DARKNESS

 

 

 

 

©2008 The Angst Guy (theangstguy@yahoo.com)

Daria and associated characters are ©2008 MTV Networks

 

 

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

 

Synopsis: In the not-too-distant future, a funeral-home director in Montana struggles to defend her family from the chaotic End Times foretold in the Book of Revelation. Who is she? A world-weary, thirty-something cynic named Daria.

 

Author’s Notes: Most notes for this story have been moved to the end to avoid giving away the plot. This story is rated R for language and traumatic situations.

 

Acknowledgements: Many Daria fans deserve credit for inspiring this tale, chief among them Brother Grimace, whose fanfic challenge to me (see “Author’s Notes II” at the end) got the ball rolling. Further acknowledgements are at the tale’s end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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We hope for light, and lo! there is darkness. . . .

—Isaiah 59:9

 

 

 

 

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Love one another.

       —Jesus of Nazareth, John 13:34

 

The Senators and Representatives before mentioned, and the Members of the several State Legislatures, and all executive and judicial Officers, both of the United States and of the several States, shall be bound by Oath or Affirmation, to support this Constitution; but no religious Test shall ever be required as a Qualification to any Office or public Trust under the United States.

       —The Constitution of the United States, Article VI, paragraph 3

 

Believing that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their Legislature should “make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” thus building a wall of separation between Church and State.

       —Thomas Jefferson, “Letter to the Danbury Baptists,” January 1, 1802

 

The idea that religion and politics don’t mix was invented by the devil to keep Christians from running their own country.

       —Rev. Jerry Falwell, sermon, July 4, 1976

 

There is nothing in the U.S. Constitution that sanctifies the separation of church and state.

       Pat Robertson, televised speech, October 2, 1984

 

This is God’s world, not Satan’s. Christians are the lawful heirs, not non-Christians.

       —Gary North, Political Polytheism: The Myth of Pluralism, 1989

 

I want you to just let a wave of intolerance wash over you. I want you to let a wave of hatred wash over you. Yes, hate is good. . . . Our goal is a Christian nation. We have a biblical duty, we are called on by God to conquer this country. We don’t want equal time. We don’t want pluralism. We want theocracy.

       —Randall Terry, newspaper article, August 16, 1993

 

We are approaching a time when Christians, especially, may have to declare the social contract between Enlightenment rationalists and Biblical believers—which formed the basis of the constitution written at our nation’s founding—null and void.

       —Cal Thomas, editorial, October 23, 1996

 

Indeed, the time has come for Congress to call into question the very legitimacy of the Supreme Court’s status as sole and final arbiter of what the Constitution means.

       —Charles Colson, editorial, June 26, 1997

 

We need to execute people . . . in order to physically intimidate liberals, by making them realize that they can be killed, too. Otherwise, they will turn out to be outright traitors.

       —Ann Coulter, conference speech, January 28, 2002

 

 

 

 

 

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We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

—Stephen King, Danse Macabre

 

 

 

 

 

One

 

 

       She awoke Monday well before sunrise, in the midst of a dream in which her dead father tried to give her a key to an inheritance she was supposed to have received when he died. I tried to be a hero for you, he said, but I couldn’t find my way out of the cave I was in. You understand, don’t you, kiddo? The sound of his voice calling her “kiddo” was so real that she began to cry. When she reached for the golden key in his hand, it turned to mist and was gone.

       The buzz of the bedside alarm brought her to consciousness, her cheeks wet with tears. Wiping her face with the back of a hand, she threw off the blankets and got out of bed in her flannel nightgown. It was cold in the room, though not freezing as it had been a week earlier. She put on her furry brown house slippers with the groundhog faces and walked across the loud squeaky floor to the bathroom to begin her day. Forty minutes later, the dream forgotten, she was showered, dried, and dressed, the auburn waterfall of her hair brushed out and pulled back into a long ponytail clipped with a silver barrette bearing a dark jade stone. She wore a dark three-button jacket and knee-length skirt with a crisp white blouse. The dignity and presence the suit lent her made up for her five-foot-three stature—or would have if she had not also been wearing her groundhog slippers, given to her that past Christmas by her youngest sister.

       She shuffled down the hallway for the stairs. Yellow light glowed under her middle sister’s bedroom door. Quinn’s already up, good. Padding her way downstairs to the kitchen, she turned on the lights, started the coffee, and checked the dosimeter in the window over the sink to see if more Asian fallout had drifted in overnight. It would be a pain to hose off the house before she left for work, as she’d have to change clothes to do it, but leaving the job to her husband would be even worse—assuming he was home from his late-night gig and whatever private entanglements came thereafter. She won a margin of relief when she saw that the outdoor radiation level was maintaining a steady level. It would be safe to go out for the next few hours as long as she didn’t stop and get out of the car for long, at least until she reached her workplace. The cleansing spring rains could not come soon enough—though of late they sometimes did not come at all.

       The thermometer revealed that the outside temperature was a few degrees above freezing, despite it being mid-March. The barometric pressure was rising. Montana isn’t quite as cold as I thought it would be, she mused as she checked the thermostat and made an adjustment. I feel bad about feeling good about it, though. I hate the cold, but the warming’s made such a lousy mess of things that . . . oh, hell, I can’t do anything about it. I can’t do anything about anything. Let it go. Hey, now that it’s warmer out, I wonder if Upchuck . . .

       Spurred by the thought, she got a flashlight and padded into the family room, where she passed the snoring form of her middle-aged husband sprawled across the sofa in jeans, dirty boots, and a stained T-shirt. The air around him stank of cigarettes and homemade beer. One blue-tattooed arm rested protectively over his battered acoustic guitar, held as if he had fallen asleep while playing it. She gave Trent a sad, weary glance before she knelt before the cabinet doors under a bookcase across the room. Opening the cabinet, she snapped on the flashlight and looked inside.

       Peering up at her through woozy, half-open eyes was a shaggy silver-and-brown rodent the size of an overstuffed bed pillow. It whistled briefly when the cabinet opened, then showed its long incisors in annoyance, squinting into the light.

       “Hey, Upchuck,” she whispered with gentle warmth, lowering the flashlight. “You have a good long sleep? How’s my little shag rug?” She reached out with care and stroked the creature’s furry rump. It half-heartedly nipped at her, then surrendered and settled back to accept further indignities. “We’ve missed you since last October,” she said, stroking Upchuck’s back. “Good thing you’re inside with us. Might have to keep you inside a while longer, too. We have to be careful these days. Yes, we do.”

       Part of her couldn’t believe she was speaking baby-talk to an obese pet marmot, but she wasn’t entirely who she used to be. She was a woman in her mid-thirties supporting a needy, patchwork family, not a misfit teenager with a chip on her shoulder. The world, though, had changed far more than she had. Damn crazy planet, she thought, scratching behind the marmot’s dark ears. If Jesus walked in from the Second Coming, I’d just have Quinn set another place at the table. It wouldn’t shock me. Nothing could, now, not even the Spanish Inquisition or its new American cousin. On the other hand, maybe Jesus would be a bit of a surprise. I’ve been wondering if God’s finally gotten sick of us and dumped us for another universe, or else He’s gotten sick of us and elected to start the End Times in the most ironic way possible. I once bet Jane fifty dollars that . . . oh, let’s forget that line of thought. I don’t want to think about Jane anymore. It’s been too long. Her face fell, and her shoulders slumped. Damn it, what happened to you, Jane?

       Upchuck rolled over on his back so she could rub his huge stomach. She smiled a little, able to move on. You’ve lost weight, Upchuck, but not all that much. You really need to go on a diet, kiddo. The word kiddo reminded her of something, something on the edge of her memory that had happened recently, but she couldn’t recall what it was. Thinking about it made her even sadder. She shrugged it off and tried to focus on the chore at hand. “You old rodent, you,” she whispered. “You are one big lump of blubber. Yes, you are, just a big fuzzy lump of whale blubber. Yes, you are. Look at you. You lie around all day and let me and Quinn do all the work around here. You don’t do a thing. Yes, you do. You are the laziest thing on earth. You are such a . . .”

