Veracity (32 page)

They're so sure I'll know just by watching. But that's not the way it works.

"I can't always tell when someone's lying," I say quickly before Lazarus can adjourn this meeting or move on to something else.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

I avoid the up-and-down eyes of the council. All of their attentions snapped to my face. "I'm just saying, it's not a sure thing."

A woman with bright red hair leans forward. She has nails that have been painted pink. I can't take my eyes off them as she folds together her hands. "Then how does it work?" she asks.

There's no way to describe it. "I don't know."

"You don't know?" The woman puts away her lacquered nails and looks at Lazarus. "Well?"

Lazarus frowns. At me, then at the woman. "She doesn't know how to
explain
it, Florence."

"What I'm hearing,
Lazarus,
is that she doesn't know how to
do
it. What I would like you to do is explain to us
why
we went to so much trouble to acquire her if she's of no use to our cause."

As much as I hate to agree with her, Florence is right to be worried. My sessions with Noam haven't been progressing my abilities as quickly as I'd hoped. Our new technique has become Noam repeating in soft, tender words the thing I'm to find or the place I'm to go. He does this over and over until that one thing erupts over the horizon of my consciousness, bright and beautiful like the sun. Noam's calm voice gets me there, but once I'm at my goal, maneuvering is difficult. I still don't know how to will myself from one point to another and for our purpose--finding the main redactor--this ability is vital. I need to be able to guide John to the master. To create for him a map. And while Lazarus still won't tell me how much longer I have, I feel it has to be soon. Maybe weeks, or even just days away.

Lazarus answers the question about my abilities deftly, steering the woman back to the task at hand. "The most Harper will be able to do is offer speculation about Jingo's knowledge, albeit speculation that profits from a gift for which there are no words. It will be an honest guess, and that's all. And we can't ask her for anything more. Harper can't explain how it happens any more than we can explain the atomic structure of love. For this, the empirical does not apply."

Florence nods. She's considered his argument and has turned to stare at my nervous, bouncing knees. "Lazarus, you seem to have more faith in this girl than she has in herself."

"That could have been said about all of us at one time or another."

Florence bobs her head and turns to me. "Thank you, Harper. Now, since you're going to be up top for a few hours, there's a little protocol we need to cover. Lilly has something to give you."

Lilly comes down from her seat and drops an amber-colored pill into my palm. "Cyanide. Instant death with a minimum of suffering. We call it a kill pill, as awful as that sounds." She curls up my fingers until the pill has disappeared. "If you get caught, use it. They'll torture you to get to us."

Lazarus stands. "We have a lot of work to get done. Is there anything else before we table this meeting?"

Elsbeth stands up. She's been sitting with her husband, Charles, at the edge of the room. "John Gage might be considered worth talking about," she says.

Despite myself, my legs flex. I kick my chair.

Lazarus rises up on his old spine. "You have our attention, Elsbeth."

"What we're wanting to know is this. How do you expect us to march into battle alongside a man who's spent well over a decade as a Blue Coat? How do we know he hasn't been compromised? It's strange, don't you think, him pulling Jingo Skinner off Ben during a punitive without reprimand from Internal Affairs--"

"It's just happened," Lazarus interrupts.

But Elsbeth doesn't pause. "And now he's gotten himself wounded. He was sent to Antioch General this morning, which means they've probably already begun an investigation. God knows what he'll have to tell them."

"Are we judging our members for being hurt now?" Lazarus demands. "What must you feel about Ben?"

"You know what I'm saying. Gage was clumsy and now we're more at risk than ever."

Lazarus is on a slow boil, trying not to speak too quickly. "We're not doing this now," he says.

"You've at least thought of it, haven't you? Considered the idea that maybe he's had to make a deal with the Confederation to keep himself alive?"

Solemn, Lazarus nods. "Of course we have. What I'm asking you to consider is John's loyalty. His sixteen years served as a member of this resistance, despite huge risk to himself."

Elsbeth doesn't want to hear such logic and looks at me. "Harper, I'd like to ask you one question."

