While he hadn’t bought everything Smith was selling, Cooper had believed enough of it to move forward. To find the video and kill Drew Peters and bring down a president.
And now he wondered if that had been Smith’s purpose all along.
“Bobby,” Cooper said, “I need you tell me the truth. Am I crazy? Or is it possible?”
His friend set down the pint glass. Picked up the cigarette, put it in his mouth, and then tapped at the bar with his fingers, his eyes down. Cooper let him think. Hoped against hope that Quinn would tell him that it was a paranoid fantasy. Cooper’s gift for pattern recognition gave him huge advantages, but they were more tactical than strategic, more about the next moment than ten moves down the line. Quinn was the planner.
“It’s possible.” All the jocularity was drained from his friend’s voice. “It is.”
Cooper leaned back. His stomach went sour, and the back of his throat burned with bile. Possible was as good as certainty, if John Smith was the X factor. “He played us.”
“But you realize what that means? All of it, everything we did, it was all part of his plan. When Smith told you about the video, sent us after Peters, it had nothing to do with his innocence or the truth. He did it because—”
“Because he knew that if I found that video, I would release it. And that would bring down the president and paralyze the DAR. He knew I would do the right thing, and he used that to make the situation worse.” Cooper hesitated, tried to swallow the next words, found they tore his throat like razors. “It means that this is my fault, Bobby.”
“Bull. You can’t take that on.”
“I have to. Sure, I was trying my best, but I played right into his hands. We all did. I thought he was using me to get exonerated and come out of hiding. But those were just fringe benefits. Crippling our response to the COD was the real goal.”
“But why? I mean, if everything he did to bring you in and set you up was just step one, and he was already thinking of step ten, then what’s the endgame?”
“War,” Cooper said. “The endgame is war. I think that John Smith is no longer interested in equal rights for abnorms. I think he wants to start a civil war.”
“And do what? Kill all the normals?”
Cooper said nothing.
“Jesus.” Quinn rubbed at his eyes. “Wait. How does this get him what he wants? Things are worse now for abnorms than ever before. The microchipping, the hate crimes, hell, every third congressman holding press conferences to say we need to lock you all up.”
“Exactly. Remember, it’s not like abnorms are united. He can’t just send us an e-mail. Most people, straight or twist, wouldn’t have anything to do with him. They’re just trying to live their lives. If Smith wants to take power, he needs an army. And since he can’t start recruiting—”
Quinn’s eyes widened as he got the whole scope of it. “He gets the government to do it for him. He goads them into getting repressive. People go from worrying about abnorms to fearing them. From there, it’s a baby step to attacking them. Lynchings, riots. His army forms itself. After all, if everyone is trying to kill your people, you better get together and defend yourselves.”
“And you’ll need a leader to do it. A man of bold vision, one who promises you a world where you’re not only safe—you’re in charge. Not equal rights. Superiority for the superior.”
The door to the bar opened, and a group of twentysomethings strolled in, laughing and joking. An icy draft flowed with them, and Cooper shivered. Quinn pushed his glass away. “Suddenly I’m not thirsty.”
“Yeah.”
“The DAR has been watching Smith as best we can. We haven’t seen any sign that he’s in contact with the COD.”
“He wouldn’t have to be. He could have made this plan two years ago, laid out a very specific set of instructions. Do this, then do this, then do that. Like you said, a small group who knows exactly how to hurt us.”
“And meanwhile, he runs around the country giving speeches and signing books, going on tri-d, talking about how he’s a victim. Whipping up support while pretending to be the voice of reason.”
Fix it, Natalie had said. The thought almost made him laugh. Fix it? He’d broken it. True, his intentions had been pure, the kind of choices his father would have approved of. But they had served John Smith’s goals regardless. Right had been warped to do so much wrong.
“You know,” Quinn said, “some days I hate everybody.” He shook his head. “Things are getting bad, aren’t they? I mean, we’ve always been on the front line, and it always looks like it’s about to go to hell. That’s the game. But this is different.” He looked up, met Cooper’s eyes. “We really may be on the brink. The end of everything.”
The end of everything. It was such a melodramatic statement, so huge and vaguely silly. The end of everything? Of course not. The cataclysmic never really happened. It just lurked out there. Hurricanes didn’t really destroy cities. Plagues didn’t really ravage populations. People didn’t really commit genocide.
Except . . . they did.
“Have you talked to the president?”
Cooper shook his head. “No one wants to hear it. They’re all too sure that everything will be okay.”
“You could be wrong about Smith.”
“Nothing would make me happier. But I don’t think I am. Do you?”
“No.”
“So what are we going to do about it?”
Quinn sucked air through his teeth. “With the situation right now, there’s no way the DAR will take any action against Smith. In the public’s eyes, he’s become a white hat. The victim of a repressive government. We couldn’t arrest him if he was shooting strangers with one hand while jerking off into the American flag with the other.”
“That’s vivid.”
“Thank you. What about President Clay?”
“Nope, no chance,” Cooper said. “John Smith is untouchable.”
“Completely off-limits.”
“One hundred percent.” Cooper picked up his napkin, tore a neat strip off of it, and another, and another. He looked up at his friend. “Want to go get him anyway?”
Quinn smiled. “Oh, hell yes.”
CHAPTER 14
Breath blowing white, Ethan sorted cans.
Their kitchen had a pantry, a fact that still blew him away. A room specifically to store food? What a novelty! What a luxury! In Manhattan, the pantry would have been rented out as an efficiency apartment. He was pretty sure he’d lived in one.
The power had been out for twenty hours now, and the house was cold. He wore two sweatshirts and fingerless gloves. It was funny how few cans of food had actual food value: tomato paste and pineapple slices and water chestnuts and chicken broth. All things a cook might need, and none of them a meal. He reorganized, putting the most useful on one shelf. Black beans, cannellini beans, lima beans. Soup, especially the heartier varieties. A couple of cans of coconut milk; not exactly haute cuisine, but each one packed almost a thousand calories, and the high fat content would help keep them warm. Below that went the pears and fruit cocktail and green beans. Fewer vitamins than fresh produce, but better than nothing. Pasta and rice. Finally, baking supplies, flour, sugar, cornmeal. Without power they couldn’t bake, but they could mix a cold gruel from them if things got tight.