       She paused and looked over her shoulder. Trent stirred on the sofa, still asleep. His T-shirt barely covered the high hill of his stomach, fed by an excess of beer and junk food paid for by his late-night gigs or by money he borrowed from her, never to be paid back. His oily black hair was uncombed and touched with gray. His tattooed arms were flabby, he hadn’t shaved in two days, and he stank to high heaven, if there was one, which she doubted very much.

       We all make mistakes, she told herself. She made herself look at him without blinking. I made mine in spades. I don’t know anymore what I thought we two could be together, but we’re not anything anymore. You liked me smart but not so driven or successful. I liked your independence but not your laziness and habitual failures. Whatever I thought we could be, we failed to find it. I can live with that, though. I can live with it for now, but one day, things will change. One day soon, they’ll change.

       She sighed, depressed. God, I am such a liar. Nothing’s ever going to change.

       Giving Upchuck’s enormous stomach a last rub, she got up, leaving the cabinet doors ajar. Upchuck would come out when he was good and ready, which would probably be within the hour. He’d be plenty hungry after his hibernation. She went back into the kitchen to look for something he could eat.

       Her middle sister was already in the kitchen, still wearing her heavy nightgown and white bunny-face house slippers. She peered into the refrigerator, her back to her older sister.

       “Good morning,” said Daria Lane.

       “We need more powdered milk and eggsss,” Quinn White said, lisping the final s. Her tangled orange-peel hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back to her waist. “I think we’ve got enough of everything elssse.”

       “Have a good sleep?” Daria asked.

       Quinn shrugged. She shut the refrigerator door and turned around. In the overhead lights of the kitchen, the deep scars across her face stood out like crooked canyons, catching the unwary eye. One crossed over the left side of her mouth, causing the lisp. At least her ex-husband Jamie had spared her turquoise-blue eyes, if not her beauty. “It wasss okay,” she said, then looked her sister over with a raised eyebrow. “I like that outfit, but you need a gold necklace or that ssstring of pearlsss . . .” She grimaced and wiped a thread of drool from her lips with her fingers. “Sssorry,” she mumbled.

       Daria tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed. “Trent’s crashed on the sofa in the living room. And Upchuck’s finally awake, too, a little early this year. He should be out in a few minutes.”

       Quinn snorted and smiled. The scars pulled one side of her mouth higher than the other. “Ssso, the lazy rodent’sss returned,” she said. “And our giant gopher’sss finally awake, too.”

       Though Daria agreed with the sentiment of the remark, it was too depressing to say so aloud. She started to leave the kitchen. “I’ll go get Ronnie up. The coffee’s going.”

       “Thanksss. I’ll get breakfasss’ started.” Quinn turned away to open the fridge again. “Maybe I’ll make some fried Upchuck on toasss’. Hope you’re hungry.”

       “I’ll take care of Upchuck’s dish when I come back down,” Daria called over her shoulder. Heading up the stairs again, she padded down a different creaky hall to the wooden door at the end and rapped on it with her knuckles. “Ronnie?” she called. “It’s time to get up. C’mon.” She pushed open the door and walked in, flipping the light switch and carefully maneuvering toward the four-poster bed around the scattered piles of shoes, papers, and used clothing on the floor. “C’mon, girl. Upchuck’s awake.”

       The long lump under the blankets stirred. A mop of long red hair appeared. “Whuh?”

       “Upchuck’s up. He’s going to see his shadow soon. Why don’t you go check on him and help Quinn with breakfast? You can shower and change after I go to work.”

       The covers flew off. A tall, lanky, red-haired teenage girl in pink sweat pants and a white T-shirt with a saber-toothed kitten on it got up, then got down on the floor on her stomach in search of a pair of slippers under the bed. She looks a bit more like Dad every day, Daria thought for the hundredth time. I wonder how much of her mother she’s got in her. Guess we’ll find out before too long. Wish Dad had picked someone other than a drug addict to screw around with after he and Mom got divorced, but we can’t have everything. At least Ronnie’s got a chance at a better life here with us than she would have had with her mother, wherever she ran off to. Good riddance, I guess. Wish Mom would get over her damn cheap self and talk to me again, though. Did she really believe I was going to abandon my infant half-sister after Dad had his final heart attack? I guess she did. God, what a mess. I wish I could say good riddance and forget her, too, but I really want to hear from her. Why can’t she just get over it and call me? She’s such a pain in the ass, but I really miss her and it hurts.

       Her thoughts drifted again over old, painful territory. And Jane, what was going on with her? “Daria, you’ve become so . . . morbid.” Well, what the hell did she expect after everything I went through? I thought she once liked that about me, too. Not like she wasn’t a little morbid herself. Pot calling the kettle black. Wonder if she’s still married to what’s-his-name. I should have known she’d cut the cord with me once she met Mister Right, as she’d almost done so many times before. Guess “morbid” wasn’t part of her new lifestyle. I really should have seen it coming, but—

       “Hey!” On the floor by the bed, Veronica snapped her fingers at Daria again. “Wake up! You are so spaced out! I’ve been trying to talk to you for hours!

       “I was overcome by the mind-numbing condition of your room,” Daria retorted, ignoring her sister’s exaggerations. “I want you to pick up around here today and get all your dirty clothes into the laundry. No excuses. We have one slob already with Upchuck around.”

       “Just one?” said Veronica, sitting on her bed to pull on her slippers. “Could’ve fooled me.”

       Daria frowned but kept her silence. The slams at Trent were beginning to sting. They reminded her that she had contributed to the failure of the marriage, too. “Go on downstairs,” she said, turning to leave. “I’ll get my shoes, then I’ll be down, too.”

       “Daria?”

       She looked back. “What?”

       Ronnie’s expression became sweet and hopeful. “Can I have some friends over Friday night?”

       This is what I get for being the de facto mom around here. “Mmm, maybe. Who’d you have in mind?”

       “Emma and Phoebe. Their moms said it would be okay.”

       Daria took a deep breath. It was likely their mothers didn’t even know about the invitation, but that could be fixed. The real trouble lay elsewhere. Emma’s parents were outspoken and unapologetic ultraconservatives, “True Christians” who looked down with suspicion on anyone who wasn’t. There were rumors that they might be turning over lists of suspected Communists, traitors, terrorists, and pagans to the feds; several locals had been arrested the previous year in a state police sweep, and they’d not been heard from since. Emma, though, appeared to like everyone and was cheery in nature. Was it better to keep Emma out or let her in? Daria decided that letting her in was less risky in the long run, feeding the illusion that Daria had nothing to hide. Whatever Emma reported back to her parents about Daria’s household would get around town in seconds, so Quinn would have to clean the place up and add a few more crosses to the walls to go with the abundance of angels. And they’d both have to see to it that Trent was out of the way before the girls came over. Maybe he could stay in town with one of his girlfriends. Daria swallowed back her bitterness. Rise above it, rise above it, don’t let it get to you. . . .

       On the good side, Phoebe had already been over to Daria’s place and was welcome to return. Her mom was the town’s hard-pressed chief of police, a native Montanan and cynical Lutheran who was an old acquaintance of Daria’s and the closest thing she had now to a best friend. Her pastor husband was no threat, either. Perky Phoebe wasn’t a troublemaker, and she might counterbalance the drawbacks of having Emma over. What does Veronica see in Emma, anyway? A big-sister chat will have to be scheduled this evening after work. Did I just use the word “scheduled”? Jeez, I’m more like Mom than I’d thought.

       Daria let out her breath. “Okay,” she said, “they can stay through Saturday afternoon. I’ll call their folks to make sure it’s okay. Do all your school lessons with Quinn first, though, especially the math and science.”