"Okay."

"This question pertains to finding the main redactor. You're to find the master prior to our war effort in order to keep millions of people from dying when they try to follow our lead and speak Red Listed words. Yes?"

"Elsbeth," Lazarus says in a low voice. "If you have a legitimate question, I suggest you ask it."

The woman steps around the table and cocks her head my way. "Might this effort be affected by feelings you're harboring for John Gage? We all saw the way you reacted when he was shot."

The blood rushes into my cheeks and Ezra sees it. She laughs a little too loud, drawing Elsbeth's attention away from my burning face.

"Do we really have time for this?" Ezra asks, her eyes on Lazarus. "I've got about a thousand better things to do--"

Elsbeth isn't deterred. She keeps her eyes on mine while interrupting Ezra. "Wouldn't a strong emotional attachment to the man in charge of shutting down the main redactor put this effort at risk? If it was my husband who stood to be killed if I couldn't produce its identity, I can guarantee you it would never happen. The pressure would absolutely kill any abilities I might have had."

Elsbeth is referring to my private conversation with Lilly.
I want to tell the council that not only are Elsbeth's claims about my feelings for John false, they're gleaned from eavesdropping. I'm almost out of my seat to do so when the reality of this situation hits me. I can't. Lazarus would know better. He'd recognize the truth of Elsbeth's allegations by my red cheeks and dry lips. In how low my voice gets when John's name is on my tongue. And then Lazarus would be responsible not just for this truth, but for the next so doggedly following it--that these newfound feelings just might get in the way. Ruin everything.

The room has gone quiet. Everyone is looking at me, waiting for me to respond. For the second time this afternoon, Ezra comes to the rescue with a nod at Elsbeth's husband, Charles. "Sounds like you'd better watch your own ass on the field, Chuck. Old Elsbeth here won't have it covered."

Elsbeth ignores Ezra. "Harper?" she prompts.

I answer with my eyes on our leader. "Love only helps, if that's what you're asking."

Lazarus gives me a coy smile and I realize that he knows anyway.

"I don't think that is what I'm asking," Elsbeth growls, embarrassment turning her pink. She was looking for an easy argument with which to oust John.

"John Gage is not a threat to this mission," I say simply.

"John Gage is a Blue Coat. John Gage rapes and murders for a living--"

"John Gage is not a threat to this mission!" I repeat, surprised at the force in my voice.

Elsbeth is enraged. "Fine. Then let's talk about Ezra."

Composure slips past Lazarus, who bangs a finger against the table. "Ezra is the third highest ranking officer at this facility. If you have something to say, Elsbeth, say it to Lieutenant James!"

Elsbeth looks over to where Ezra's smoking. She's got her legs splayed out, giving Elsbeth a little peekaboo up her short skirt.

"I'm sorry, Ezra, but I don't feel comfortable bringing you into this war either, much less our new government." The woman turns her frown back on Lazarus. "And I am not alone in this. There are more than a few of us who feel this way."

"Why?" Lazarus asks.

Elsbeth squares her shoulders. "Her background. Her lack of experience."

"Who among us has any
experience
in the roles we've had to assume? None! And let's not discuss the Lieutenant's background as if it was something seedy and not the job we've
asked
her to do," Lazarus growls. "I welcome all questions rooted in honest concern, but not those stemming from prejudice. Is there any evidence you can bring before this council to validate these concerns?"

Elsbeth takes a heavy breath and says solemnly, almost sadly, "Only the evidence Ezra affords us every day through the things she does. And the people with whom she does them." She sits back down. Charles leans in to rub her shoulder.

Head shaking, Lazarus gets up from his seat. "You enjoy the protection these people provide but you don't want to acknowledge the enormous risks they take on your behalf, is that what I'm hearing? Would any one of you have the guts and the heart to do the unimaginable things we've required of both Ezra and John? Do you know what they give up on a daily basis to protect us?" He points at Elsbeth with a crooked finger. "What are you asking? That we stone the prostitute and string up the government assassin? Let's take a vote! All in favor of doing away with these two social and political liabilities, raise your hands!" He holds up a thick palm, inviting others to join him.

