Nation of Enemies (12 page)

 

Chapter 25

Newton, Massachusetts

I
T
'
S
MIDNIG
HT
WHEN
Jonathan returns home from his first day of working for Reverend Mitchell. Hannah had ridden along with him in the car on the way to BASIA headquarters. It was crazy. They blindfolded him. Said the location was top secret. It's pretty paranoid behavior if the Reverend hasn't done anything wrong. But Jonathan pushes that aside, happy to be employed, happy for the distraction. He spent the day working with their chief technologist on tedious server clean-­up and upgrading their software. All in all, not a bad first day.

Meanwhile, if his mom is sober, she'll be pissed that he's home so late. This morning he'd told her and Steven he was starting a new job. They'd fired questions at him: where was he going, what was he doing, why did he need money? Steven told him he already had a job—­at the morgue. His mother argued that he should be able to work remotely. Jonathan made up a story about working for an IT company that helps ­people in their own homes. Finally they'd agreed to let him try the new job. A test run.

As he trots up the front steps, he hears his mother through the door.
Shit
. He fumbles for the key. She's screaming. Not crying, not shouting. Screaming at the top of her lungs as though she's being bludgeoned.

Following her voice, he drops his backpack and sprints to the kitchen. On his way he passes smears of bright colors along the walls: red, yellow, green, orange, blue. The rainbow goes from the baseboards to the wainscoting.

At the kitchen doorway he stops abruptly. Perched atop the island is his mother. Naked and covered in paint, she's holding a large knife pointed at Steven, who stands on the other side of the room. Jonathan opens his mouth but has no idea what to say. He can't look at her. Wants to help her. Desperately, he scans the floor for a shirt, a towel, something to cover her. Nothing. “Mom?”

“Your mother has stepped out,” Steven says in a calm, even voice.

Jonathan moves closer to her. “Mom, it's me.”

“She's been like this for a ­couple hours.”

Together, they wait. Finally his mom's dilated eyes focus on him. Tears stream down her face and she begins muttering unintelligibly. She sinks down on the countertop, hugs her knees, rocks back and forth. She holds the knife, pressed against her leg, no longer pointing at Steven. Now it's a danger to her.

“I thought you changed the lock on the morgue door,” he says to Steven.

“I did. Twice. Where there's a will.”

Moving slowly, Jonathan hops up on the kitchen counter, across from her. It's going to be a long night. “Why can't she just get high?”

“That doesn't take her far enough away,” Steven says. “Doesn't make her feel invincible.”

“She didn't used to be like this.”

“Not exactly, no. But it's always something isn't it? When she takes on a new vice, she becomes consumed by it. Relationships, food, painting. She's all or nothing. It's in her genes.”

Jonathan watches the curved spine of his mother, coated in green and yellow like a lizard. It turns his stomach. This is his fault. Years ago she'd caught him smoking weed and before long they smoked together. He provided the pot that initially had the effect of calming her. It helped her moods, made her happier. But then one day he'd read about dipping bud into embalming fluid and decided to try it. After a few minutes of a kick-­ass high, he'd grown angry and ended up tearing his room apart. He was so out of his mind he couldn't hide it from his mother. When he'd confessed what he'd done, she hadn't punished him. Instead, she'd had him show her how to do it. It only took one time for her to be hooked.

“Don't blame yourself.”

His head snaps in Steven's direction. How does he know?

“Sarah told me you get her the pot. But you don't make her smoke it, you don't make her dip it. She makes her own decisions.”

The knife clangs to the tiled floor. His mother's body sags as she sobs quietly.

“We need to put a stop to this.” Steven crouches to the floor and quickly retrieves the knife. “This little secret of ours won't hold for much longer when she chooses to get high during a wake or when we're meeting clients.”

“This is more important than the fucking funeral home.”

“Agreed.”

“What are you talking about?” He watches as Steven moves slowly toward his mother. When he reaches her, she crawls readily into his arms like a child. He kisses her cheek, comes away with a smear of blue on his face.

“Rehab, Jonathan.” Steven's voice is raspy with emotion. “She needs to be checked into a rehabilitation facility.”

“She won't go.”

“She won't have a choice.”

“You'd have her committed?”

“She's a danger to all of us.”

It's a hard point to argue. “When?”

Steven shrugs. “Now?”

