Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (16 page)

Shortly before midnight, we turn off Sunset onto a steep, twisting road. We pass the entrance to the Chateau, close to the highway—a long iron-gated driveway leading up to the stark white building, ivy crawling up its walls. Under two glowing torches a couple of sleepy Peacemakers are stationed. Harp shrinks into the shadows, but they glance at our car without flinching. I can't let my gaze linger, but I'm struck by how weird the Chateau looks, so ornate and old-fashioned in the middle of this weird city. It isn't particularly tall, but it's imposing, overlooking the twinkling lights of Hollywood. I turn the corner and continue up the curved lane past extravagant, abandoned houses. At the top of the hill, I turn onto the twisty street Dylan told us about and park in an empty house's driveway. We wait. After about fifteen minutes, I see blond curls bouncing beneath a sweatband as Dylan comes jogging up the sidewalk. He wears a white tank top and short red shorts. Harp unlocks the back door for him.

“Dude.” I turn in my seat to study him. “Have you ever seen, like, a single movie before? This is your stakeout attire?”

“You didn't say anything about what to wear!” Dylan exclaims. “And anyway, I told Derrick—the Peacemaker at the kitchen entrance—that I was going for a run. I wouldn't go for a run in a black ski mask, would I?”

He advises me to do a loop. The Chateau is built into the hillside, and the roads behind it are curving and narrow. As we drive, we study the hotel's white stone façade and the black iron gate—taller than any of us—that protects the Chateau's perimeter. Dylan tells us we're approaching the kitchen entrance, then ducks—Derrick, the Peacemaker who guards that door, is peering intently into the car as we pass. I turn my face away as best as I can, feeling exposed by the lamps hanging from the walls of the Chateau, and it isn't until we're far away from the Peacemakers, back on Sunset Boulevard, that the three of us are able to breathe. Dylan points out a thicket of trees beside the hotel, a few shiny palms peeking through—this is where the Chateau has a small number of bungalows, where a few of the Church's distinguished employees, Dylan included, reside.

“I don't think Taggart's in a bungalow,” he says thoughtfully. “I never see him by the pool. If I had to guess, I'd say he's on the sixth floor, the top—I know that's where Blackmore stays.”

It's too dangerous to do another loop and risk Derrick's suspicion—the Peacemaker is built like a professional wrestler. We pull into what used to be a gas station across the street, and Dylan describes the hotel's interior in great detail. I hope Harp is paying attention. Because all I can focus on is the lit windows of the sixth floor. I try to imagine which one of them Peter is behind. I try to imagine he knows I'm coming.

In the week that follows, we stick to this routine: On the four nights Diego himself isn't doing surveillance at the Chateau, we wait until everyone's gone to bed, sneak out, and drive to the hotel, which we observe from all angles until shortly before dawn. We watch the guards at the front gate end their shifts at two thirty a.m.; we watch their impossibly prompt substitutes appear. We note that Derrick, the Peacemaker at the kitchen exit, ends his shift approximately ninety minutes before—no one comes to replace him, but a security camera hangs over the door. Late on Monday, we watch a black car pull up the drive, and a man who looks like Ted Blackmore steps into the moonlight before entering the hotel. Twice Dylan joins us, showing us pictures on his phone of Molly in her school uniform (navy jacket, starchy white bonnet), and laughing with Harp about bad habits of Raj's they're trying not to forget. The other nights it's just Harp and me, increasingly tired and spooked about our plan. On Thursday, twenty-four hours before we plan to break in, a breathless Dylan scampers up to the car and dives in, his expression anxious. He lies flat across the back seat.

“Don't drive,” he hisses before I can start the engine. “I may have been followed.”

“Fuck!” Harp slips below the line of the windshield.

“I was down in the lobby with Marnie, and I saw Peter Taggart walk past, with Blackmore. They got on an elevator, so I decided to trail them. I ran up the steps as fast as I could and I caught up with them on the sixth floor. Peter went into a room—619. So there's that. But then a Peacemaker came up behind me, all ‘What are you doing?' and I said I was just stretching my legs but I could tell he didn't believe me and now I'm going to die here because of you two; I'm going to die cowering in the back seat of a midsize sedan!”