       “Thanks! I’m going to check on Upchuck!” Veronica gave her older (though shorter) half-sister a hug, then dashed from the bedroom for the stairs. Upchuck was Veronica’s pet more than anyone else’s, Daria reflected. After rescuing a hairless baby marmot from a spring flood, she had badgered her sisters into helping raise it. It was her idea to give Upchuck his name, too, for his woodchuck kinship and for a long-ago lecherous schoolmate of her two older sisters. Upchuck the hoary marmot was content to let the women of the household take care of him, so the name stuck. Daria wondered what had become of the original Upchuck—Charles Ruttheimer the Third, to use his proper name—but she was glad, too, that she didn’t know. She hadn’t liked him much.

       She shook off her reverie and walked back to her room, discarding her slippers. From her collection of well-padded dress shoes in her closet, she picked a pair to match her outfit, put on a string of small pearls, a gold bracelet given to her by Quinn, and her watch-phone, then checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Dignified, yes, but with a solemn presence. Businesslike, but empathetic and caring under hard conditions. She looked like someone who would listen and understand without condemnation. She looked like someone who had been there.

       This is for you, she said silently. In her mind’s eye, she saw a nameless woman crushed into the concrete plaza at her feet, a decade and a half ago as a skyscraper burned above. For an instant she was an undergraduate English major again, her impulsive Manhattan visit shattered to hell. This is for you, she said to the woman; this is for you and all the others who died that day. I will never forget you. Never.

       She smoothed down the front of her outfit, adjusted her white lapels, nodded, then turned out the light and left. Food for Upchuck, breakfast and chatter with her sisters, a round of hugs, then off in the truck to spend a day with the dead and the not-yet dead.

       Strange how that career aptitude test in eleventh grade turned out to be so accurate. Her gaze rose when she reached the foot of the staircase to take in the framed diploma on the wall over a nearby writing desk, one of two copies of that diploma she possessed. The other copy hung behind her office desk at work. Summa cum laude, read the gold lettering below the name: Daria Marie Morgendorffer.

       Should I take my maiden name back? I guess I’d hoped Jane would come by more often if I was Daria Marie Lane. Sure didn’t work out that way. I thought there was a spark of something in Trent that would grow over time like a flame, but all is ashes now, all is ashes and ash and wasted, all but my family and my calling.

       She paused and read the diploma’s words once again, restoring her sense of mission. Her solemn reflection looked back from the glass over the diploma. And everyone used to tell me I looked too grave, she thought, lifting her chin. She did not smile at the pun.

       The diploma was for her bachelor’s degree in mortuary science.

       So many maybes, so many ifs. If I had not first decided to be an English major. If I had not taken a class on current trends in the evolution of the English language. If I had not decided to write a paper on the emergence of neologisms. If I had not wanted to use a reference available only at the New York Public Library’s rare books section. If I had not decided to blow off two days of classes and drive to New York City from Boston by myself because Jane and I had spent the weekend before entertaining her brother Trent, who drove up for a visit. If I had not decided to go sightseeing before I drove back to Boston that night. If I had not had trouble sleeping and left my hotel earlier than I’d planned. If I had not been walking toward the World Trade Center at fifteen minutes before nine that Tuesday morning. If I had not continued heading in that direction in a misguided effort to help. If she had not fallen so close to me, shattering the concrete right at my feet.

       If I had not seen her last movements, if I had not known she was not yet dead, if I had not promised her that I would help her in any way I could. If she had not then died before my eyes, before I could do a thing.

       If I had not run when the second jet hit.

       If not for any of these, I would not have given up my old life for this one.

       All is as it is. I did the right thing. I am on the right path. Whoever you were, wherever you are now, this is for you.

       She offered up her life once more, then turned and went to the kitchen to see her family.

 

 

 

 

Two

 

 

       Satisfied that no unwanted visitors had crept in overnight through the array of infrared, sonic, TV, and motion sensors surrounding their home, Quinn stepped back from the living-room window by the security control panel. She lowered the muzzle of the black semiautomatic assault rifle, but her right hand stayed on the pistol grip with her index finger on the trigger. Predawn light illuminated the rolling mountains beyond the window: the vast meadows, scattered trees, and eroded cliffs, above which only the remnants of snowcaps remained. Nothing moved.

       “All clear,” Quinn called. “Drive carefully, sisss. Love ya.”

       “Thanks. You, too.” Daria punched her access code into the security control box, spoke her code phrase, and unlocked the garage door.

       “Bye, Daria!” Veronica shouted from the kitchen. Breakfast plates clattered as she put them into the sink, and Upchuck’s food bowl thumped against a cabinet as he ate, half in and half out of the dish.

       “Bye!” Daria called back, descending the steps into the long garage. She walked along the pegboard back wall covered with tools, ladders, ropes, and shelves, and passed the emergency generator, the all-terrain tractor, and the water tank. On the other side of the hybrid sport utility truck was a rusted, junkyard-quality ‘89 Toyota Tercel, Trent’s car. Beyond that was Daria’s personal vehicle: her mother’s old ‘98 Ford Explorer. The aged red SUV now sported a raised suspension, oversized tires, extra headlights, a heavy front grille guard, and other useful accessories for back-country living. The engine and transmission had been replaced as well. Daria, conservative and sentimental in her personal habits if liberal in her social beliefs, thought the trouble worthwhile. It was the car in which she’d first learned to drive, and the last gift her mother had given her before breaking off all contact over Veronica. And it still looked cool.

       She kicked a plastic stepstool over to the driver’s door and climbed up, then unlocked the doors with a signal from her watch-phone. Once inside, she belted herself in, adjusted the seat and mirrors slightly, started the engine, checked the gas and battery, and raised the garage door with another watch-phone signal. She nervously scanned the distant mountains ahead. Ambient fallout from far-away atomic wars was only one daily problem in this chaotic brave new world. Opportunistic snipers, often religious extremists acting as self-appointed judges and executioners, were becoming more frequent in remote areas. Daria’s county had been spared so far, but she did not know how much longer her luck would hold. She wasn’t keeping her mouth shut as often as was wise. The wrong person would eventually peg her as a freethinker, and it would be downhill from there.

       Perhaps her paranoid high-school principal of almost twenty years ago was right after all, using misappropriated funds to turn the school into a fortress until she was involuntarily committed to a psychiatric hospital near the end of Quinn’s senior year. Daria grimaced, weighing possibilities as she pulled out of the garage. Should she get bulletproof glass for the home’s windows, or was that being too paranoid? Nothing seemed paranoid enough, lately. The family savings account still held money left from Grandma Morgendorffer’s estate, willed to all three sisters. Quinn, terrified that her ex-husband Jamie might find her, would not object to extra security. The money left from their father’s estate and what little Grandma Barksdale had willed Daria and Quinn was long gone, all used with Daria’s personal savings to put a down payment on the house and the land around it.

       Daria turned the wheel, directing the all-terrain SUV down the long driveway toward the main road. The grandeur of her wilderness home crept in and eased her fears. Her two-story stone-and-timber home was nestled among scattered pines atop a wide foothill of the Big Belt Mountains in west-central Montana. She had long ago chosen to live here primarily because the best job offer she’d gotten on the Internet lay in the nearest town, but she had imagined living in an isolated locale out west ever since starting a “Montana cabin fund” in high school with her allowance money. Once a teenager sick to death of her dysfunctional family, she had liked the idea of living in a Unabomber-style shack as far from everyone else as possible, from there writing scathing editorials and heart-rending novels that would do more long-lasting damage to the world’s supply of stupidity than any letter-bomb.

       The actual move to Montana came long after Daria had outgrown her angry-writer-in-a-cabin daydreams. She had imagined Montana would be beautiful, but she had never thought it would be like this. Yellow-white dawn broke over the southeastern peaks, revealing an elk herd grazing by a pine forest several miles away. Bighorn sheep dotted the distant rocky crags surrounding her hill. The silhouettes of turkey vultures drifted far above, in a sky empty of all but jet contrails. The air was pure, the view dramatic and grand, the night sky filled with stars. It was paradise.