When the ambulance arrives, the two of them wrap her in her bathrobe and guide her to it. Jonathan stands in the driveway and watches as his mother and stepfather are driven away. The warm summer night is like a blanket, and suddenly he craves his bed. They did the right thing, he knows. She needed to get out of that house, just like he did. When death is everywhere, how can they live? Maybe he should try out Patriot's Church. See what it's all about. There must be something to it if Hannah goes. Maybe his mom will even come with him.

 

July, 2032

 

Chapter 26

A
WHITE
ELEC
TRIC
company van with a silver lightning bolt on the side pulls to the curb on Central Avenue in Milton. Sebastian glances at the dirt yards, unused bikes, and discarded furniture scattered throughout. Abandoned cars without tires. Few ­people live in the Boston suburb since the mass exodus to rural New England. Even on a warm day it looks cold.

Carrying old, dented toolboxes, he and Renner step out of the van. They wear matching black T-­shirts with a fake company logo, baseball hats, and sunglasses. It's midday Wednesday. With Taylor Hensley at work and her daughter at preschool, the apartment will be empty. Inside the entryway the paint is peeling and there are holes along the baseboard. The darkened tint of their sunglasses fades into clear lenses.

“Nice place.” Renner points to mouse droppings.

“She obviously isn't tapping into her trust fund,” Sebastian says. “The senator must be anxious to move them into a Safe District.”

At the top of the third flight of stairs they find the right door. In seconds Sebastian opens the locks and they're in. On the other side of the door, Taylor's home is another world from the building in which it's housed. Walls have been taken down to create a large, open room. One wall is clearly a child's canvas, part chalkboard, part paint splatter and crude yet pretty paintings. But the rest of it comes from Taylor's hand. In the far corner, a small kitchen is painted red and in cartoonish letters on the cabinets is the word
eat.
To their right is a comfortable space with a cozy couch, beanbag chairs, and a shag carpet. The wall is painted burnt orange with Taylor's signature graffiti writing in black with a daily reminder to: “relax, enjoy, cuddle, love, escape.”

“Don't get any ideas,” Renner whispers.

“Don't flatter yourself.” A red signal in Sebastian's smartglasses indicates existing surveillance sensors.

“Got it,” Renner mumbles.

They both swivel around, catching more red signals. TV monitor. Refrigerator. Toy robot. Another one across the room, nestled into the frame of a large historical map of Paris. He motions for Renner to follow him into a bathroom. Closing the door behind them, Renner flips on the light and the fan, for noise. A quick sweep reveals no devices.

“Abort?” Renner asks.

“No way.” Sebastian removes his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose.

“They've seen us.”

“And we've seen them, so to speak. They don't know who we are.”

“What if it's Mitchell? You're about to enter his militia. They could run you through facial recognition and make a match.”

The bathroom is too small to pace. Sebastian catches a glimpse in the mirror and for a tenth of a second doesn't recognize himself. His dark hair has grown longer, wavy, and his face is partially hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard. The premature gray streaks serve him well in this disguise, turning his thirty-­five years into a believable forty.

“I don't think it's Mitchell,” Sebastian says.

“Why not?” Renner asks. “He could have surveillance on his entire congregation.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “He's egomaniacal and supremely confident. Once you've passed through the threshold of Patriot's Church you're in his world. He doesn't need to spy on someone like Taylor Hensley.”

“Unless he's trying to get to the senator.”

“Maybe the surveillance is Richard Hensley's.” The bathroom has grown warm. They stand about three feet apart with their backs against opposite surfaces. “Either way, we need to place our sensors and get out.”

They move silently. Continuing the facade that they're electricians, they study wiring and circuitry while strategically placing the microchip sensors in the digital board of Taylor's microwave, into the overhead lighting fixture in her bedroom and a game console in the living room. Now they'll observe her every move, along with whoever else has a vested interest in her. After surreptitiously slipping a sensor onto Taylor's bedside table tamp, he notices a picture on her dresser. In it, she has long blond hair, a wide smile like her father. And she's on the arm of Sienna's father, Mason Jenner.

Finished, they lock the door behind them. Back in the van, Renner pulls out and they head back to the city. Sebastian stares out the window. Taylor's FBI file is thin, the info mostly about her father and the MedFuture bombing. Of course, he understands her anger after losing her husband. But why would she turn to Mitchell?

T
HE
REST
OF
the week, Sebastian hones and memorizes his alias. Will Anderson's walk, his dry sense of humor, family details, and career history. When he's alone, he talks out loud, practicing a lazy tongue that allows a Boston accent to creep in. He's traded in the button-­down shirts and suits for T-­shirts and jeans. At least he'll be comfortable. Yesterday his MedID was removed and it's being stored in an FBI safe box. His new MedID was then injected, giving him a 69. The tech had applied a salve over the injection site that made the wound disappear in minutes. He's ready.

