Nation of Enemies (16 page)

 

August, 2032

 

Chapter 33

W
ITHIN
THE
MORGUE
'
S
thick walls, Steven savors the silence. Here, there is no chaos, no discourse, no interruptions as he works on a body. If he's honest, the reason he's down here is to escape Sarah in what has become a more and more frequent “state.” Rehab didn't take. She had returned home, a breath of fresh air, back to her lovely, fiery self for a ­couple of weeks. She even started painting again. But then one night Jonathan didn't come home and there was a bombing downtown. The next thing he knew, the lock he'd installed on the cabinet containing embalming fluid had been cracked open with a hammer. He'd found Sarah in the middle of the afternoon lying naked on the front lawn talking to her dead mother.

He tilts his head, shifting his perspective on the woman that lies before him on the table. It's taken eight hours to recreate her face. It's a work of art. Her head went through a windshield and still her husband insists on an open casket. ­People are crazy. He slides her into a refrigerated chamber, removes his latex gloves and switches off the lights, closing the door behind him.

On the first floor landing, he checks his watch. It's just past 8:00
P
.
M
. and the house is dark.

“Sarah?” It's quiet. This time of night she's usually painting or preparing dinner. He wanders from room to room, then heads up to the second floor. A faint light shines from the third floor and he hurries up the next flight of stairs. At the top, the bathroom light is on, illuminating Sarah splayed on the floor.

“Oh God.” He drops to his knees on the cold tile, feels her neck for a pulse.
No, no, no.
“House, call 911.” Hands trembling, he opens Sarah's mouth to check her airway, then begins CPR. An operator takes the information as Steven stares at his wife. Lips blue, skin gray, chest still. Going through the motions helps him to stay focused until the EMTs arrive. Leaning heavily against the nearest wall, he holds his breath as they work. From three floors down a door slams and a voice echoes up the stairwell.

“Mom?”

Jonathan. The kid is going to blame himself. Footsteps pound the stairs and Steven stands in an attempt to block the view of the bathroom.

“What happened?” Annoyed, brushing hair out of his eyes, Jonathan strains to see over his shoulder. “Where's Mom?”

“The EMTs are working on her. I'm sorry, Jonathan. I think she's gone.”

“What?”

“Gone.” A flash of anger makes his voice louder than he intends. He gestures with his hand in the air. “Heaven. Angels. All that.”

“Jesus Christ!” Jonathan pushes past him into the bathroom. “What happened?”

“The body's only meant to take so much.”

“Oh my God.” Jonathan repeats this over and over. He alternates between standing and bending over at the waist, hands on his knees.

Minutes tick by without words or tears as they watch the EMTs. At some point it occurs to Steven that they've stopped working on his wife and are packing up their equipment.

“That's it, then?” Steven says.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Hudson,” says one of the EMTs. “We were unable to revive your wife. They'll be able to give you more answers when they do an autopsy. I'm very sorry.”

Though he's seen it coming for months, he can't believe she's dead. He knows he should cry but he can't. A pang travels throughout his body and settles in his gut. It's a familiar, reoccurring dream. Never in his life did he think he'd be twice a widower.

Uttering something that sounds like a growl, Jonathan punches a wall. He flies down the stairs into his room and slams the door. Seconds later, angry, jarring music fills the air.

Steven asks the EMTs for a few moments alone with his wife. They disappear quietly down the stairs. Sinking down next to her, he strokes her cheek, her arm, touches her fingers. She's still warm. His thoughts rotate automatically through the process of death. Scan, wash, embalm, dress, makeup. Scan. He turns her forearm slightly to see the MedID just under her pale skin. Her 83 is a prize MedID number. A true tragedy that her addictive trait overshadowed everything she could have been. Such a waste. Someone could get out with an 83. Someone could have a good life with that number. It would be a waste to bury his beautiful Sarah with her good fortune. He closes his eyes against the sting of tears and holds her gently one last time.

T
HE
HOUSE
'
S
CO
OLING
system works overtime against the oppressive heat. Still, Cole is warm. He pushes off the cotton sheet, all of their bedding in a bunch at the footboard. Ian is long asleep but Talia is up for her usual midnight feeding. Cole reads on his tablet as Lily feeds the baby in a rocking chair that creaks with each motion. The sound is distracting. He's been reading the same page for five minutes.