       Paradise that tastes of strontium-90, cesium-137, and iodine-131. Paradise with traces of sulfur dioxide, fluorocarbons, nitrogen oxides, lead, and acid. Paradise that poisons all creatures who eat, drink, or breathe of it. Did God not command us to replenish the Earth at the same time we subdued it? Why did they repeal all the environmental laws that—okay, time to stop, let it go. No ranting allowed here. I’ve been depressed enough in the past, and now it’s time to Just Say No.

       “Things to do,” Daria said aloud as she drove. “What do I have to do? Uh, groceries—” She checked the time on her watch-phone “—I’ve got time to get the milk and eggs over lunch. Should just get the powdered milk in bulk like everything else, throw it in back. Okay, done. Um, what was it . . . Ronnie, she wanted whatzername, Emma, to come over. I should call Mrs. Broadbent—eww, do that from the office. I hate talking to her, and I don’t have her number here. Phoebe, on the other hand—”

       Eyes on the road, she raised her left wrist to her mouth. “Daria, calling the Natdia County Sheriff’s Office, Montana, on speakerphone,” she said. VOICE MATCH, said the words on the watch-phone’s crystal face. NATDIA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE. CONNECTING. She put her hand back on the steering wheel and drove, curving to the right. Only grass grew most of the way down the slope, the brush and remaining trees having been cleared to create a firebreak all the way to the creek beds at the bottom.

       A click broke the soft ringing sound audible throughout the cab. “Natdia County Sheriff’s Office, Sheriff Lawless speaking,” said a woman’s quick voice. “How can I help you?”

       “Amelia, it’s me, Daria.” Daria slowed as she approached an eroded spot in the gravel driveway. Forgot to have that fixed. Got to do that before the rains start, if they do this year.

       “Daria, hey!” Amelia’s warm, light drawl filled the SUV. “Glad you called! How’s my role-model this morning? Everything all right?”

       “Oh, fine.” I wish she’d stop calling me her role-model. That was old even when we met at the Camp Grizzly reunion. The Explorer jolted as it drove over the gulley, then settled out and continued down the drive. “Listen,” said Daria, “I was calling about Phoebe—”

       “Yeah, cool! I was gonna call you about that this morning, but you beat me to it.” On Amelia’s end of the line in the background, a police radio blared static. “Ronnie’s free to stay over Friday night, if she doesn’t mind helping clean up the house with Phoebe a little on Saturday. We’re having company over Sunday, when I’m on call. I can drive her back Saturday afternoon.”

       Daria looked puzzled. “Uh, I thought Phoebe was coming over to our place. That’s what Ronnie told me.”

       “Oh, God!” Amelia laughed. “Phoebe said exactly the opposite! It figures, doesn’t it? Damn kids get everything all fucking backwards. I’ll have to call her about that later.”

       “Look, I’m happy with it either way. We don’t have anything planned. If Ronnie would be more help to you cleaning up, then she can go over there, but I’d like to make it up to you somehow.”

       “Actually, I was going to call you about that, too. I have a shitload of favors to ask. Okay, for starters, how does Quinn feel about home-schooling other kids besides Ronnie?”

       Daria blinked. “You mean having other kids come to our house during the day?”

       “Actually, I was thinking only about Phoebe joining in. I wanted to ask you about it first. I can pay pretty well for it. Rob’s got too many damn things coming up with the church to keep home-schooling Phoebe after the end of the month, and I can’t afford to send her to a private school. The ones in Helena cost a fortune, and it takes too long to drive there anyway.”

       “Oh. Well—” Would Quinn want to do this? We could use the money, but more to the point, does Amelia know that—well, may as well be honest with her. She’s always been honest with me. “You know, the reason we’re home-schooling Ronnie is because we want her to get a straight science background, not this Creationist crap they’re teaching in public schools these days. And I can’t stomach the way they’re stuffing in Bible study in place of world literature and sanitizing American history until it’s so full of lies and half-truths and self-righteous narrow-minded bullsh—”

       “Hey, cool out! You know you don’t have to justify anything to me! That’s why we’re schooling Phoebe at home, too. I have to teach the sex part, though, ‘cause Rob gets too flustered. He’s such a prude. The stories I could tell. Anyway, Quinn’s a natural with the kids, and Phoebe—oh, shit, I gotta put you on hold.” Amelia’s end of the line went silent except for an occasional beep.

       The gravel drive reached the bottom of the hill, crossed a bridge over a dry creek, and meandered across a rocky meadow toward the highway. A moose raised its antlered head and watched her over the tall grass a half-mile away. Good thing I don’t have to worry about Amelia arresting me for blasphemy. She’s got a dirtier mouth than I do. I wonder if I caused her to be like that, back at the reunion when we got off on the wrong foot and she got mad and swore she was going to be just like me, speaking her mind no matter what the consequences. I hope she keeps her head and doesn’t get into trouble. On the other hand, duh, she is the sheriff here, so she already knows how to—

       The line clicked on again. “Sorry, had to take a call there,” said Amelia. “Some dumb asshole ran out of gas on two-eighty-four. I sent J. B. over to help him. Anyway, here’s the other thing: I wanted to offer to have Quinn teach Ronnie and Phoebe over at my place in town. We have a lot of space, it’s safe as safe can get, and we’ll supply the food as well as pay for her teaching. Think about it, okay? Phoebe’s said the nicest things about Quinn, and Ronnie really knows her lessons.”

       “Thanks. Phoebe’s always welcome. She’s a great kid. I’ll have to ask Quinn about it, but I don’t mind myself. Are you sure we can’t have it at our place? It’s pretty secure, too.”

       “Um . . . lemme get back to that in a moment. I have something else to talk to you about.”

       Daria’s intuition came alert. Something was wrong. Amelia would get around to the real problem in time, but—what could be the matter? “Uh, sure, whatever. Go ahead.”

       “It’s a little early in the day to ask this, I know, but I have an offer I hope you can’t refuse, something for you to make a little extra money for yourself.”

       God, no. Daria looked pained. “Amelia, I’m sorry, I just hate teaching, and I can’t take off workdays to—”

       “It’s not that, no, no. I know you’re dying for some extra cash—heh, sorry!—but a deputy county coroner position is opening up out of the sheriff’s office here. The starting salary’s fair, mid-twenties, but you probably won’t have that many cases. You’d be on call in case we get something we can’t figure out, or if we get shorthanded. If everyone at Promised Land can cover for you for a few days once every couple months, it’d make a tidy second job. Plus there’s the training—nice excuse to get away once in a while. The state puts us up in a hotel in Helena by the university. Plus you get to be an official government employee, with all the benefits from that, too. Whaddya think?”

       Whoa. Daria mulled her options. Though in some respects she was doing well for herself, she really did need the extra cash, and a deputy coroner’s position would indeed have good benefits. She had thought about this option before, but the opportunity had not arisen. Ever since she had graduated from Raft College with her degree in mortuary science, times had only gotten tougher for her and her sisters, and Trent was not helping things any. If it was true that she wouldn’t be away from home much more than she already was, the extra job might work out. Or I could turn into a workaholic like Mom and talk about business on my cell phone during dinner, which in my case would not go over well at all. And I feel like I’m selling out, too. I swore I’d never, ever get involved in politics or government work, and I’d be my own boss as soon as I could—but as a deputy coroner I’d have The Public on my back, plus The Government and The Media, and it would start eating into my free time, what little I have of it, and my dream of one day having my own little funeral home could go paws in the air, so to speak.

       “Hey, you still there?” Amelia asked.

       “Well,” Daria said slowly, her eyes on the road but her mind elsewhere, “your idea has its carnal temptations, but—”

       “Quiz time: What’s a coroner supposed to do at the scene of a crime?”

       Daria frowned, the corners of her mouth tweaking downward. The SUV had reached the main highway. She looked both ways, then turned onto the almost deserted road and accelerated toward town. “Make an initial guess about the cause and manner of death of the victim, I believe.”