We wait a long time, but the ominous knock of a Peacemaker at the window never comes. After about twenty minutes, I take a tentative peek outside. Nothing.

“We're okay,” I say, and Harp and Dylan reluctantly lift their heads. “But, Dylan, you shouldn't stay, just in case. We've got it from here.”

He frowns. “You do? What, exactly, is your plan?”

Harp looks at me—we haven't discussed it in detail yet; we have only the barest sketch. I've been counting on something foolproof hitting us over the course of the week, as we've sat here watching and worrying. But nothing has.

“We're coming back tomorrow, at one thirty in the morning. We're going in through the kitchens, after Derrick goes off duty.”

“What about the security camera?” Dylan sounds dubious.

“We'll—” I glance around, as if the answer is here in the car with us. “We'll throw, like, a hoodie over it, or something.”

Dylan groans. “Have
you
ever seen a single movie before? I can unplug the camera from the inside just before you arrive. You'll have a window of about five minutes before the Peacemakers watching the feed realize something's up. How are you going to get through the door?” He waits a beat, but we have no answer. He shakes his head, but I can tell he's secretly a little pleased. “I can make sure it's unlocked during that window.”

“If I didn't know you better,” Harp muses, “I'd think we weren't the first people you've covertly snuck into a heavily guarded hotel.”

“Maybe you shouldn't assume you're the only people who've ever covertly snuck in.” He raises an eyebrow at our blank looks. “This is the Church of America we're talking about, ladies. They talk a virtuous game, but surely you realize not all Believers are angels? I've picked up on a few tricks along the way. How do you plan to get up to the sixth floor?”

Another snag I hadn't anticipated. “Quietly?”

“Pathetic.” Dylan's laughing now. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a thin plastic card on a lanyard, reading
BELLA—STAFF
. He hands it to me. “An employee pass. It'll get you into the service elevator at the back of the kitchens.”

“Dylan!”

“I've been cozying up to a housekeeper.” Dylan grins. “She thinks I'm cute. I told her I lost my pass, and could I just borrow hers; it'll only take me two days to get a new one.”

Harp reaches back to swat him playfully on the arm. “Look at this! This is the rascally Dylan Marx I know and love! You incorrigible scamp! Where have you been hiding?”

But Dylan doesn't answer. Even in the dim light of the car, I can see a weird tension in his eyes. His grin stays in place, but it seems forced now. “Listen, if you get caught—”

“We would never tell them how we got in, Dylan,” I assure him. “I swear.”

He shakes his head. “If you get caught, or even if you make it but I don't see you before September . . .”

“We'll see you before September, dummy,” says Harp, “and after September too. The world's not really ending, remember? You're gonna be stuck with us a
long
time.”

“Right.” Dylan doesn't sound convinced. “Well, look—be safe. Okay?” He leans forward and kisses us on our cheeks and then, without another word, slips out of the car and into the dark, hot night. We watch him jog away into the shadows.

We crawl into bed above the Good Book shortly before dawn, moments before the others begin to stir. I lie awake, eyes shut to the rising sun streaming in through the windows, listening to Winnie and her friends prepare for another day of training. The weight of what we have to do presses down upon me. I try to remind myself that if we succeed in warning Peter, Winnie will not have to help attack the Chateau Marmont—a mission she doesn't believe in, a mission that could kill her. If we succeed, there's a chance Winnie won't see this last week of furtive planning and sneaking out as a betrayal. She might even be grateful for it. But right at this moment it's hard to believe we'll succeed. Once the soldiers have left and after we've given up on the prospect of sleep, Harp reads from her comments a new flux of theoretical destinations of the Raptured: Billings, Boise, Boulder. I can't concentrate. I am thinking only of Winnie. If we're caught tonight—and how could we not be?—I will never see her again. I explain to Harp why I'm distracted, and I can tell by her frown that she understands.

“I just wish we could say goodbye,” I tell her.

Later, after the soldiers have returned to the command center, all of us cluster around the television together, watching the Church of America News Network in our usual, irritable, terrified way.

“You guys,” Harp suddenly addresses the group, “are so boring.”