“What are you reading?” she asks.

“Nothing really.” He sets down the device. “I'm tired of hearing about Hensley.”

­“People love a hero.”

“He's far from a hero. Funny how that State House footage disappeared so quickly after the attack.”

A doorbell sounds from his phone.

Lily's brow furrows. “You expecting someone?”

“No.” He answers the call.

“Dr. Fitzgerald.” It's the guard from the District 149 gate. “You have a visitor named Steven Hudson. He checks out. And he's clean, no weapons.”

Strange. Why would he be here? It's been over a week since their meeting. Since then, Cole and Karen Riley have brainstormed options and performed just one MedID swap. The idea hasn't fully taken shape and is moving so slowly, he fears it may just disappear altogether. Because of that, he still hasn't mentioned it to Lily. She's still grieving Kate and she has enough on her plate just caring for the kids. If and when Project Swap becomes real, he'll tell her.

“Sir?” the guard says. “Do you want me to allow him entry?”

“Yes, thanks.”

He feels Lily's eyes on him. From a heap of clothes on the floor, he grabs a T-­shirt and a pair of jeans. Excuses run through his mind.

“Who is it?” Concern creases her face.

“It's just . . . the server's down at the hospital. They sent an intern to have me look over an urgent case for the morning.”

“Can't it wait?”

“Apparently not. Being chief has its responsibilities, Lil.” He kisses her on the head on his way out, adding, “It might take a while. Don't wait up.”

Maybe Hudson's changed his mind. Then again, he could be here with a threat to expose the MedID project. Cole closes the front door and steps out into the thick air. Headlights brighten the pavement as a sleek Mercedes rounds the block and pulls up to the curb. A haggard-­looking Steven Hudson gets out. His hair is wild, his button-­down shirt wrinkled.

“This is a surprise,” Cole says, shaking his hand.

“Yes, sorry.” Hudson's eyes are tinged with red. “I'm not completely thinking things through tonight, but I wanted to talk in person.”

“It's midnight.”

“Life and death. Two things that know no time.”

“True enough.” Cole leads the way to the patio where they sit in adjacent deck chairs. Mercifully, the air stirs with a slight breeze. “I have to say, after our meeting I thought the conversation was over.”

“As did I.” Hudson's hand goes to his hair, his fingers lingering on the uncombed spikes. “But life has yanked the proverbial carpet once again and I've had to reevaluate.”

“How do I know you're not here to entrap me?”

“You don't. But you know they did a full body scan on me at the gate. Other than my manicured hands, I don't have any weapons on me.”

“You could be recording this.”

Abruptly, Hudson stands and raises his shirt, then drops his pants.

“Okay, okay.”

Hudson tucks in his shirt, sits back down. “You did your homework on me. So I brushed up on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're squeaky clean, Dr. Fitzgerald.” Hudson cocks his head. “My sources found only one offense in your past. You smoked pot in your teenage years, when it was illegal, that is. Otherwise you appear to follow the rules.”

“Appear is the key word here. That should benefit me in this endeavor.” The excitement is back, a feeling in Cole's gut about this man. “Tell me why you're here.”

Hudson hesitates and then leans in. “My wife died tonight.”

“Oh, God.” Not what he was expecting. The energy rushes out of Cole. “I'm so sorry.”

The confident, jovial look Hudson often wears is gone. His face sags. “She was only forty. Beautiful, just . . . breathtaking sometimes. But lost. She walked around like she was missing a limb and she filled the emptiness with whatever she could get her hands on. Painting. Her children. Me, for a while.” Absently, his hand fluffs his hair. “Her last vice filled her a bit too completely, I'm afraid.”

“I don't know what to say.” As many times as he's said the requisite words and consoled families at the hospital, each time is as raw, as unfair, as agonizing as the first.

“As she was dying I had this, this, moment of clarity, I suppose.” Hudson's eyebrows rise, wrinkling his forehead. “I think I'm in shock, but if something good can come of this, she'd want that. I want it.”