       “Exactly. See, I would have said, ‘Beat the living bejeezus out of anyone disturbing the scene, then catch the perp and beat the bejeezus out of him, too,’ but that’s actually my job, not the coroner’s. You’ve passed your interview, and you’re hired right now if you want to be. Think about it and call me later today, tomorrow at the latest.”

       Daria snorted. “You don’t give the condemned much time before you throw the switch, do you?”

       “I’ve been looking at resumes for two days, and none of them kick half the ass I know you can.”

       Good to hear that, even if—oh, hell. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Thanks, Amelia.”

       “Cool. Hey, are you okay with Quinn teaching over here, too? Mind if I call her about it?”

       “Uh, sure, I’m okay with that, but why not our place instead? We’ve got room.”

       There was silence over the line. Daria tried to fathom why, then felt her heart sink. It’s about Trent. It’s got to be about Trent. “Just tell me, okay?” she grumbled.

       “Daria,” said Amelia in the all-right-you-asked-for-it tone that Daria knew well, “there was a problem with Trent last night at Little Devil’s. One of my deputies got called in to check out a disturbance that turned out to be Trent and the tavern owner pushing each other around in a dispute over how much Trent was owed in back pay for his performances.” She hesitated, hearing Daria’s agonized groan, then went on. “Trent wasn’t drunk this time, so we let him drive home. That was about one-fifteen in the morning. Did he make it there okay?”

       “Yeah. The security system let him in.” The system said he got in at four-forty-eight, so he went somewhere else before he got home—and I can guess where. God damn it, Trent, why are you doing this to us? To me? God damn you to hell.

       “Okay, uh, good. See, the problem is—” Amelia took a deep breath “—Phoebe’s said that she doesn’t like it when Trent’s around, especially if he’s had a drink or three. The two of them don’t seem to get along to begin with, and she’s not comfortable if Quinn isn’t also there to run interference. Plus Trent’s started . . . calling her names, sometimes, and . . . well, I don’t know the circumstances, but it’s probably best if Phoebe stays here from now on. I hope you aren’t too pissed at me for saying this, but I thought it was better if Ronnie came over here instead. I’m really okay with that, if you are.”

       Daria felt a surge of indignant anger—but it blew away before it really got going. Her face fell. I can’t stand up for him. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t defend him to the whole world when the whole world knows what’s going on. I’m so damn ashamed.

       “I’m sorry, Amelia,” Daria said in a low voice. “I’m really sorry.”

       “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. Anyway, think it over. I felt like I had to say something. I’m sorry if it bothered you. I just . . . oh, shit.”

       Daria struggled for words. You’re sorry if it bothered me? Hell, yes, it bothered me! And it is my fault! Ronnie tells me all the time how much she doesn’t like Trent, how selfish he is, how much they argue. And so does Quinn. They put up with him only because of me. I’ve been his only defender, and I can’t do it anymore. He doesn’t bring in any money or help around the house, he isn’t nice to me, he’s not trying to better himself, he’s sucking down beer or laying around sleeping when he isn’t drinking, or screwing someone else when he isn’t doing either of those—and if he’s calling Phoebe bad names and doing the same to Ronnie and Quinn, then—

       “Daria?” Amelia sounded fearful. “You still there?”

       “Yeah. I . . .” She slowed the SUV before it went over a low gulley with another jolt. I can’t handle this right now. “Amelia, can I call you back about all this later? Let me think about it, okay? I’ve got too much else on my mind to focus.”

       “Okay. You take care of yourself. And tell your boss, Gary, to call me. I have to ask him something.”

       Gary Bellows, the funeral director for the Promised Land Funeral Home, was a deputy coroner himself. He might be touchy if he thought Daria was cutting into his extra paycheck. The perfect Monday. She swallowed. “Sure.”

       “And Daria? If you ever need any help from me for anything, anything at all, I’ll be there. I mean that. I’ll be there for you.”

       Jane should have said those words. She should have said those words and meant them. She should have been here, or somewhere, but she should have been in my life right now. Damn you, Jane. “Uh, thanks. I’m sorry, I’m just not with it right now. I’d better deal with driving.”

       “Okay. Talk to you later.”

       “Bye.” Daria snapped the conversation off with the flick of a dashboard switch, then slumped back in her seat. “God damn it,” she whispered.
       The westward road descended from the Big Belt range toward Canyon Ferry Lake, a dam-created reservoir along the Missouri River. On the other side were Lewis and Clark County and Montana’s capital, Helena. The irony of it, moving into the wilderness that happens to be right next to a big city with my mother’s name. No one can say that God doesn’t have a sense of humor, even if that sense of humor sometimes sucks.

       Before the road reached the reservoir, it passed through the seat of Natdia County: Devil’s Tongue, named for a small yellow cactus flower and not for any satanic element. Not that anyone from outside the area believed it. Daria had heard rumors that Congress or some other department of the federal government was going to change the town’s name before long, no matter what the townspeople thought. Probably call it Angel’s Tongue . . . no, that sounds like a French kiss. Angel’s Breath, Angel’s Hair, yeah, that’s probably what it will be like. Whatever. French kiss. I don’t care anymore.

       Whoever Trent is kissing or screwing, I don’t care.

       I don’t care.

       She sniffed, wiped her eyes, and felt around for the tissue box.

       I give up. I just absolutely give up. I so wanted a baby with you, I was so sure making a baby with you would make everything all right, Jane would come back, everything would be bright and happy, and we would have our beautiful baby, but it didn’t work. I didn’t get pregnant, didn’t get pregnant, didn’t get pregnant, then I did, and then our baby died inside me. I lost our baby. I couldn’t keep her alive, and when she died I died with her. I didn’t even get to give her a name. You wouldn’t look at her when she was delivered, Trent. She was so small, she was such a tiny thing and so dark and so quiet, but she was ours, and you walked out and left the hospital and I don’t know where you went. I still don’t know. I had to say goodbye to her for both of us, by myself, and I had to take care of everything so I could bury her, and I should have killed you.

       I should have killed you.

       I should have—

       She pulled into the entrance of a mining station, put the SUV in park, and cried her eyes out. Not having to wear glasses anymore made using tissues a lot easier.

       I hate you I hate you I hate you, you miserable son of a bitch, but I’m stuck with you because the goddamn family-values Congress went and outlawed divorce just after Quinn got hers, and all I want is to kill you for what you did to me. I hate you so much, Trent, I wish you would die this second, just die and nothing else. I hate you.

       She cried until she was done. Quinn had taught her all the tricks of reapplying makeup, and she had left home early to get groceries—now put off until lunch—so she still made it to the outskirts of Devil’s Tongue and the parking lot of the Promised Land Funeral Home on time. Stopping next to a concrete block that served as a step-stone to enter and leave the high vehicle, she shut off the vehicle and made her way quickly to the building, trying not to think of fallout. Mondays, she thought as she tapped at a code box and unlocked the funeral home’s front door. They don’t get any worse than this.

       As the door swung open, she realized she was wrong.

 

 

 

 

Three

 

 

       The first thing Daria noticed in the funeral home’s entry hall was a short stack of three white bankers’ boxes, sitting on the blue carpeting to one side of the door. She blinked, then stepped in and let the door close and relock behind her, shutting out the cold morning wind. Is Gary taking work home again? she wondered, forgetting most of her earlier blues. This looks like a lot of stuff. What’s with this? Stepping around the boxes, she spotted labels and leaned down for a closer look.

       COMPUTER PARTS, read the black dye-marker letters penned across the side of the top box. CLIENT FILES #2, read the next one down, with CLIENT FILES #1 below that. Stuck under each announcement of contents was a rectangular white sticker with bold, block letters that read, “FBI.” A round blue-and-gold FBI seal followed.

       What the hell? The sound of a door opening echoed down the hall, and she looked up. “Gary?” she called. Receiving no answer, she moved forward at a slow pace.