He texts Renner. Despite the encryption on Renner's end and Sebastian's disposable cell, they communicate in code. He wanders around the stark apartment in a T-­shirt and boxers.

Sebastian:
I'm hungry for take-­out.
(Ready to go in.)

Renner:
Great. Will get you the Thai menu.
(I'll alert the tech and have him add your alias near the top of the BASIA applicant list.)

Sebastian walks into his bedroom and sits on the bed. All these years, analyzing and watching Charles Mitchell and his militia. He can't wait to get inside, to expose this fanatic responsible for so much chaos, so much blood. And for taking Kate's life. The ache of missing her is ever-­present. From a drawer in the bedside table he pulls out a black velvet ring box. Stiff, it opens with a creak. Her engagement ring. He takes it out and watches the light play off the surface of the diamond.

Renner:
You're all set. Menu on its way.

Sebastian:
Thanks.

Renner:
Unless you want a casserole?

Sebastian laughs out loud.
Sounds damn good actually.

Renner:
I'll be watching for your order.
(I'll be tracking you.)

Sebastian tosses the phone on the bed and replaces the ring in the box, settling it back into the drawer. The pillow is cold on his neck as he lies down. Above, on the dropped ceiling tiles, someone left plastic stars that glow. He switches off the light and stares at them.

Sleep is swift and takes him just as he's thinking of Kate, just as he's saying one more time,
I'm sorry for being late
. Always his last thought of the day. A flash of blue ripples through his unconscious, the fabric of her dress. When he awakens in the morning, he knows that he dreamt of her death once more. It's exhausting to start every day so angry.

 

Chapter 27

T
HE
F
OURTH
OF
July is a predictably busy overnight shift at Mass General. Cole oversees his staff as an endless flow of casualties are treated, scanned, and discharged. In a rare lull, he retreats into his office for a coffee break. He pulls out a notepad and pencil from a desk drawer.

Since Kate's funeral he's been consumed by the MedID issue, studying it from every angle. Steven Hudson and his funeral chain intrigues him. Countless buried MedIDs that could provide a future for anyone without a clean number. Cole has chosen not to bring up the topic with Lily. She's fragile, clinging to Ian and Talia as though they might be taken from her. Years ago, when she was a survivor in a school bombing, it seemed to make her stronger. Then her parents were killed in an attack. That they went together was some solace, and perhaps even some strange relief without her constant worry about them several states away. But Kate's death has sucked her into a dark place. And telling her now about his treasonous idea would be akin to cruelty.
Treason,
punishable by life in prison or death. Being taken from his family in the midst of war is inconceivable. Still, there must be a way around the system.

In the quiet of his office, he puts pencil to paper. The soft scratch of his writing is oddly comforting. Nearby he keeps a lighter in case he needs to quickly dispose of the evidence. He makes a list of qualifications for MedID donors.

•
The donor would need to be unemployed and not due any pensions/benefits/insurance. The MedID triggers these payments and it would alert the government if checks aren't cashed, funds are unclaimed.

•
Physical description needs to be a close match. Create a database that matches donors/recipients by age and appearance.

•
The donor is ideally without family. Immediate or extended.

•
Could recipients of clean MedIDs offer fees to the donor's family? Attractive to families in financial need. Riskier but possible.

A knock at the door startles him. He turns the notepad over. “Come in.”

Nurse Huberty leans in. “A car accident's arriving in five. Multiple vehicles.”

“Let's go.”

Gurneys burst through the double doors and the struggle for life is on. Wails and screams. So much blood. A metallic taste is on the tip of Cole's tongue. He dispatches patients to beds, assigns residents and interns as the voice-­activated data populates a floor plan on the smartwall at the nurses' station.

He steps in alongside Dr. Riley, who's intubating a seven-­year-­old girl suffering from internal injuries. According to the EMTs, she'd been traveling in the car that caused the accident, sitting in the backseat with her older brother. No one will ever really know what happened, not that it matters. Her parents and brother are dead.

The girl's outcome is inevitable. Still, they fight for her despite her injuries and vital signs. For the better part of an hour they work on her, but finally the moment comes.

“Time of death, seven-­eighteen
P
.
M
.” he says. His latex gloves snap when he peels them off, dropping them to the floor. An entire family wiped out. He closes his eyes against the beauty of the little girl. Senseless.

