The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (22 page)

"Listen, Leslie,” Everett said. “We all know about what happened in the boat. And if that's what it'll take to win your allegiance, I know I can get Boris to make the cloning happen. I just want you to know that."

She stopped and turned to him, breaking from Roger. She was exhausted from pretending Everett was a stranger and she just wanted to escape to her room. With her last bit of resolve she raised a shaking hand and rested it on his warm chest. “You seem like a good man, Everett. I need someone I can trust. Someone like you. Don't let me down.” His cheeks reddened for the second time as he looked down at her.

"Don't worry. You can count on me.” He grinned.

She smiled back: “Now, please excuse us. I really need to rest."

"Of course. I'll see you later then."

"Yes. Good afternoon.” She dropped her hand and turned with Roger to continue down the hall.

Roger entered her room with her, and sat on her bed while she searched for bugging devices. “What the Red Hell are you doing, Leslie?"

She turned to him and held a finger up in front of her lips, then continued with her search. Finally, she sat beside him on the bed. “I need to talk candidly with you, Roger, and I don't want anyone else to hear."

"Can't you see that these people are your friends?"

"No one is my friend."

His hands flew up like startled pigeons. “What about Everett? You were just saying how you trusted him and you thought he was such a nice guy...” He shook his head and frowned. “I don't understand you.” He sighed. “You're different. You've changed."

"I need to tell you about Everett.” Leslie reached up and caught both his hands and squeezed them.

"What about him, then?"

She gulped. Suddenly, she didn't want to tell Roger any of it. But she knew she had to. She groped down inside herself for the pit of rage she felt. She knew holding her rage could give her the strength to speak. It built inside her like heated lead. Almost like having the arms of the head mem to guide her. Abruptly, she found herself vomiting out the swill of her past to him, telling him about her father, the first time she got pregnant, Washington's connection, meeting Tom, everything. Roger stared at her through the entire rant, dismay growing on his face like shadows shifting in an eerie moonlight. When she was through he looked as if he wanted to argue with her.

"This is too much,” he said. “Are you sure?
Everett?
"

"Don't you think I would know my own father?"

"Well, actually, you haven't all this time. I mean couldn't this be some sort of disorientation from having the head mem removed?"

"I swear to you, Roger, I have not felt this clear in my head for a very long time.” Then, after having said it, she realized it was true. As frightened as she'd been at the prospect of living without the security of the head mem, now she felt liberated. There was a quiet lake at dawn stretching through her, a clarity she only barely recognized from her childhood. Of course part of this clarity included an overwhelming sense of aloneness—that and the steady burning sun of her rage. But she didn't mind those things right now. They gave her a strength she'd never felt before. Leslie was terrified, but being alone and angry gave her the ability to face it.

Roger stared at her, looking miserable. “It's just, well, hard to accept. I thought these people were okay, you know?"

"Roger. I have no idea what kind of people these are overall. I have no idea if they're true to themselves or their movement. I've no idea if they're pawns just like everybody else, or if they truly are making a difference in the world. I don't know if they've found a wisdom that could liberate you from your oppression and your personal cowardice. Maybe they do. All I know is Everett is not what he now pretends to be. And these people want to use me just as much as Washington does. I am fed up with accepting the will of everyone around me like a stick caught in the tide."

Roger's eyes had gone wide as he listened, and then they narrowed. His jaw trembled when he spoke. “I know you think I'm a coward,” he said. “Maybe I am. Maybe I've wasted most of my life being passive and afraid and talking big in the safety of my own room. Freedom of speech in a vacuum. So maybe you're right about me. I saw how you looked at me in the conference room. Forgive me for wanting to believe in something, Saint Leslie!” He shook her hands from the tangle of his long fingers and now one fist rested on his knee. “But I've been trying to do right by you, Leslie, at great expense to myself, even if you don't want to acknowledge it."

