Nation of Enemies (20 page)

 

Chapter 41

“T
ELL
ME
THE
schedule again?” Richard says. His campaign team is piled into a stretch suburban cruising west on the Massachusetts Turnpike.

“First, the orphanage in Waltham,” Carter says, consulting his phone. “Then at one there's the League of Women's Voters lunch. And tonight it's the National Institute of Health dinner.”

“Stay on point,” Kendra interjects. “No going off-­script.”

“Yes, yes,” Richard says. “Where's David today?” His vice presidential running mate, David Glickman, is a bit off-­beat, but he has a following and solidifies them as a team.

“He's at a rally in Wisconsin,” Carter answers.

Skimming her tablet, Kendra reports, “Your response to the Houston bombing bumped up your polls in Texas. You came off very strong and reassuring.”

“Easy to say the right things. Harder to execute them.”

A low intermittent hum announces an incoming call. Carter checks his jacket pockets and pulls out two phones. He answers one. “Richard Hensley's line. Yes, of course.” He passes it to Richard. “It's the President. They're connecting you.”

Richard straightens. He puts the phone to his ear and hears a click.

“Richard,” President Clark says.

“Hello, Mr. President.”

“Great interview last night.”

“Thank you, sir. I—­”

“Listen, Richard, I'm a family man. But when I took the oath of this office, the citizens of this country became my extended family. It's not just my wife and kids anymore.”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to be frank here. Your daughter could cost you the election.”

“Taylor?”

“As you know, her new affiliation with Patriot's Church is well-­known. Any day now every news analyst and media outlet will have the headline ‘Hensley in Bed with Enemy Number One
.
' Regardless of the truth behind your relationship, the public sees black and white. The only question they'll care about will be: how is it that the President of the United States has a daughter who is a member of this country's number one terrorist organization?”

“I can't control her actions, Mr. President.”

“She's made herself an enemy of the state. You can't have anything to do with her.”

“Actually, we're not on speaking terms.”

There's a beep on the line and suddenly he hears his own voice:

“Sounds like you were in the wrong place at the wrong time,”

“They were after me. When I turned, they turned. It was obvious.”

“What's obvious is that South Bay is a rough area. Somehow you ended up in the middle of someone's business. Drugs, probably. Could be anything.”

“I'm not an idiot. I know those Cadillacs are owned by the Liberty Party.”

Stunned, his mouth parts to form some kind of a response, but nothing comes. It's a recording from the night Taylor called to accuse him of trying to kill her. They're monitoring his communications. He supposes he shouldn't be shocked.

“Recognize that?” President Clark says.

“She's my daughter, sir.”

“A minute ago you lied about your relationship with a known enemy.”

Kendra is staring at him, her fingers paused midair over her phone. Dammit. He's been faithful to the Liberty Party for thirty years. Why would they doubt him now? Finally he says, “I forgot she called.”

“Of course. Still, it's a concern. Imagine if this gets out.”

“Yes. It wouldn't look good.”

“If you want to repair your relationship with her in eight years, by all means. But today, you need to look at her as though she's an ordinary citizen who poses a threat. And we can't have one citizen derailing our efforts. We won't let it happen, Richard.”

“I understand.” But does he? What does “we won't let it happen” mean, exactly?

“I'm glad we're on the same page. What would a race be without hiccups along the way?” There's a trace of a gloating in the President's voice.

“Mr. President, if you don't mind me asking, is there a chance Taylor was right about the Cadillac following her?”

“Excuse me?”

“The party's efforts to keep the campaign on track have been comprehensive, understandably. I'd like to know, was the Cadillac that followed Taylor a Liberty car?”

“I wouldn't know, Senator. Of course our intelligence agencies use their resources in the interests of this government and its citizens. But to the best of my knowledge, we're not mowing down constituents in alleys.”

“Of course not. My apologies.”

“Do well, be well, Richard.”

“Yes sir.”

Heat radiates from Richard's ear as he pulls the phone from it. Kendra's eyebrows are arched in anticipation. Carter hasn't looked up once from his phone.