No one moves.

"You're all very lucky to be where you are," Lazarus says, both his voices thick. "God willing, there won't be much actual fighting here in the wastelands. But in the capital, in
every large city in this country,
thousands
of your compatriots will be giving their lives for this cause!" Lazarus nods at our humbled faces. "We will
not
begin a new society with this kind of prejudice! And toward our own, for God's sake!" he shouts, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "Now, is there anything else before we finish this meeting? Good. Meeting adjourned."

I wait for the council members to leave before stepping into the hallway. Ezra follows. She tells me in a stream of quick, mumbled words that John will be all right. He's gone up top to have his wound treated and documented. To have Jingo's bullet extracted and cataloged. He'll be back in his car, handling backup duties by dinner, then the more physical ones within a week.

"Where'd you get this information?" I have to yell after Ezra, who's on a march toward the stairs. "I thought Jingo wasn't talking!"

She calls back over a shoulder, thick legs pumping on razor-thin heels. "Skinner's not my only client."

I am not one of the group standing like stones on the prairie. They go out in the early evening, when the sun is low on the horizon and a person has to squint against the sideways light. They gather around the hole someone dug under cover of night and pay homage to Ben Dean. For most, it's the first time spent aboveground in months. Just a few moments out of doors, not one of which they're permitted to enjoy. Then back inside they'll go, the warm sun a chafe on their faces. A rebuff.

While Lazarus and the others are tending to our fallen brother, I'm marching across the front lawn toward Lilly's car. Dressed in my cleaned-up blouse and one of Lilly's old skirts that's gray and smells of mothballs. It would be dull if it weren't so tight. But it's too short, reveals me almost entirely when I sit.

I'll be up top for the next few hours. What I should be feeling is ecstasy. But I'm terrified.

I'm to follow the map Lilly's drawn, memorizing the way as I go. At my destination, I'm to get rid of this guide, leaving no evidence that could trace me back to the bunker. I tap my breast pocket. The lump there is strangely soothing. It's my kill pill. Just in case.

After ninety miles of highway, the rocked country road I'm looking for appears. It curves behind a thicket of trees, then turns up a grassy hill heavily grooved by combine wheels. I burn the map, then dig a hole in the earth and tuck the black remains inside. Relinquishing this leaves a pit in my stomach. I don't know if I've memorized all the turns and exits correctly. It could be a burial of my sure way home.

I get back in the car and wait. A few minutes later, I hear the soft sound of another vehicle on damp weeds. It's a sedan, dark blue. I keep my right hand on the manual shift and my left foot on the clutch. If I need to run, my car's nose is pointed toward the road.

The car is parked and a man gets out. He's tall and wide, blots out the last of the day's sun. "Hey." He taps four times on my window. The way he's supposed to.

My hand shakes. It slips off the button as I lower the glass.

The man leans down so I can see his face. He's mid-forties, has dark blue eyes surrounded by a grid of lines from too much laughing. It would be a giveaway if it weren't for his skin mottled from too much drink and tobacco, and the trademark scars on his face. A trio of deep scratches one of his victims etched into his right cheek.

"When did Jefferson die?" he asks.

I swallow loudly. "July the fourth."

"Harper Adams, the name's Fletcher." He offers me a hand. I slide mine through the window and we shake. "I was hoping to tell you this trip was all for naught, but Skinner's not talking. Not to anyone. Now hold out your wrists. We have to make it look real."

I climb out and Fletcher snaps on the metal cuffs, then leads me to the back of his squad car. He tells me I'll be taken in through the lobby, head down, wrists cuffed.

"One of the most wanted women in the Confederation, right under their noses." He laughs.

I'm seated in the back of his squad. As soon as the door closes, the locks follow. This Blue Coat crawls behind the wheel and looks at me through the rearview mirror. He doesn't see me sweating through my blouse. About to puke all over his backseat.

"It's the only way to get you in," he says. "Don't say a word, do what I tell you, and you'll be fine."