“I was in a bar in Weirton when she was elected,” I tell Waverly. “Did you take this picture of her at the FEMA camp?”
Waverly nods. All the liquor’s gone to my head and I’m feeling loosely emotional, feeling my words sliding through my usual restraint: “I want you to know that we believed in her back then, when we had nothing left—I voted for her. She came from western Pennsylvania, she was one of us, and when the networks projected her as the winner, I remember I was crying like everyone else in that bar with me. I was—thinking, stupidly thinking, that her election would somehow bring everything back, that everything would turn out all right. She described the Kingdom of Heaven and told us that the dead were held in the palm of God’s hand, all that bullshit—that they had found peace, telling us the world continues because the love of God continues—”
“I think those words were meant more for the rest of the nation, Dominic, people who hadn’t gone through what we’d gone through, but who were still scared, who wanted comfort. I don’t think the consolation was ever meant for us—”
“I need to talk with you about our arrangement, Mr. Waverly. There’s just—”
“More money? We can make arrangements with my secretary. Timothy’s informed me about the excellent work you’ve been doing—”
“There was a man who confronted me in the City-Archive. He threatened me. He threatened to take my wife from me if I still worked for you, and I—”
“Who?” asks Waverly. “What man? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name—he says it’s Legion, so it might not be a man at all, it might be a collective—”
“That man’s threats are meaningless. I’ve had others in the Archive before you, Dominic, who’ve encountered this man. He’s a paper tiger. If you can ID him, I’ll pay you triple—”
“I can’t risk losing her—”
“What are you saying, Dominic?”
“I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I tell him. “But I can’t risk losing Theresa—I’ll return to rehab, Mr. Waverly. I’ll return the iLux—”
“I’m disappointed,” he says. “Stay for the party, of course, and I’ll still transfer what I owe you for the work you’ve done. I’m very disappointed. You, in fact—you were working out well for me—”
“There are plenty of people who do this kind of research,” I tell him. “You could poach an actual librarian from the Archive with the money you’re paying me. It doesn’t have to be me—”
“Take a few days to think things over,” he says. “I understand what you’re telling me, that you feel threatened. I can protect you, of course—”
“You couldn’t protect Albion—”
The guests gather in the Caraway room, the Caraway a basement-level game room with amphitheater-style seating. The heads of antlered stags decorate the walls. Streaming, the Caraway room’s become a replica of the Capitol Building interior, live feeds of senators and the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Supreme Court justices integrated seamlessly among us. The nine federal prisoners wear black robes that echo the robes of the justices. They’re shackled and on their knees.
“Madam Speaker, the President of the United States—”
Meecham walks among us in her Porta gown like a Valkyrie, something shimmering. Some senators cheer—they actually cheer and kneel to her, reaching out to touch her as she passes in the aisle. A petal-pink lace blindfold matches her gown and gloves, an approximation of blind justice, I suppose. She pauses before each prisoner, studying each body like a consumer pricing meat. She offers each prisoner a chance to recant, to swear their allegiance to the United States—but no one speaks. I’m not on the political fringe, but even I can’t stomach these executions—the pronouncements and prayer, the humiliation masked as honor, Meecham placing the black hood over each prisoner. They’ll be presented one by one and she’ll sign their execution warrants with a silver pen. They’ll be shot point-blank in the temple. Their bodies will be draped in black flags. There will be torrents of pornography derived from these executions, there always has been—of classic Meecham sex vids spliced with death shots and the prisoners bleeding out. I don’t want to be part of this, to hear her speech to the Senate, using the memory of the dead as justification for these public killings.
“Seen enough?”
Timothy’s found me. His jaw’s clenched like he’s keeping himself from screaming through sheer physical effort. I’ve never seen him lose composure like this—his eyes bloodshot, brimming with tears. He smiles for my benefit but the effect is horrific, and for a brief, terrible moment I think he will lean over and bite me.
“I have—I have seen enough,” I tell him. “I’m ready to go—”
The weather’s turned. Timothy’s venting his aggression, speeding the hairpin turns on the slick woodland roads, the Fiat’s windshield augs flashing snow caution and marking his triple-digit speed in red. I lean back, swimming drunk and letting myself believe that it would be all right to die if Timothy skids on ice and we wrap around a snow-laden tree. Believing it would be for the best…
“Mr. Waverly tells me that you’re quitting,” he says, breaking what felt like an interminable silence. I’d been thinking of Albion and Twiggy and staring at the dark blur of pines.
“Your treatment schedule is under review,” says Timothy. “I don’t believe you’re making the progress that I’d hoped you would. I may have made a mistake about you, and may have to recommend a more intense schedule to retrieve you—group therapy, work restrictions. I don’t think it’s out of the question that a stay at the psychiatric institute might be very good for your recovery. The Correctional Health Board may even find it necessary to intervene—”
“Don’t do this,” I tell him, understanding the threat implicit in what he’s saying, knowing full well he could snare me in bureaucracy if he chooses to. “I’m not quitting my treatment, Dr. Reynolds, and I’m grateful for the special care you’ve given me, but I just can’t continue with Waverly—”
“You have no idea how important your work is—”
“Why ‘Albion’?” I ask him. “Mr. Waverly named his boat The Daughter of Albion. He named his own daughter Albion—”
Timothy says, “There’s a common misconception about Christ—”
I don’t like this turn, I don’t want this conversation, but I don’t know how to stop it, either—the snow’s fallen heavy, the roads white except for a smear of tire tracks, but Timothy drives heedless. A real sense that I might die settles over me, a lightness of being, a surrendering of control. All I say is, “Slow down—”
“When I talk with people who are suffering,” says Timothy, “they often tell me that they’re comforted because Christ associated Himself with sinners. Prostitutes and taxmen. Drinkers. The thief who was crucified with Him. My patients often tell me that they’re comforted because no matter how depraved their lives, no matter what damage they’ve done to themselves or others, Christ will still save them. Christ will still save them. They think they will somehow transcend the world, somehow continue sinning but find a spiritual perfection when the time comes because they believe their soul is pure so it doesn’t matter if their body is corrupt. I tell them that Christ doesn’t accept us as sinners. We might be sinners when Christ calls us, but He doesn’t accept us as sinners. He demands that we abandon our lives to follow Him, to become like Him. That doesn’t mean turning our backs to the world—it means just the opposite. He demanded the twelve abandon their lives in order so they might fully embrace the incarnation. He demands this of us—”
“It can be difficult to change—”