“What the hell was that?” Kendra asks.

“I need to cut off Taylor completely. It's too damaging to the campaign.”

“We know that,” she says. “What's changed?”

“She called me. They heard the conversation.”

Kendra blows air out her lips, shakes her head.

“Carter, get me the sign-­out database for Liberty Party campaign cars,” he orders. “I need the log for last week.”

He may not be able to speak with Taylor, but perhaps he can still protect her and Sienna.

 

Chapter 42

B
LOOD
IS
SPATTERED
on Cole's scrubs, on sheets and the floor. One of the last standing arenas in the city, the Boston Pavilion, had a sold-­out concert tonight. Because venues are a high-­risk target for anyone trying to make a point, shows are rare. But with high security and extra precautions, on occasion some ­people take the chance. It's a shame so many did tonight.

As he studies the smartwall display of ER bed assignments, Cole voice-­activates the system. Names on the monitor change or move from one area to another. He never fails to note patients' MedID numbers. The sheer number of ­people without clean numbers is overwhelming. Can Project Swap even make a dent? Is this venture worth risking everything? He wonders if another group is out there somewhere, attempting the same thing. They could pool their resources. At night, he can't sleep. He wanders into the nursery and watches the soothing rise and fall of Talia's back in her crib. Four months have passed and she's just weeks from having her own MedID implanted.

It's four in the morning. All but one of the thirty-­two survivors have been dispatched to recovery rooms or the O.R. Karen joins him for the last victim of the shooting who suffered only a minor wound. Behind the curtain, the patient is asleep. Cole scans the chart: Sean Cushing, MedID number 78, aged forty. No genetic markers of particular concern. No history of significant illness. Karen lifts the johnny for him to inspect where a bullet grazed the right leg.

“Lucky guy,” he says. “Another centimeter and the bullet would've done some damage.” He tips the tablet with the patient's record so that Karen can see it.

“But look at that.” She gestures to deep purple bruising up and down his legs, inconsistent with his wound.

“Maybe he fell in the chaos. There must've been a stampede to get out of there.”

“Maybe.” Her brown eyes narrow as she scrutinizes his chart. “That's strange.”

“His CBC?” He glances at the numbers. “He's anemic. Makes sense. He's lost a fair amount of blood.”

“But his platelet count. Is his blood clotting?”

“Hmm.” Cole gently peels back the blood-­saturated gauze covering the wound. It gapes open, a rivulet of blood pooling on the paper beneath him. “Thrombocytopenia maybe. Let's run a test.”

Sean Cushing stirs, groans as his eyes flutter open.

“Mr. Cushing, I'm Dr. Fitzgerald, and this is Dr. Riley.” He moves to the head of the bed.

“Hi,” Cushing says. “Look, I'm fine. Can I get some pain meds and get scanned? I've been here like eight hours.”

“It's not on your medical record,” Karen says. “But are you on blood thinners?”

“A bullet just ripped into me,” Cushing says. “I'm pretty sure that's why I'm bleeding. How about you sew me up and we call this a day?”

“So that's a no,” Cole says. “Do you have a history of bleeding?”

“What? No.” Cushing tries to sit up in bed, grimaces, lies back down.

“Do you work with any specific chemicals or metals?” Karen asks.

“No.” His tone is somewhere between bored and sarcastic. “And no, I don't have fevers or kidney trouble.”

Cole and Karen exchange looks. He says, “So you've been through this line of questioning before?”

“Can I just get some stitches and blow?”

The wound sealant should have worked, yet he's still bleeding. Cole scans the history. Clean MedID. Annual physicals indicating normal lab results. Something's missing. He could have leukemia, a bacterial infection, or a complication with his liver. Maybe these are new symptoms. Or maybe he's lying.

“Dr. Riley will stitch you up,” he says.

Karen pulls up a stool and positions herself at eye level with the wound. She sprays the area with a topical anesthetic, but pricks the skin before it takes full effect. Cushing groans.