"No, Roger. You're right. I'm sorry.” She took the bristle of his chin in her hand and turned him toward her. “I'm sorry. I've used you. I put you into a situation you never asked to be a part of. I brought you danger and ruined your life. You have every reason and every right to hate me. But you
have
tried to make the best of it. And you've done pretty well, Roger. You really have. I'm sorry."

Leslie looked into his dark eyes. They were bloodshot around the edges. In fact she was grateful to him for his companionship and his loyalty, even if it originally had come out of fear and momentum. She even forgave him for sticking his cock in her face—after all, she supposed, she'd wanted it too, at least a little. Partly to get back at Tom, but partly because she just wanted it.

"Roger. I need your help one last time."

"What do you need me to do?"

"If I can bring Washington and Security and Everett together all at the same time, all chasing me..."

"How are you going to do that?"

"It should be a lot easier than you think. They all
want
to confront each other. I just want to set the rules.” She let go of his face. “In the morning you're going to discover I've stolen a lift car and taken off. You're going to throw yourself at Everett's mercy and convince him to come after me. He'll take you along if he believes you have knowledge that'll help him find me—and you
will
, because I'm going to tell you where to go. He has to continue to think his strength is in my trust of him. He has to believe you and he are the only people who'll be able to convince me to return to the United Sons of Adam. Do you understand what I'm telling you? You have to make him believe I bolted because I was frightened, but you're sure I can be reasoned with. If you need to use the fetus as leverage toward my return for his sake, do it. But make sure you don't leave it here. Do you understand?
Roger?
"

He shook his head, but said, “Yes."

"Good. I wish I still had Gun to give you. But then again, Security could track that.” She touched his shoulder gently. “After this, you don't ever have to have a thing to do with me if you don't want to. Will you help me ... this last time?"

He shook his head again, but smiled. “Leslie. You're wrong about at least one thing. You didn't ruin my life. You gave me back my life. I'm grateful to
you
for that. Of course I'll help. You can count on me to do whatever you need."

Leslie hugged him around his narrow shoulders. “Thank you, Roger.” Then she let go of him and pushed him off the bed. “We should get some rest. We've got a long day ahead of us. And I feel like shit."

"Yeah, it sounds like it,” he said as he stood.

When Everett's alarm went off he felt instant anger. He groped in the dark to shut it off then fumbled for the lamp by his bed. This was what he hated most about staying in the underground cell—you had no natural sense of the cycle of night to day. He cursed, sat up and knuckled his eyes. Patterns exploded through blindness, and the room was a blur when he opened them. He pulled on his jeans and went to the bar in the corner.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

Everett poured himself a scotch and took it to his desk. He turned on another lamp and sat down to look at his trembling hands in the amber light.
I thought you were going to burst when she said you had a kind face. That was just too rich! A kind face!

His daughter was pathetic. How could his progeny be so stupid? Maybe Washington's head mem had seriously damaged her brain. The irony in that didn't escape him. Her innocent trust in him, her amnesia, products of Washington, made possible his manipulation of her to harm Washington.
Frankie!
Everett grinned and nodded his head, took a swig of his drink.

I must admit, talking with her is a bit disconcerting. It'd almost be better if she did remember me. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about her discovering her past, and I could relax to enjoy my control over her.

Everett's thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at his door. “Come in,” he called.

It was Roger, who pushed the door open and stood there looking startled.
Here's another great American hero
. He looked the ragged man up and down.

Have I ever seen a more pathetic creature in all my life? He's the most gullible, weak, passive, soft malcontent I've ever met. A perfect American. A sheep. The perfect archetype. The loser. At least he kept the appropriate company.
Everett carefully donned his most concerned, compassionate mask and motioned the man inside.

"Roger? What's wrong?"

"I'm ... I'm sorry to bother you, Everett."

"It's all right. What is it?"

"Leslie, sir.” He threw up his hands. “She's gone."

Everett almost jumped from his chair. “What do you mean, she's gone? Where did she go?"

