups attached to her feet, she begins to climb. Her feet wedge into divots in the brick, using architectural details that protrude just enough to get her footing. Finally in place above the hole, she starts with the black paint, a thick nozzle for the hard lines of a mouth, nose, and eyes. Her father's face is indelibly etched in her memory, though she sees darkness in his eyes that doesn't come across to the public.

Eight years ago, when Taylor's father brought her on board at MedFuture, she believed everything he said about the biochip program. Convinced it would strengthen the country and help end the War at Home, she wanted to be a part of it. So did Mason, whom she met and worked with there. They married. Savored their time together. Got pregnant. All while they built the backbone of the MedID to ensure its success.

She maneuvers easily, her muscles taut, her focus clear. Her father's signature mane explodes up the front of the building in white flames. Scarlet letters
TBA
drip from the black hole of his mouth.
Take Back America
.

After the MedID went nationwide, ­people discovered inequities in the system. They realized how chained they were by their DNA. There were riots, marches. Attacks multiplied. Then one day a few of those opposed to the MedID stormed the heart of the device—­MedFuture Corporation—­and martyred themselves. They took seventy-­nine lives. Including Mason's. Taylor, five months pregnant, had walked away from everything that day, including her father. Were it not for him and his grandiose ideas, Mason would be alive.

By the time she slips off her harness and repacks her bag, her body is shaking from six hours of flexed muscles. She stands back and takes a last look. Of all the graffiti she's written, this is her favorite. As she rides away, a forty-­foot ghoulish likeness of vice presidential candidate Richard Hensley appears to laugh at the destruction, the lives lost. When she passes the black Cadillac SUV parked a block away, she knows she's been caught. But she just doesn't care.