“Help me understand something,” Cole says. “You have a spotless medical history. Clean DNA. There's bruising that might be explained by tonight's incident. Or not. Is there anything you can add? Something that's not on your chip?”

“I'm a private person, Doc.”

“It's interesting.” Cole traces his finger over the screen. “You have no record of any prescriptions in the past five years. Looks like you're an exceptionally healthy individual.”

Cushing taps his temple with his index finger. “Health is a state of mind.”

“And if we ran more tests? Would the results show that you're as well as your MedID file reads?”

“Why are you busting balls? Do you really care about my personal well-­being?”

Positioning the syringe, Karen injects pill-­sized sponges that will seek out and adhere to the source of the bleeding, stanching it. Cushing winces. The room is quiet with unease as they wait. Finally the bleeding stops. From behind the curtain, Cole produces a wheelchair.

“You look pale,” he says. “Let's get you some fresh air.”

“I just wanna go home, man.”

“We'll scan you out as soon as you take a quick detour.” Cole nods to his phone on the side table. “Leave it.”

Karen wheels Cushing through the ER, passing several colleagues who are too exhausted at this hour to take notice. Cole leads them to an exit in back of the building. The night air is ripe as they stop by overflowing garbage bins.

“Between the trash and the piss smell, I can tell you're trying to impress me,” Cushing says.

“We don't know each other,” Cole says.

“Though I'm clearly at a deficit.”

“I'm not out to prove that you have sepsis or leukemia or are in liver failure. What I really want to know is, how did you get a clean MedID?”

Cushing sniffs. “Luck?”

“Maybe. Or maybe you know how to manipulate the system.”

“This is bullshit.” Cushing tries to stand but he's weak and settles back into the chair. “Take me back. Scan me out.”

Always direct, Karen says, “Maybe you know someone who cleans MedIDs as a hobby?”

“Oh, I get it. You're progovernment, rah-­rah-­who-­needs-­civil-­liberties assholes. You gonna call the Feds? Based on a hunch?”

Subtly, Karen nods to Cole.

“Like I said, we don't know each other,” Cole says. “Maybe we're after the same thing.”

This disarms Cushing, who is momentarily speechless. “Then what do you want?”

“What if I could get you the treatment you need. For whatever disease or infection you have. Off the record. Privately. At no cost.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I want to know how you have a clean MedID.”

Cushing looks back and forth between them, glances at the building. “You recording this? There cameras out here?”

“It's just us. This isn't a planned meeting. It's a chance meeting.”

“How do I know you're not full of shit?”

“You don't. But then again, I don't know that I can trust you either.”

“Trust me with what?”

“You first.”

Everyone waits. Finally, Cushing speaks, almost whispering. “I used to work for the MedFuture Corporation. Started there maybe ten, twelve years ago now. Right before the biochip went public.”

“What did you do for them?” Cole asks.

“I was a programmer. Software design and management.”

“So you know your way around a MedID chip?”

“You could say that. I learned how to program and finesse the codes. Then I moved up and taught the newbies.”

“But isn't the basic information on the chips hardwired? Unalterable?”

“Nothing's perfect.”

“So you know how to adjust the encrypted information? Change numbers? Erase medical history?”

Cushing's eyes dart to Karen.

“Neither of us has any interest in exposing what you share,” Cole says.

Firmly, quietly, she adds, “I don't believe in the system. Never have.”

“Huh.” Cushing takes a minute. “And I get what? Private health care?”

Cole nods. “Tell us more.”

“All right. Look, the system isn't perfect. With millions of citizens, the government doesn't have the capacity to track inconsistencies. They rely on ­people like you to do that for them. Let's say you input all of your theories about my leg, my platelet count, whatever else, into my MedID file. You scan it and it goes into the massive cloud at the Federal MedID Database. But no one actually looks at it unless they're tracking me individually, have me flagged. They don't have a dedicated staff tracking everyone in the U.S. population with a MedID. It's too overwhelming.”

