Vivian Apple Needs a Miracle (32 page)

I stand on tiptoe to kiss him again. When he pulls away, he glances at Winnie and Mom, who gaze back politely. And suddenly, even though we're standing in the middle of Hollywood with a fake apocalypse hurtling toward us at full speed, my life feels unbelievably normal.

“Oh.” Under my bruises my cheeks go pink, and nearby Harp glances up at the sky in a nonchalant way, whistling. “Peter, this is my sister, Winnie Conroy, and my mom. Mom, Winnie, this is Peter Ivey. My boyfriend.”

Peter shakes their hands shyly—“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Apple”—while Harp giggles to herself. Winnie nudges at her with an elbow, but her mouth is twitching. My mother seems nervous; her eyes are oddly bright.

“Well!” she says in a too-loud voice. “Isn't this weird? I always thought when I met Viv's first boyfriend, we'd be sitting down before her prom and looking at her baby pictures!”

I cover my face, hoping this will render me invisible. “Oh God, Mom, please. No.”

“I'd really like to see those someday, Mrs. Apple.” Peter grins.

“Hopefully Pittsburgh is on fire right now,” I say, “and our house burns with it.”

“You think I didn't upload those to the cloud?” Mom laughs, and she sounds so like herself I can't help but join in. “Come on, Viv. Have a little appreciation for the savvy of your dear old mom.”

“Actually”—Harp gestures toward her backpack with her thumb—“I happen to have a laptop right here on my person. I could fire it up pretty easily! We could create that perfect family moment as we speak.”

I lunge at her and Harp cackles, trying to unzip the bag with one hand and fight me off with the other; Peter and Mom laugh together, watching us, and it's a perfect moment: my best friend, my boyfriend, my mother, and me. But then Winnie clears her throat, and I snap out of it. I feel at once a grasping panic—there is too much left to do, and the hold I have on these people I love is tenuous at best.

“I'm sorry,” Winnie says when we fall silent. “But we can't slow down. As far as we know, the Angels still plan to broadcast the rising of their Messiah. We'll need to confront them before they get the chance. Except—oh, shit!”

I understand at the same moment Harp does. “Joanna!” she groans.

The Raptured Believers, the linchpin of our whole plan, are still behind the gate with the rest of the riot. Without Joanna to confront the Angels on camera, Harp's live stream will be nothing more than the accusations of three terrorists and a boy possessed by Satan, a dull series of denials from the Three Angels—assuming we can find them—most likely followed by our own gruesome deaths.

“We need one of the Raptured Believers for any of this to work,” I say. “Look, I'll head back out and get Joanna.” I start to move in the direction of the gate, but Winnie grabs my arm.

“The guards won't let you,” she insists. “And for all we know, Wilkins has already told them we assaulted a Peacemaker. They could be on their way here as we speak.”

“What if,” Peter thinks out loud, “we found Frick? If we could get him on camera before they broadcast the Messiah—that would work, right? If he said anything like what he told us in Point Reyes that night—”

“If we could get Frick to say the Rapture was faked,” I realize, “that would be enough.”

“Frick?” my mother echoes, sounding mildly panicked. “
Beaton
Frick?”

“But where do you think he'd be?” I ask Peter.

“No idea. They'd probably give him a nice room, as a show of respect . . .” He trails off, absent-mindedly examining the nearby cottages.

“He's probably inside the Chateau,” Winnie points out. “They'd want to keep him close—as far from the crowds as possible.”

Peter nods. “Look, let's try the sixth floor and work our way down. We have no time to waste.”

We race back through the garden and past the guard at the stone wall; Winnie slams her rifle into his temple to ensure he doesn't follow. As a cluster, we move in through the entrance and make our way to the main staircase, racing up, pushing against a tide of escaping Church employees. One or two glance at me and I see the frightened glimmer of recognition, but nobody tries to stop us. The employees know better than the Believers outside the various sins of the Church of America, and they're attempting to get out while they can. As we climb up to the top of the Chateau, the sounds of the remaining Believers' panic floats up with us—howling and unintelligible shouting, and, on the fourth floor, a single, alarming gunshot. The sixth floor is quieter than the others, its doors all closed. The employees here are higher up. Either they know about the Messiah, or they're more inclined to trust Masterson to get them out of this mess. I check Wilkins's watch: ten to eleven.