“I'm not sure I'm following.”

“Sarah's MedID number is eighty-­three. Was eighty-­three. Would have been higher if it wasn't for her addictive genes. Luckily we wouldn't be passing on her actual DNA with the chip.”

“Look, Steven, we don't know each other. But when I approached you, you had solid reasons for not doing this. This is clearly an emotional time—­”

“Life is an emotional time, Doctor. And I know the emotions associated with mourning and loss more than most. Two weeks ago things seemed black and white for me. The reason I turned you down was my family. But losing Sarah changes everything. I'm left with a stepkid and a business. The kid and I have our differences but I'm all he's got now. I need to make sure he has a future. There are two sides to this war and I don't like either one of them. Perhaps it's time for the rest of us to have a say.”

The words are familiar, they could be Cole's own. Inaction may be just as dangerous. Relative safety for a lifetime of limited, chaotic existence is no life. Still he needs to know what he's getting into. “You could lose everything.”

“I'm aware.”

The words hang in the air. Crickets chirp from the shadows, wind rustles leaves. Cole grabs them two beers and for a while they sit in silence, listening to the night. Finally, they move on to the business at hand, talking things around until words shape plans and calls to action.

The starlit sky is replaced by swatches of pink and orange. When he realizes Lily will be getting up with Talia any minute, he shakes Hudson's hand and walks him to his car, one foot in front of the other, as ­people do in life, despite the shit life hurls at them. As much as Hudson's acquiescence is a victory, it's bittersweet. It will be a constant reminder that everything can be lost in an instant.

 

Chapter 34

S
EBASTIAN
IS
ON
LY
allowed to watch the interrogation. It's 3:00
A
.
M
. as he sits in the observation room, lights off, live video feeding into the smartwall across from him. Several hours ago agents in western Massachusetts captured one of the terrorists in the State House attack. The man had been identified by facial recognition from video at the scene. He'd been holed up alone in a cabin without electricity or running water. They transported him immediately to the Bureau's Boston office, and thus far he hasn't lawyered up. SAC Satterwhite agreed for Sebastian to be here on the condition that he remains unseen while Renner runs the interview.

In Kate's memory, he wears a simple black tie. He should be in there with Renner. Though if he were within arm's reach of the suspect, he couldn't guarantee self-­restraint. Security performed a full body scan and confirmed that the man has no embedded electronic devices to allow his conspirators to track his movements. So far all they know is he's from Springfield, is twenty-­two, and didn't graduate high school. His name is Michael O'Brien. And he killed Kate.

“There were forty-­eight of you that day,” Renner says. He sits across from the suspect, who is handcuffed to the table. “Eventually we'll find more of you.”

Dirty blond hair hangs over O'Brien's eyes, which avoid the cameras. He's been given water but no food since they picked him up that afternoon after several tips and a chance speeding ticket.

“Looks like you escaped without any nasty side effects,” Renner says. “Did the pyridostigimine bromide and atropine they give you take the edge off?”

O'Brien smirks.

Renner nods, matches his smirk. “Good for you. Unfortunately, for three of your fellow performers the antidotes didn't have the same effect.” Upon his voice prompt, the adjacent wall fills with images of the three terrorists they found dead from sarin exposure. O'Brien stares at the table, refuses to look at the gruesome images. “Did you know that one of your associates accidentally killed his entire family? Yeah. The idiot left a vial of sarin at home. Little brother found it. Neighbors found them days later.”

­“People die,” O'Brien says, meeting his eye. “This is war.”

“Spoken like a true soldier. But of what army?”

O'Brien sniffs, almost a laugh.

“Did I say something funny?”

“This isn't going anywhere, man.”

“You assassinated a presidential candidate, murdered twenty-­three, and injured over a thousand. I assure you, Mr. O'Brien, this is going somewhere.”

Too on edge to sit, Sebastian stands, crosses his arms, feels the tightness in his back. Renner's doing fine in there, but if they could do it together the two of them would crack this shitbag. Suddenly the door opens and Satterwhite enters the observation room. He holds up a hand in greeting. They regard the wall as Renner continues.

“What's the name of your organization?”

O'Brien's eyes flicker to the camera.