Roger stepped closer. “Everett, I'm frightened for her. I know she isn't thinking clearly. I mean, we spoke last night. She was talking all crazy—it hardly made any sense. I need your help. I know out of everyone here she felt she could trust you."

Then why the hell did she run away?
The question barbed Everett's mind.

"Roger. What
exactly
did she say? Was she going back to Washington?"

"I'm telling you, she wasn't rational. She was all mixed up, one minute talking about returning to Washington, one minute talking about getting revenge on her supervisor, one minute begging me to save her baby. Everett, we need to find her before she gets hurt."

"Yes, yes,” Everett said, waving a hand in the air. He smoothed his hair back against his scalp. “Do you have any idea where she was headed?"

"From what she was saying to me, yes I think I do."

"Well? Tell me."

"Yeah, but ... you're going to take me too, right?"

Everett blew out a long breath then bit at his lower lip.

Oh, the fools I must suffer...

"I'm her only friend, Everett. If you're going to convince her to come with you to the United Sons of Adam, then I should be there with you."

"I thought you said she trusted
me
."

"Yeah. But then again she hardly...” Roger paused the space of three blinks “...she hardly knows you, too."

Everett studied Roger's face. The man was such a fool, so weak, so earnest. Everett hated him. But it was probably true his presence would be helpful to coerce Saint Leslie. “All right. Let's waste no time. How soon can you be ready to go?"

"Just let me get some things together. Five, ten minutes."

While he waited for Roger to return, Everett finished his scotch, finished dressing, and poured a second drink. When Roger knocked, Everett gulped the scotch, slammed the glass on his desk, and called the loser in. Roger carried that Styrofoam cooler; he set it down beside him.

"Why do you—” Everett tipped the cover off and looked down at the fetal tissue in its baggy, which had come unsealed and was half submerged in bloodied chunks of ice.

"We can't leave it here. She needs to know it's safe. And she needs to be convinced you're going to help her get it cloned. That's one of the strongest tools you have to convince her to come back."

Everett made a sound that was half laughter, half disgust. “Well,
you're
going to have to carry it."

"I wouldn't have it any other way,” Roger said, and Everett wondered what that was supposed to mean.

From a security standpoint, the annual Rebel Day Parade was the worst imaginable nightmare. For days before, New York City was glutted and gorged with land and lift cars; tourists bled uncontrolled from the trains and buses, only to clot like platelets gone mad in the constricted vessels of Manhattan streets. By the time the Monday of the parade came along it was almost impossible to keep track of the ebb and flow of the crowds as they celebrated the spirit of revolutionary dissent. The parade would anaconda from below Bleecker Street all the way up Seventh Avenue to Times Square, where the celebration would continue into the night with musical performances, the President's address, and, finally, an explosive release of fireworks. Really, it wouldn't be so bad if Father Washington didn't insist on taking part in the celebration—but tradition was tradition.

Leslie had parked the lift car she'd stolen from the USA on a roof garage by the sable and silver glow of dawn, then slept in the driver's seat for three hours. When she woke and took the elevator to street level, the morning sun was burning the dirty pavement, and crowds had already clogged the sidewalks and shops along Forty-Fourth Street. The myriad olfactory textures of sidewalk barbecues, rank sweat, stale urine, and garbage made her sick to her stomach and she felt dizzy. Still, she pushed her way through backs, shoulders, and elbows toward Seventh Avenue. Leslie wanted her spot staked out before noon, when the city would
really
come to life. There were already plenty of young punks swilling from bottles in paper bags, revelers in flower child costumes, Eighteenth Century Continental Army uniforms, rebel militia costumes, Christ and Rock Star masks.

The real irony for security on Rebel Day was, as a security guard, your duty was to contain and control people who were acting out a spirit of abandon and disdain promoted by Washington itself. Sure, Leslie had heard all the pop-psych rationales for the day—how it was a harmless or therapeutic release for drives that were otherwise pent-up in the masses until they exploded into violence. As well, it was a re-affirmation of the Spirit of Seventy-Six, the very spirit of Christ on the Holy Cross.