       The entry hall of the cross-shaped Promised Land Funeral Home opened into a domed rotunda that served as a reception room, thickly carpeted in royal blue against the columned walls of antique white. Stained-glass windows were spaced about, depicting Christian symbols such as crosses, doves, hands reaching down from the heavens, angels, and mourners with heads bowed in sorrow or prayer. The overall effect leaned toward no denomination or sect; Mormons, Pentecostals, Catholics, and Unitarians would be equally at home, which was this funeral home’s main selling point in an age when ecumenism was dying faster than any endangered species. Signs directed mourners to viewing and private rooms down the left corridor, the chapel and cremation hall to the right, and administrative offices (and, not listed, casket selection and embalming rooms) down the hall directly ahead.

       She reached the middle of the rotunda and stood by a marble table on which sat a large vase of long, wilted flowers she had forgotten to remove after Saturday afternoon’s service. Down the middle hallway ahead of her, stepping out of an office doorway, was a tall man dressed in navy blue from his duckbill cap and long-sleeved shirt to his loose trousers, with black military-style boots to finish. The heavy cap had “FBI” printed on it in white. He pulled a hand trolley on which were stacked three more bankers’ boxes.

       Spotting Daria at once, the man smiled at her as he walked up the corridor toward the rotunda, pushing the hand trolley ahead of him. He had tousled auburn hair and a fresh, confident grin. Clipped to his belt were several black ammo pouches and two heavy pistols, one on either side. “Good morning!” he called in a warm baritone. “Are you Mrs. Lane? Daria Lane?”

       He’s with the FBI? What’s he doing here? How’d he get past the security system? Are there more FBI agents around? What the hell is going on? Where’s Gary? She swallowed, her nervous tongue loosening. “Are you my mystery date for tonight?” she said, her voice steady but high.

       He laughed. “No, I’m afraid not. I don’t go out with married women.” Parking the hand trolley a dozen feet from Daria, he started toward her, reaching into a rear pocket of his pants. She took an involuntary step back. His outfit appeared slightly bulky, as if he wore another suit beneath the uniform. His hand came back into view and flipped open a black wallet, holding it an arm’s length from her face. A gold shield with an eagle above it gleamed on one side of the open wallet; a colorful ID card graced the other. The letters “FBI” stood out on each.

       “I believe I know you,” said the man. “Your maiden name’s Morgendorffer, right? Used to wear big glasses when you were a teenager? Lived in Lawndale near Baltimore, or thereabouts?”

       “That was my evil twin, Daria,” she said. “I’m Darlene.” She pointed behind her. “Daria lives that-a-way, toward Helena. If you hurry, you might—”

       “Good try,” said the man, pointing in another direction, “but Helena is that way. My name’s Brett Ruttheimer, special agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

       Ruttheimer?” said Daria in disbelief, watching him put his ID wallet away.

       “Yes, Ruttheimer, as in Charles. Remember him?” He gave his head a half-turn to the left. “Ring a bell?”

       “You’re Charles Ruttheimer?” said Daria, more astonished than before. He didn’t really look like Upchuck, but—

       “No, I’m Brett. Charles was my cousin.” He seemed to deflate. “You don’t remember my brother Brad or me, do you? We must not have been very—”

       “Oh,” said Daria, her eyes widening. “Oh! At the, the, the, that party at Lawndale High, where Upch—where Charles was the D.J. I remember that. You and . . . Brad?”

       “Yes, that was us!” He put out a hand in an earnest, friendly way, and Daria found herself shaking it, not knowing why she did. “You and your friend Jane hung around with us for a while, then you both ran off. I’m sorry you couldn’t stay. My brother and I—well, anyway, do you have a few minutes? I have some questions I need to ask.”

       This was too crazy to believe. “You’re in the FBI? I’m not trying to be stupid, but it’s Monday and I’ve just gotten here and I haven’t even had my third and fourth cups of coffee yet, and here you are—” She spread a hand toward the stack of boxes he had with him “—with all this stuff, and . . . and . . .”

       Her mouth went dry. It struck her then that Brett was a heavily armed special agent of the federal government, and he was in the process of seizing files and equipment from the funeral home—specifically from her boss’s office, which was the room he had just left. Federal and state law officers no longer needed to get search warrants and even or give Miranda warnings when arresting those suspected of felonies, particularly if terrorism, treason, church-burning, or other antigovernment activities were involved. And she recalled that federal law-enforcement agencies also did not have to file charges when imprisoning those suspects for a period of up to five years, per the precedent established in the days of the Guantanamo Bay detainee camp, a decade and a half ago.

       And special agents were empowered to shoot to kill, should the circumstances, in their judgment, warrant it. Further implications struck home as well.

       “Oh,” she whispered. She looked up at Brett Ruttheimer and made herself keep talking. “Am I in any trouble?”

       “Not really, no, though I would like for you to accompany me to your office. As I said, I have some questions for you. To start with, you don’t happen to know where Mister Gary Ray Bellows is right now, would you? Your boss?”

       “Gary?” Amelia was just asking about him. The FBI’s looking for Gary, not me? Thank God, thank God. She was flooded with relief and ashamed of it at the same time. “No. I thought he’d be here by now. I last saw him . . . on Saturday, at a funeral we had. It was for an Army sergeant from this area, killed over in the Philippines.” Her voice trailed off, then returned. “Am I allowed to call my lawyer?”

       “We don’t really have time for it, no,” said Brett, glancing at his watch. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Your office, please?”

       “Uh, sure.” She led him back down the center hallway to her office door. I can’t refuse anything he asks of me. He could shoot me if he wanted, and he’d get away with it—but what if he wants to . . . if he tries to . . . please, God, don’t let him be like Upchuck and try to do anything like . . . I must be brave and keep my head. I have to think. Thinking is my only hope. I must be brave and

       “It would be easier to use those keys if your hands didn’t shake so much,” said Brett, standing close as he looked over her shoulder. “Can I help?”

       “I’ve got it,” she mumbled, jamming the correct key into the lock at last. When she got the door open, she had a momentary impulse to run to the private bathroom and lock herself in. The room lights came on automatically a moment later. She didn’t run. There was no escape.

       “Nice office,” said Brett, walking in behind her and shutting the door. “When does the rest of the staff arrive?”

       “Not—” Oh, shit! “—for half an hour. I usually come in early to get things ready, talk with my boss about the day, do correspondence . . . whatever.” She nervously put the desk between her and Brett, but she did not dare sit down. “M-may I get you some coffee?”

       “No, thanks. I’m fine.” He plopped down in a black cushioned chair across from her and stretched out, looking very relaxed. She could tell that he did wear full body armor. “Have a seat,” he said, waving a hand in her direction. “This isn’t an interrogation.”

       “I, uh . . . okay.” She sat down on the edge of her chair, ready to jump in any direction. “So, you . . . had some questions.”

       “Yeah.” He leaned forward, still appearing friendly if focused on business. “About Gary Bellows—I’m very interested in finding out where he is right now. You saw him last on Saturday, you said?”

       She nodded rapidly. “Saturday. Yes.” Don’t say anything more than necessary. Don’t volunteer information, whatever’s going on. Don’t put anyone in danger.

       “What time was that?”

       “It was . . . two, no, three-thirty. About then.”

       “Did he say he was going anywhere after the funeral?”

       “Uh, he . . . said he was going home. That’s all he said.” True enough, but they should already know where he lives.

       “He didn’t seem nervous or concerned about anything, did he?”

       “No, not that I could tell. I didn’t see much of him. I was coordinating the funeral and had to stay late. I didn’t leave here until seven.”

       “Hmm.” Brett seemed deep in thought. “We went by his home this morning, but he wasn’t in. Is his office the only place where he keeps records? Is there another room where the records of your clients are stored?”

       “We, uh, no, just in our offices.”

       “Where in your offices?”

       “The file cabinets, for hard copy, and—and the computers. That’s it.” Is he going to seize my computer and all my files, too? I’ve got the main client files on my machine, and if he’s taken Gary’s, we’re screwed. Gary had only a few special cases he was following. And he did sometimes take files home—

       “The computers, right. Took care of that already. Do you—”

       “Excuse me,” Daria interrupted. Careful, careful! “Can you tell me what’s going on? Why you’re here?”