No one responds. I see Kimberly roll her eyes at Colby. I watch Harp, unsure of what she's doing—all I know is that she has a glint in her eye I recognize from what feels like a long time ago, the arch easiness that always comes with her burgeoning plans.

“I mean it,” she tries again, after a minute. “Don't you ever have fun? Don't you party? When we were with the New Orphans, there were parties
every night.
Epic ones—music, so much booze, everybody grinding up on each other, going nuts . . .”

“I thought you said the New Orphans were useless.” Diego raises an eyebrow. “I thought you said they were pawns of the Church.”

“Uh, yeah?” says Harp. “That doesn't mean they don't have great parties.”

Julian gazes at her, tapping his bottom lip with his finger. Winnie watches the screen, but she seems to be trying not to smile.

Diego says, “Well, I'm sorry being a soldier is not the nonstop rave you were expecting.”

“I'm sorry for
you
guys,” Harp replies. “You never take any time to unwind. If that works for you, no judgment! If it were me, though . . . well, never mind.”

“If it were you, what?” Julian asks.

She gives him a sad half smile. “Life is short. Shorter for a soldier. If it were me, I'd want to have some fun before I gave up my life for my—extremely honorable!—principles.”

Julian frowns. Robbie stares at Harp; he looks slightly pale. But everyone else appears to ignore her. Just when I think they must be unusually immune to Harp's particular charms, Elliott gets up, leaves the apartment without saying a word, and returns twenty minutes later with a paper sack from which he pulls five bottles of tequila, four bottles of vodka, and a bottle of whiskey. He stays silent, but he unscrews the cap on the whiskey, holds the bottle up to Harp in a solemn salute, and takes a long, eager sip.

No one has to say it's a party for it to become one. After some prodding from his cousin, Diego busies himself in the kitchen, and a mix of delicious smells—roasting garlic, sautéing onions, fresh cilantro, sizzling meat—begins to waft into the room, making everybody hungry and a little giddy. Harp pours tequila into a couple dozen glasses and, when she runs out of glasses, directly into some soldiers' mouths. But the soldiers are shy with one another—they remind me of myself the first time I went to a house party with Harp, one night last July. I was unnerved by the presence of fellow students, most of whom I'd never spoken to outside the context of history projects and French study groups. “Who did you expect to be here?” Harp asked incredulously, and then she dragged me around to every person there, forcing me to say hi. “You guys know Viv, right?” she'd say. “I'm taking her on as my protégée.”

I watch her perform the same magic tonight, easing everyone out of their formality with a drinking game she invents on the spot. She turns up the volume on the news and shouts, “Every time they say the word ‘sin,' we drink!” Within ten minutes, everybody is red-cheeked and giggling, though Harp (who, like me, hasn't had a sip) is horrified. “Jesus, I didn't realize how much they used the word ‘sin'! They're getting so wasted!”

But nobody seems to mind. It's funny to watch the uptight façades fade away, the real personalities shine through. Diego serves us a huge, warm, fantastic meal, which we eat on the floor, balancing paper plates in our laps: rice and beans; creamy guacamole with lots of salt and lime; bread dripping with melted butter and roasted garlic; golden-brown, smoky pork chops we have to cut into thirds for everyone to have a piece; orange slices for dessert. Robbie—who has somehow managed to sneak a couple of shots of tequila despite Frankie's scolding eye—turns on music as the plates are cleared, and everyone drifts into groups of twos and threes, chatting in corners about the things they don't have time to care about anymore: books and bands and old secular TV shows. Kimberly and Julian invent new cocktails, mixing Elliott's alcohol with every liquid in the fridge—they taste, spit in disgust, fall over each other laughing, and try again. Birdie and Colby sway together in the center of the room, slower than the beat of the song, while beside them Robbie performs a frenzied dance, banging his head, kicking indiscriminately, creating a wide berth around him. On a couch in the corner, Diego has his arm around Winnie; he murmurs into her ear, and she sips happily from her glass, nuzzling close to him. He planned to go to the Chateau himself tonight, for another long stretch of surveillance, but clearly that plan has been forgotten.