“BASIA? Sons of the Revolution?

O'Brien snickers. Sebastian balls his fists.

“Your parents bring you up in Patriot's Church?” Renner asks, taking a different approach. “Teach you all about Jesus and Armageddon?”

“You'd be surprised how my parents brought me up,” O'Brien counters.

“There it is,” Satterwhite whispers.

“Enlighten me.” Renner reclines in his chair.

“Fuck you.”

“You were following orders, we know that. But unless you tell us who plotted the attack, yours will be the public face of blame. No judge or jury will hold back a sentence of death—­or life in a windowless cell. If you don't work with us, that's fine. We'll find the others, it's just a matter of time. Someone'll want a deal. It's a shame, though. Your family might get pulled into the fray.” Renner strokes a hand in the air and new images fill the wall. “Your mother, Margie, dad Ronald. It would be a shame for your brothers and sisters to go down with you.”

“They had nothing to do with this.” A flash of anger as O'Brien sits up straighter.

“Families are broken apart every day. As you said, this is war. And when you're an enemy of the state, the world tends to be unkind to the families of terrorists.”

O'Brien forgets his hands are cuffed, yanks them up as though he might lunge at Renner. He winces in pain.

Consulting his tablet, Renner adds, “I see that your mother is awaiting production of her 3D liver transplant. It should be finished any time now. Gosh, it would be a shame if something went wrong.”

“That's bullshit, man.”

“The world just isn't fair.”

Silence. O'Brien sighs, shakes his head. “What kind of deal are you talking about?”

“Work with us, we'll work with you.”

A tense minute passes. The suspect says, “You don't understand what you're asking.”

“Then help me to understand.”

O'Brien studies his filthy fingers. Finally he looks at Renner. “Are you ready to die?”

“Every day.”

“That's good. You should be ready to die.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not from me.”

“So, you'll work with us?”

A thoughtful nod. “Put it in writing. I want a lawyer, I want immunity and safe passage for my family to another country, with new identities, new MedIDs. They don't know I was part of this. You protect them or I'm out.”

“All right.” Renner cocks his head. “Anything else?”

“They'll find me. And I'm ready to die. But if you fuck this up, they'll kill my family. They'll kill you.”

“It's in my job description. Must be willing to die. But we'll ensure your family's safety.”

The suspect's eyes drift away. “Okay. And right now I want a pizza with everything on it. And a Coke.”

Three hours later, with a contract in hand, Renner and Satterwhite sit across from O'Brien, who now appears more comfortable with his hands free in his lap. An empty pizza box and a can of Coke litter the table. Seated at his side is a public defender, Lydia Bessudo, a brunette thirty-­something with a streak of gray running down the part in her hair. The district attorney himself is here, bloated and weary-­eyed but seizing the high-­profile moment. Everyone takes turns signing the agreement. In the observation room, Sebastian alternates between sitting and standing. He drank too much coffee and it swirls in his otherwise empty stomach. This moment has played out in his imagination a million times since Kate died. After Mitchell's praise of whoever was behind the State House attack, he can't help but have doubts.

The district attorney sets aside the paperwork and Renner produces a tablet from his briefcase, props it up and slides his fingers on the surface of the monitor. “This is the recording device and this meeting will be on official record.” After reading O'Brien his Miranda rights, Renner calls out the names of all attendees, the date, the reason they are gathered. “Where do you want to start Mr. O'Brien?”

“I went to Exeter,” O'Brien says. “Before they shut it down, I lived on campus. I wasn't a jock. Not much for English lit. But I got involved in some prowar student rallies. Followed some girl to a meeting one night and it changed my life.”

“How so?” Renner asks.

“The meeting wasn't like the others. The message was different. The guy leading it was a junior councilman from New Hampshire. Name was Ramsey. At that point we'd all just gotten MedIDs, we were new to the system. I didn't really understand the potential of the biochip. I mean, the amount of control over citizens is extraordinary. But these idiots crying foul at their diminished civil liberties aren't seeing the big picture.”

“Which is?”

“Eventually, everyone in this country will be healthy. Strong. No more chromosomal defects. No more obesity. No heart disease. There's no need for physical suffering anymore, once weaknesses are phased out. It's only a matter of time.”