“What do we do?” my mother whispers. “Bang on the doors, screaming Frick's name?”

Harp and Peter and I exchange a look.

“Mrs. Apple,” Harp replies, “that is
exactly
what we're about to do.”

I take one side and Peter the other; Harp rushes ahead. Winnie has her gun at the ready should Masterson or the others appear. I bang on each door with my sledgehammer. “FRICK!” I shout. “BEATON FRICK!” Peter's voice goes scratchy echoing mine. Doors open and the rooms' occupants peer out in alarm—I see them exchange dark glances, and I know they know where he is. But no one points us in his direction.

Then, from around the corner, Harp's voice: “Hey!”

Peter glances at me and together we run; we see her at the very last room at the end of the hall. She's got her foot stuck between the door and its frame, her hands pressed against it; Harp pushes madly, but someone inside is determined to shut her out. Peter reaches her and throws his shoulder against the door. We hear a cry as the person behind it falls back—the door swings open easily. Winnie and my mother have caught up to us, and together we enter the room.

Inside is Beaton Frick. The sight of him makes my mom gasp and drop to her knees. He's far better groomed than the last times I saw him: clean-shaven, hair cut. There's something of the old Frick in him—confident and businesslike—but then he gives me a small wave of recognition, his eyes simultaneously delighted and alarmed, and I know his mind is still a mess. On any other occasion, his presence would be the most notable thing about a room. But tonight our attention is drawn to the other person in it.

He's sprawled on the floor, kicking wildly in an effort to get to his feet, but he's too tangled in his long, linen robes. He's young—Winnie's age, maybe—with shoulder-length auburn hair and a beard of the same color. He resembles Jesus to a degree that's at once incredible and deeply hilarious. And he glares at us all, propping himself up on one elbow, chattering darkly into the phone he holds to his ear.

“Thanks for your concern, Jeremy, but I'm fine. No, it's not them; it's a bunch of insane-looking teenagers. Yes, I remember what the contract said. Thank you so much for that. Well, what am I supposed to do? They just burst in here! Ask them what? Okay. Hang on.”

The Messiah fixes his scowl on me. “Are you here to kill me?”

We're all too startled to answer. Then the Messiah snaps at us with his fingers, like he thinks we're maybe deaf. I shake my head at him.

“They say no, Jeremy.” He pushes himself to his feet and continues speaking as if we haven't interrupted. “Anyway, my point is, you
told
me this was prime time. You told me I'd be in capable hands. But the fact is, five hours ago they stuck me in a room with a”—his voice lowers briefly to a theatrical whisper—“
lunatic,
and told me I couldn't be seen. I haven't heard from them since!” A brief pause, then the Messiah starts shouting. “Yeah, I know about the riot! Talk about your unsafe working conditions! I want you to call Masterson now and remind him I belong to the guild!”

Behind him, Frick sits patiently on the bed, giving us a mild, polite smile, like the Messiah is a badly behaved grandson he cannot bring himself to rebuke.

“Is that really the tone you want to take with me, Jeremy? Maybe you've forgotten—you work for me. That new vacation home in Boca Raton—that's thanks to
me!
”

Winnie pushes past me then, marching up to the Messiah. She snatches the phone from his hand and shouts, “He'll call you back!” into it. She hangs up and turns to the actor, who is cowering a little now. “What's your name?”

Though his eyes are still frightened, the Messiah seems to remember himself. He pulls himself up to his full height, folding his hands peacefully across his chest. “Why,” he says, in a very different voice, softer and vaguely British, “you know my name, child.”

“Guy's
good,
” Harp deadpans after a pause. “You've got to give him that.”

Winnie looks disgusted, and though she's a full head shorter than the Messiah, he shrinks when she begins to speak again, her voice quiet and deadly. “I hope they're paying you a lot of money for this. I hope you were able to buy a big house you'll never live in, and a shiny car you'll never drive. I hope knowing those things are out there is satisfying to you, because the Church
owns
you now. Do you understand? Do you know what happens when they don't require the people they own anymore? Do you know what happened to the Raptured Believers?”