       “We’ll get to that.” He had been rubbing his clean-shaven chin, looking off to the side, but now he turned to face her. “So, you’re really an undertaker. Wow. Weird.”

       What the hell’s so weird about it? “Funeral home director,” she corrected.

       “Same thing, isn’t it?”

       “More or less, but ‘undertaker’ sounds too much like something out of an old cowboy movie.” Maybe a little humor will keep him from shooting me.

       “Yeah. So, where’s your sister-in-law, Jane? She live around here, too?”

       “I . . . I don’t know where she is,” she said, surprised at the question. Why does he want to know?

       Brett leaned toward her. “You don’t know? Why not?”

       “We don’t . . . see each other anymore. I don’t know where she is these days.”

       “Oh.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope nothing bad happened to her. She was pretty cool. You, too, for whatever it’s worth now.”

       “Uh, thanks. We . . .” She sighed and shrugged, looking down at her interlaced fingers on the desktop. “It doesn’t matter. She’s gone.” What the hell is going on? Is he trying to hook up with me? Why is he asking about Jane? Has the FBI gotten so lazy now that its agents can make chitchat whenever they feel like it? Is he still going to be here when my first appointment gets in at nine?

       “Think she went to Canada?” asked Brett, as if he were inquiring about the weather.

       Canada? Are you asking me if Jane could be classified as a traitor in the government’s eyes? Daria’s mind filled with unprintable blasphemy. “Look,” she said, forcing herself not to overreact, “I really don’t know where she is. We lost touch with each other years ago. She could be anywhere. Please believe me, I have no idea anymore.”

       “I believe you,” said Brett offhandedly. He gestured at her. “You ever think about going to Canada yourself? Take the family, cross the border, get away from it all?”

       “No,” she said, her voice too high. She was very afraid of where Brett was leading her. “I want to stay here. This is my home. My family’s here, and I’m staying.” And running away wouldn’t do any good, not since Ottawa began letting U.S. federal agents cross over to go after draft-dodgers, deserters, revolutionists, and everyone else on their hit lists. As if Canada had any real choice in the matter. Do it or die.

       Brett snorted gently. “I always thought you were on the anti-establishment side, just from talking with you at that dance.”

       She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I had to grow up sometime.”

       “Eh. I guess. Canada’s not that safe to live in anymore, is it? All those anti-American groups arming themselves, terrorist ex-pats, the provinces claiming we’re going to invade—” He turned his head. Footsteps approached the door. Someone knocked. “Bob?” Brett called back. “C’mon in.”

       The door opened. A huge man, dressed much as Brett was in FBI clothing, stepped into the room. He was muscular and as broad through the shoulders as a brick wall, but his expression was sensitive and worried. “Hey,” he said to Brett. “Brad called. He found the stuff at that guy’s house.” He looked up and spotted Daria, then straightened, running a hand over his short-cut black hair. “Hello, ma’am.”

       Daria stared at the new arrival in astonishment. “Robert Korleski?” She looked back at Brett. “What is this, class reunion day for Lawndale High?”

       “No, ma’am,” said Robert, puzzled. “Just doing our jobs.”

       “Bob said he went on a date with you once, but he thought your name was Darcy,” said Brett, looking back at Daria. “Lucky dog. Didn’t know you were so popular.”

       “What is going on here?” Daria could not contain herself any longer. She rose up on her feet, ignoring the alarms in her head. “Is this some kind of joke? Are there any more Lawndale County high-school alumni waiting outside? Just what exactly is it you want with me? Or Gary? What are you doing here?”

       Brett and Robert stared at Daria in silence. She stared back, looking from one to the other. “Just get it out, okay? I’ll cooperate as best I can, as if I had any other option, but I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on! Are you two really in the FBI?”

       “Yes, ma’am,” said Robert. “I joined in two thousand five, and Brett and Brad—”

       “It’s okay, Bob,” said Brett. He exhaled and stood up. “I think we have everything.”

       “What’s going on with Gary?” Daria pressed. “Should I expect him to come in today, or what?”

       “If he’s smart, he won’t come back,” said Brett. “Looks like you’re in charge of the funerals around here for the time being.”

       Her eyes grew very large. “What? What do you mean? I don’t understand any of this. What is it that—”

       “Gary Ray Bellows is wanted for questioning in a criminal matter,” said Brett heavily. “Because you’ve worked with him, you are considered to be a material witness. And yeah, there’s a reason the three of us are here. We were pulled for this assignment because we all knew you from high school, way back when, and the government is hoping we can convince you in a friendly way to help us. We can offer you limited immunity from prosecution if you cooperate.”

       Floored, Daria spread her arms, palms open. “Why do I need immunity, limited or not? Am I a criminal suspect? I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about! What can I possibly do to help you if I don’t even know why the hell you’re here?”

       Brett reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small black device. After looking at it for a moment, he dropped it back into the pocket. “The scanner says you’ve told the truth since I got here,” he said. “Pretty much what I thought, too. Do you remember a funeral service that was conducted here about a year ago, for an American Marine killed in action in Syria? Name of Matthew Louis Wright?”

       That took her aback. Matthew Wright? “I think so,” she said slowly. “Family’s originally from Canyon Ferry? Hit by a rocket during the pullout?” And blown into bloody scraps that arrived in a plastic bag. Only his DNA could identify him. Gary handled the funeral himself . . . wait a minute.

       “That’s him. Remember anything else about his funeral?”

       “Only that there wasn’t much left of him. Closed casket service.”

       Brett nodded. “Did Gary talk with you at all about Mister Wright?”

       She shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

       “Well, Matthew Wright’s caught the attention of a lot of people around Washington, D.C., lately. I don’t know whose remains you buried in Matthew Wright’s casket, but they weren’t his.”

       “What?” Daria sat down again behind her desk. “That wasn’t him? That couldn’t be. We had copies of the official paperwork from the Army about it. His remains would have been identified through the Department of Defense DNA Registry, right?”

       “The DNA that was tested overseas was Matt’s, but the body parts that came back probably weren’t. They had to be someone else’s. We think there was a switch somewhere, maybe in Syria or at the hospital ship where his remains were sent.”

       Staggered by the news, Daria sank back into her chair. “You’re saying that Matthew Wright’s still alive?”

       Brett and Robert both shook their heads no. “Not as of last Friday evening,” said Brett, “when he shot and killed two American federal agents in Calgary, Alberta. They were looking for someone else, an ex-pat wanted on terrorism and conspiracy charges, but Wright turned up instead. Backup agents killed Wright, not knowing who he was, then Saturday we found out he was supposed to be dead and buried already. Wright and your boss used to be schoolmates in Helena. Did Gary ever say anything to you about that during that funeral last year, that he’d known Matthew Wright since childhood?”

       Daria was speechless. She shook her head no. What the—?

       Brett pulled a clear, foot-long strip of plastic from a pocket of his trousers. He walked toward Daria with it. “Do you mind standing up for a moment?” he said, holding the strip out. “I need to put this around your ankle. Sorry we don’t have a female agent here to do this, but the Bureau’s spread a little thin these days, and we have to make do.”

       Dumbstruck, Daria did as she was asked. Brett knelt and wrapped the plastic strip around her hose-covered right ankle, making sure it was slightly loose, then sealed it so that it could not be pulled off over her foot. “Don’t try to remove it,” he said as he stood up. “It’s got a GPS tracker and a vital signs monitor in it, among other things. You can shower or bathe with it on, won’t hurt it a bit, but you’ll have to tear up your hose to get that off. Sorry about that. The strip’s just about impossible to cut, even with a bolt cutter, but if you do manage to cut it, get it off, or deactivate it, you’ll be considered a federal fugitive and you’ll immediately go on Homeland Security’s most wanted list, broadcast throughout the world. Do you understand the consequences if that happens?”