“She reminds me of someone,” Riley says quietly. “I can't think who.”

He opens his eyes and takes in the girl's long brown hair, her pale skin. Gently, he lifts one of her eyelids to reveal blue eyes. “Did you scan her?”

“Yes. Typical pediatric record. Tonsils out. Stitches in her hairline. Nothing else.”

“Genetic predispositions?”

Riley shakes her head. “Clean. Lucky girl.” Her tone is ironic.

Lucky. Someone should be lucky today.
My God.
This is strangely a perfect moment and he can hardly breathe.

“What a waste,” Dr. Riley says.

“Maybe it doesn't have to be.”

“Excuse me?”

Two nurses shut down machines and begin cleaning up. Protocol states that within the next hour this child will be scanned and transferred to the hospital morgue. The next of kin—­presuming there are any—­will be called—­and she will be transported to a funeral home. There isn't much time.

“Stay with her,” Cole says.

“What?” Riley exchanges glances with the nurses. “I should check the board.”

“In a minute.”

“Dr. Fitzgerald, this girl is dead. There are a line of patients—­”

“I'm aware. I'll check on the residents. Stay with her, please. I'll be back.”

Riley presses her lips into a thin line. For the past month, since he caught her refusing to update MedIDs, their relationship has lacked any pleasantries. She'd relented, but she cooperates grudgingly and barely acknowledges him. Perhaps he can change her mind about him.

Pulling the curtain closed, he moves through the ER and scans the beds, but his focus isn't here. Back in his office, he shuts the door. His heart is pounding. He's thought this through countless times now. Considered the consequences. It's the right thing to do and it's time to act. He adds to the list on his notepad:

•
Children (infant—­age 18). They aren't due monetary payouts, which is a positive. Either orphans or MedIDs donated by parents.

He waves a hand over his desk, prompting his monitor to rise. Verbally, he scans medical records, filters a search by date, age, gender. And there she is. Tess Connelly. The patient Dr. Riley had refused to scan a month ago. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Just a year older than this girl.

Despite weeks of insomnia, he couldn't be more alert. He tears the page from his notebook and hurriedly makes his way back to the curtained area. If he's right, his young colleague will be eager to join in this effort. If he's wrong, she may expose him, cost him his career. Maybe even his freedom.

He slips through the opening to find Riley alone with the girl. Quietly he says, “Walk with me.”

Furrowing her brow, she does as she's told. For such a slight person, she takes up a lot of space. Not one to hold her tongue, he couldn't have been more wrong about her being mousy. Through the maze of hospital corridors, he leads her to a rarely used exit. He presses his finger against the security screen and it opens. They are alone in a darkened alleyway between hospital buildings.

Riley crosses her arms. “I did nothing wrong in there.”

He shakes his head. “We all tried our best.”

“Then what are we doing out here?”

“Have you done her scan yet?”

A bitter smirk creeps onto her lips. “This again?”

“I assume your politics haven't changed?”

“You can't fire me for having an opinion. Since you gave me the ultimatum, I've done the scans. I'm here every day, I sleep here, I can't even get away when I'm unconscious. I'm an asset to this hospital, but more importantly, I'm an asset to the patients. I'm here for them.” She steps closer. “This is all I have left.”

He takes a deep breath. “If you were President, what would you do about the MedIDs?”

“What?”

“Humor me.”

She searches the ground and finally meets his gaze. “I'd make them obsolete. And if that wasn't an option, I'd reverse the number system. Anyone under a seventy-­five would get priority treatment. They'd be entitled to full-­time employment to ensure they'd receive income necessary to pay for any care above and beyond what is covered by government-­funded health care.”

It's the answer he'd hoped for. “Do you remember your patient, Tess Connelly? The little girl whose mother begged you not to scan?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I'm showing this to you and you alone. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

He pulls the wrinkled notebook paper from his pocket and hands it to her. As she reads, he studies her. It's impossible to know what's going through her mind. When she finishes, she looks up. “What is this?”

“The beginning.” He shrugs. “It is what we make it.” He explains how the idea emerged, to swap MedIDs from the deceased to the living. The outline of a rough plan is sketched aloud, and as he talks, she nods along. By the time he finishes, her entire face has softened.

“You've gone along with—­and enforced—­the system,” she says. “What's changed?”

There's no need to go into Kate's death or their denied emigration. Not yet. He shifts on his feet. “My wife and I just had a baby girl. She's pure. Perfect. But someone in the government disagrees. One point separates her from the lucky ones. So despite all our parental efforts, she's damned by her DNA. Controlled by it. As we all are, by design of the MedID law. So for that and many other reasons, I want to level the playing fields. And since we can't get rid of MedIDs, let's use them to our advantage.”