The Messiah cringes, like he'd rather she didn't bring it up. Winnie turns to Frick.

“And you. Do you understand who this is? Do you get who the Angels will claim he is?”

“I think so.” Frick speaks in a quiet voice. “I think I do.”

“And that's okay with you?”

Frick shakes his head and Winnie looks satisfied. But then he abruptly thunders, “Because there's no rescue from the eternal torment America faces! God has damned us all to a world born into fire, and he'll laugh without mercy as we burn! This man is an impostor, and we shall feed him to the hounds when they bound up from the mouth of hell!”

Behind me, my mother murmurs a shocked “Oh my.”

Winnie catches my eye and grins. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “I think this will work.”

My sister leaves first, scoping out the hallway. Harp and I follow with Frick. My mother is behind us, and Peter brings up the rear, half dragging the struggling Messiah. “Listen, if something happens to the costume, it isn't coming out of my wages,” we hear him mutter. Harp leans forward to catch my eye and the two of us stifle laughter.

This is how it happens. With my face turned forward and my mouth a wide grin. A Peacemaker appears at the end of the hall, his gun already aimed at us. It takes a moment for me to understand—because how can it happen when I'm laughing, when we've won? But then I hear the blast shatter the easy silence of the sixth floor, then another, then a third—this last from Winnie, who hits her target. People are screaming—my mother and the Messiah, but also the Church employees around us, who come pouring out of their rooms now against all logic. They see the body at one end of the hall and Winnie at the other, rifle still poised, and they run, shouting, as if chased. One man lunges at Winnie, tries to pin her down; she throws him off, but not easily. She glances at me over her shoulder.

“Run, Viv!” Winnie shouts. “Get them downstairs!”

Frick has gone rigid with shock, and I tug hard on his arm to pull him forward, past Winnie, who has stumbled to the floor. The hall is full of people. The man who lunged for Winnie grabs at Harp's ankles; my best friend trips. I see the Messiah dart past me; Peter runs after him. Finally Frick moves and we push through the crowd; I glance back quickly to make sure Harp's on her feet, and she is. But that's when I realize my mother hasn't stopped screaming. Not since the second shot rang out. I stop in my tracks. I look back at her, through the mess of people streaming away from the scene. She's on her knees in the middle of the hallway, screaming, and I'm trying to see: Where was she hit? Where is the blood? But then I see Winnie.

She lies on her back on the floor in front of my mother, a massive dark stain spreading across her chest. She blinks, dazed, at the ceiling. Mom crawls forward and lifts her head to cradle it, and I let go of Frick's arm—
Stay here!
I shout, or mean to shout—and slip my hoodie off my shoulders and go running, stumbling to my knees. I press the sweatshirt down hard on her chest. Winnie lowers her eyes to me, smiling weakly.

“Tell Mara she's got to pull it together,” Winnie says.

And I watch her eyelids quiver a few long seconds, then close.

It happens so quickly that it hasn't happened. Time is still in flux. All it would take to reverse it would be the careful retracing of footsteps, a throwaway gesture done slightly differently. Where do we begin?

Winnie's head rests against my mother's knees; Mom wails at the ceiling. I watch a rust-colored stain spread against my sweatshirt. Harp sinks to the other side of Winnie, places a hand on her arm. From below comes a mighty din—scuffling and shouts, a series of piercing, heart-lurching screams—and I dimly understand that the mob outside has broken through the gates and into the Chateau. I want to curl beside the body of my sister, let the chaos swallow me up. But instead I think of Winnie: at once so strong and vulnerable, impossibly adult. I try to channel her.

“Mom. You have to calm down. Look: she's still breathing.”

My mother takes a breath and watches Winnie's chest rise and fall unevenly. Tears stream down her face, but she manages to stop howling. Harp watches me, waiting for my next move. We need a doctor. I feel a presence loom over my shoulder, and after a moment, Frick kneels beside Harp on Winnie's other side.

He takes my sister's hand into his. My mother watches with an expression I can't decipher; Harp inches slightly away.

Frick begins to pray.