“A pure race.”

“Yes.” O'Brien leans his elbows on the table. “Ramsey said that the war has to go on. The government needs supporters who are for the war, not against it. By that point in time everyone in the room had lost someone to an attack. About six months before, my older brother died in a bombing at a concert in New York.” Veins in his neck bulge, his face reddens. “These terrorists attack indiscriminately. They whine about their right to bear arms and their right to privacy. How they can't see a doctor for a year because of the health-­care system. That they have a disabled kid because they didn't do the prenatal screening. So the fuck what.”

A progovernment rant from a terrorist? An extremist on our side? Sebastian struggles to process the information.

Nonplussed, Renner continues. “So you joined this prowar group?”

“It was small then, and they were just starting to recruit. Thirty of us from Exeter joined up. But we're going on our eighth year. We must have a base of around ten thousand now.”

“Let me get this straight,” Renner says. “You're prowar, progovernment. And yet you assassinated a presidential candidate.”

“Objection, move to strike from the record,” Lydia Bessudo says. “There's no evidence that proves my client was the actual assassin. He was involved in the attack, which is all we're willing to state at this juncture.”

“I'll rephrase,” Renner says. “O'Brien, if you're a supporter of this war and the U.S. government, why were you involved in an attack to assassinate a presidential candidate?”

“I'm a soldier, sir,” O'Brien says. “I just follow commands.”

“Who's your commander?”

“Listen, I just do as I'm told.”

Renner and Satterwhite exchange glances.

“You expect us to believe that you're blindly following orders?” Renner asks.

“I believe in the cause. I trust that the orders given to me are for the greater good.”

“It sounds as if you were a founding member of a ten-­thousand-­soldier army,” Satterwhite says. “If you expect us to hold up our end of the deal, you can't withhold details. Especially details such as the identity of your commanding officer.”

No one speaks. O'Brien chews his lip, sips the dregs of his Coke, glances at his lawyer.

“You ready to continue?” Renner says.

“You're about to step in it, sirs,” O'Brien says.

“I can't wait to hear this,” Satterwhite mutters.

“My commanding officer is your commanding officer,” O'Brien says.

“Clarify,” Renner says.

“If I'm progovernment, doesn't it stand to reason that my commanding officer is the Commander-­in-­Chief of this country?”

“Objection!” Lydia leans in to her client to whisper something, but he waves her away.

“Are you . . .” Satterwhite sputters, his forehead wrinkled. “Are you implicating the President of the United States?”

“Implicating?” O'Brien makes a sour face. “I'm stating a fact. In the United States there is one Commander-­in-­Chief. And he is the only one I answer to.”

“I strongly suggest you watch yourself,” Satterwhite says. “Enough of this bullshit. You don't expect us to believe that the President of the United States has been issuing direct orders to your group to carry out terrorist activities?”

“Direct orders? No, sir. We don't meet with our commander. Not in person anyway. We have a handler who is given direct orders and relays them.”

“I object to this line of questioning.” Lydia slams her palm on the table.

“A ‘handler '?” Renner repeats.

“He coordinates everything, ensures the details are in place. For the State House he put together the schedule. Arranged the costumes. Shipped us the chemicals.”

Renner's eyes dart to the camera. Sebastian stands stock-­still.
What the hell is going on?

“We need a name,” Renner says.

“All I got is one. Name, that is.” O'Brien sits back in his chair. “Dash.”

“Dash?” Satterwhite says.

“That's it,” O'Brien says.

“How does he make contact, or vice versa?” Renner asks.

“He dead-­drops instructions and burners. Occasionally, I get a piece of mail that I memorize and then burn. Look, I don't know who he is. Where he is. I just do what he tells me.”

“Not anymore,” Renner says.

Sebastian finds he's been holding his breath. Dash. Prowar. Progovernment. Under President Clark's command? Guy's got to be full of shit. It's impossible to gauge if there's any truth in his story. Sebastian shakes it off, runs his hands over his face. He'd had high hopes for tonight. Instead, he wasted hours staring at a man responsible for changing his life, unable to face him, and unable to avenge Kate's death.