“Sounds like a revolution, Dr. Fitzgerald.”

It's not a label he'd considered. “I suppose it is. But it's not as simple as just helping ­people get out of the country. We need to build a network of ­people who'll be held together by more than political or religious beliefs. Citizens who want to stay in the U.S., who believe that freedom and family is the most important asset in a society, and that government has no place in private matters. Those ­people, the ones who receive donor MedIDs, will
appear to be
the healthiest out there. Somehow, we need to covertly find doctors willing to care for them under our own code of ethics, without proper scans. Then, personal data will only show standard care issues, nothing more. Years from now our group will outnumber the true clean MedIDs. And in time we'll make the rules.”

“You dream big.” Riley smiles.

“I have a new baby. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation.”

“I'm in.” Her voice is hushed, her tone excited. “This is everything I believe. Each time I do a scan I hear the words ‘Do no harm' and my stomach burns. How can I help?”

A rush of relief lets him breathe easier. “I'm sure you understand how dangerous this is. There's no turning back once we do this. Treason is treason.”

“I suppose ­people that commit treason think they have a just cause,” Riley says.

He nods. “For now it's just you and me. We'll start a database of potential MedID recipients. We need to build our network slowly and very carefully. And we need a core team.”

“You have anyone in mind?”

“Yes.” Details rush at him, a flurry of images that he needs to sort through to make this a fluid process. “Have you been to Hudson's Funeral Homes?”

“Hasn't everyone?”

“Steven Hudson. His funeral chain is national. There could be unlimited possibilities.”

“Why would he want to help us?” she asks.

“Leave that to me,” he says. “I think there are a few ways to approach him.”

“Is there a Plan B?”

“There's barely a plan.” A nervous laugh escapes him. “Let's concentrate on today. Your patient, Tess Connelly. She's a perfect match for the little girl down the hall. Would her parents be interested? And desperate enough to keep this quiet?”

“The mother pleaded with me not to scan her.” Riley nods. “I think it's safe to reach out.”

“They'll need to get here stat.”

“What's the process? Today, I mean.”

“We do what we always do. Make calls to next of kin. Tell the family, if there's anyone to tell. Call the funeral home. And do the scan. But this time we'll remove the donor's MedID and Tess Connelly's MedID and reimplant them into the other's arms.”

“But what about postmortem skin damage?” she asks. “The MedID retrieval site on the forearm will be obvious. It'll raise suspicion.”

“We use Dexyne,” he says. “It's a new topical enzyme just approved for market use.”

“I've heard of that. When applied within forty-­eight hours after death, it induces healing in the skin.”

“Made for morticians,” he adds. “Steven Hudson must love it.”

“So Tess Connelly will effectively be in the system as deceased.”

“And Tess will become . . .”

“Emma Gifford was her name,” Riley says. “But how will she travel with her parents when they don't have the same last name?”

“Emma Gifford is an orphan. The Connellys will petition for adoption. They'll need to stay in the States while the process is happening and then move once it goes through. Adoptions have been fast-­tracked since the war started. Too many orphans.”

“We don't come across clean chips every day. So many ­people need them.”

“Millions.” It's overwhelming, so he tries to focus on the details that are right in front of him. Otherwise he might never begin. “I'm working on it. In the meantime, we have one.”

“Thanks for this. For including me.” Riley holds out her hand and he shakes it.

“I'll clear a room. You call the Connellys.” Having a partner gives solidity to it, especially since she sounds even more convinced than he is. They head back inside.

The incessant cycling of patients continues throughout the night. There is so much noise and action throughout the ER that no one notices when Emma Gifford is scanned out and discharged. She clings to a much-­loved pink teddy bear and wears long-­sleeved pajamas, despite the humid July night. With a final wave to her doctors, Emma walks past the automatic glass doors hand in hand with her soon-­to-­be adoptive parents, the Connelly's.

Back in his office, Cole sits again at his desk, his body aching from hours on his feet. He stretches his arms in an attempt to free familiar knots that pull at his shoulder blades. Remembering the page of notes in his pocket, he pulls open his desk drawer and retrieves an ornate cigarette lighter a patient had once given him. Over his metal trashcan he flicks it open and a small blue flame licks the single piece of paper. Within seconds it turns black, curls into itself, and finally disintegrates into ash.