“So there are holes in the system,” Cole says. “But I still don't understand how you get a clean MedID number with a clean history when, clearly, you don't have either.”

Cushing takes a deep breath. “I wipe it. Rewrite it. Resend the clean file to the Fed Database. And no one's the wiser. It's not a foolproof system, not yet.”

“So you know how to decode the encrypted information?” Karen asks.

Placing a finger to his lips, Cushing says, “Shhh. The government doesn't care about one man. So what if I'm changing my own information? It allows me to work in this shitty economy. It allows me to travel or move anywhere I want to. Having an eighty-­three is like being a celebrity. I can be anything I want to be. The minute the system realizes I'm a sixty-­two, my life ends. I can't even get a date. Women think they'll be widowed by retirement age, and that's not a selling point. With the war and election going on, the Feds don't have time to worry about those of us that don't pose a threat to national security.”

“You ever do pro-­bono work, Mr. Cushing?” Cole asks.

Cushing's features lift with curiosity and, perhaps, amusement. “For a good cause, sure.”

“Let's schedule a follow-­up appointment for that leg,” Karen says. “Off the record. Maybe a home visit. Is the contact information on your chart accurate?”

“It is.”

“We'll be in touch, then,” Cole says.

They discharge Cushing and return to the ER pit, finish up their shift. They need to vet him—­if he checks out, and Steven agrees, they'll ask him to join Project Swap. The solution seems so obvious now. They can have good intentions and Harvard medical degrees, but if they don't have a key player with technological insight, they simply won't be able to change the system, much less save lives.

I
N
THE
QUIET
of Safe District 149, in the middle of the night, Lily wanders through her darkened house. Cole is, supposedly, working the overnight shift. Since Kate died, he's gone all the time. And when he is home, he's distracted, distant. A few times he told her he had to cover a shift, but she called the hospital and he wasn't there. She even tried to geolocate him, but his phone was off. Her imagination stirs, thoughts make her stomach burn. Could he be having an affair? Despite being with the kids all day, she's never felt so alone.

And angry. At first she didn't recognize the feeling—­knots in her back, tension headaches, irrational feelings, and irritability. It's been building for years, she knows. She's angry at the terrorists, at Sebastian for not saving her sister, at Kate for being so goddamned career-­driven. And now Cole. Poor Ian is keeping his distance. The other day after going through a box of Kate's clothes, she began to wail. Scream, really. She hadn't known Ian was standing only feet away, had crept up on her. He'd rushed away without a word. She's scaring her son. She's scaring herself.

In Cole's office, the lamp illuminates when it senses her. Maybe there are answers here. She voice-­commands his computer on but it doesn't work. She tries again. He turned off her access!
Dammit
. What is he hiding? The room is orderly, as always. For the first time in their marriage, she rifles through his things, searching for evidence of betrayal. An empty notebook on the desktop, framed family photos. Old medical books, pens and paper clips. Her knee knocks into something under the desk. It's a small paper shredder that empties into a trashcan, filled to the top with white strips no larger than a quarter inch.

Sinking to the floor, she dumps the tangle of paper. An hour passes as she sifts through it, sweats over these puzzle pieces. It's useless. The white shade on the office window begins to glow with morning light. From down the hall Talia stirs with her groggy morning cry. Exhaustion, so complete, makes her wonder for a moment what would happen if she didn't go to Talia. If instead she curled up right here and slept.

Her glazed eyes stray from the shreds. Again she focuses on the notepad on the desk. She bolts to standing and finds a pencil. With a light touch, she shades the top sheet of paper. There's indentation, Cole's writing. She stares at it.

P.S. to date:

Sarah Hudson 83—­Hazel Berman

Lucia Simpson 80—­Rayna Stillman

Mark Hammond 79—­Derrick Degas

Beatrice McGinnis 86—­

The list is long, probably fifty names. She guesses the numbers are MedIDs, but why are two names next to one number? He has electronic files for all his patients. Why handwrite and then shred it? None of it makes any sense.

Talia's cry is louder now, impatient, angry. It's exactly how Lily feels.