       She nodded, looking at her foot. Jesus Christ, this can’t be happening! What do they think I had to do with all this? I just want to do my job and feed my family! “I can’t believe this,” she finally said. “I can’t believe you think I had anything to do with this.” If she had traded places with Brett, however, she knew she would have believed it, too.

       “Look, I’m not trying to be a hard ass,” Brett said. He almost looked embarrassed. “I’m trying to cut you some slack. I don’t know if you had anything to do with Matthew Wright’s reappearance, and maybe you didn’t, but the people back at headquarters are out for blood. Just go through your normal routine, put this out of your mind as much as you can, and stay within the county until you hear otherwise from one of us. Do you live off County L, Box Five Thirteen?”

       She nodded in silence, still looking down at her new anklet. Her face turned red as she bit her lower lip.

       “Okay. We’ll call ahead when we’re ready to come by with our questions.” Brett checked his watch again, avoiding eye contact. “We’ve got to meet Brad at a cemetery in a little while. We’ve got some digging to do. At least we brought hazmat suits for the fallout. Should be able to get a backhoe somewhere around here, too.” He looked for a moment as if he meant to ask her if she knew where he could get a backhoe, but he looked away. “Let’s go,” he said to Robert.

       She looked up as they were leaving. “Thanks for not shooting me, by the way,” she said, the edge back in her voice.

       Brett looked back without blinking. “And thank you for not shooting at us,” he said. “We’ll be in touch.”

       After he pulled the door closed behind him, Daria sank down into her chair again, fighting the urge to cry. Many thoughts passed through her head, none of them helpful. She finally checked her computer to see if her files were still intact, and as best as she could tell, they were. At last she got up, went to the bathroom, washed her face, and checked the plastic anklet again. Digging a spare pair of beige panty hose out of a desk drawer, she took off her shoes, cut away the pair of hose she wore with scissors, then put the new pair on so it fit over the anklet and almost hid it from view. She then began her rounds of the funeral home, trying not to feel like a heinous criminal while seeing what needed to be done before the rest of the staff arrived and she met her first clients of the day. Anyone who noticed the band through the hose was told it was a bandage.

       The nine o’clock appointment showed—a couple planning a funeral for a grandmother in marked physical decline at a Helena nursing home—but the ten o’clock did not. Daria told the office manager, embalming aides, janitorial staff, and the others that the funeral home’s owner, Gary, called to say he was out of town, but she didn’t know where he was or when he would return. Everyone was used to Daria running the place as she had for the last few years, so there were no complaints. What would happen to the funeral home once Gary Bellows was found—or if he wasn’t—Daria could not imagine, but she could tell her days of working there were numbered. Gary passed out the paychecks personally. At worst, Gary would sell the business from prison to pay his legal fees (if he could get a lawyer), or the county, state, or federal government would seize the property. Though doubly ashamed to think about it, she wondered if she could get a loan to buy Promised Land outright at a public auction. It was too nice a place to let it go.

       Only as she was preparing to leave for lunch did Daria remember Upchuck, Brett and Brad’s annoying red-headed cousin. What had happened to him? Had Brett spoken of him in the past tense? She couldn’t recall. At least Brett had been a gentleman—aside from destroying her entire day and banding her like an intriguing species of migrant bird. Things could have been worse—

       No, no, don’t go there. Let it be. Things will get worse or better without me jinxing it. She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly through her nose, and let it all go as best she could.

       This, too, shall pass.

       She nodded. A quick drive to the market for groceries and a takeout lunch, back to her office to eat, then time to go over the mortuary’s inventory, check advertising, do a little training with the staff—and then home.

       If nothing else, today was the first day in ages she had not ruminated about her marriage. Be grateful for small mercies. Greater ones might not be available.

 

 

 

 

Four

 

 

       Getting even a few groceries was an annoyance, and the potholes and cracks in the roads around town did not help Daria’s bleak mood. Devil’s Tongue, Montana, had no national-chain food stores, only D.T.’s Country Market: a run-down, one-story cinderblock structure with cracked linoleum floors, bare walls painted a vile sea green, understocked metal shelves, and a consistently loud television mounted in view of the sole cashier. Daria parked the red Explorer next to a high sidewalk that ran around the outside of the building, then shut the engine off from her watch-phone and negotiated the long drop to the sidewalk in the cold air with as much decorum as she could manage. She had an hour for lunch, but she preferred to take her food back to her desk at work and eat there. An introvert by nature, Daria long ago discovered that her job tended to put people off, so she had no real friends outside her immediate family except Amelia.

       Striding quickly to the store’s entrance to get out of the chill, Daria tried not to think of either the dark powdery fallout underfoot or the FBI tracking band above her right ankle. As she pushed the door open and traded sunlight for dim fluorescent lighting, familiar piano music drifted down from the 48-inch high-def satellite TV mounted high on a nearby wall so anyone in the store could watch it. She looked up at the wide flat screen and saw a sad-looking man and woman holding each other as they looked down at an elderly man in a hospital bed. A woman’s voice—Daria’s, in fact—spoke over the soft music as the scene changed to show to the couple sitting in a pleasant office speaking with an attentive woman in a dark skirt-suit and white blouse—again, Daria herself.

       “The hardest moments in life should not be made any harder,” said her own voice, strange in Daria’s ears. “At Promised Land Funeral Home, we offer understanding and compassion in the most difficult time of all, handling funeral arrangements with the best professional care from our experienced staff. Call or visit us at Three Thirty-Three Broken Pine Avenue in Devil’s Tongue. When you need us, we are here.”

       The twenty-second local-network spot ended with a view of the exterior of the funeral home and its phone number. Daria looked away and picked up a shopping basket as a commercial for a household cleaner came on.

       “Oh! Hi, Mrs. Lane!” called the nervous teenage girl at the cash register, clearly startled to see her. “I just saw you on TV!”

       “Hi, Taylor Ann,” Daria said. Don’t let her see the tracking anklet, please, God.

       “Uh, you’re not the funeral home’s boss, are you?”

       “No,” said Daria, heading for the aisles. “I’m the assistant funeral director.”

       “Then, I don’t get it,” said the cashier. “Why didn’t your boss want to be in the commercial instead of you?”

       He said I always looked more depressed than he did, since I almost never smile, so I was perfect for the commercial. “Beats me,” Daria called back, eager to get on with her shopping. “He said it was part of my job, so I didn’t argue with him.”

       “Well, I thought you were great!” said the girl. “You really look like a funeral kinda person, you know?”

       Gee, thanks. And thank you, God, for not making my day suck a little more by having her see that anklet. Daria shook her head and began hunting for the eggs. Behind her, the TV gave out a crash of turbulent orchestra music. “What does the future hold?” said the solemn male announcer. “Will we find eternal life or damnation? You’ll find the answers in Opening the Seals, with your hosts, Mike and Gabrielle.”

       Daria picked out two small cartons of six eggs each and gently placed them in her plastic shopping basket. Two-fifty each, that’s five bucks so far. What else was it we needed? Um . . . milk. Dry milk.

       The TV chattered on behind her. “Welcome. I’m Gabrielle,” said the flawless platinum blonde in the white gown, smiling at the viewers. “The End Times are upon us, and it’s important for everyone to have an understanding of the signs preparing us for each stage of the Apocalypse. Yesterday, we talked about the first half of Revelation Thirteen, in which the coming of the Antichrist is foretold. Much of what is written here is puzzling for readers of any age, because the story of the Apocalypse is given symbolically. Mike, could you guide us through the rest of this important chapter?”

       Daria shook her head in irritation, trying to concentrate. Great, the price of dairy went up again, and there’s no fresh milk. Bet the strontium-90 got into the cows at last. I wish I’d started hoarded dry milk a long time ago; now it’s too late. Back to plain old water for everyone at home. And I’ve got to call Amelia this evening and take that deputy coroner position. If Gary doesn’t come back, the funeral home’s kaput and I’ll need to get any job I can. The other funeral homes are overstaffed. Is there a full-time coroner position here? Maybe there’s one over in Helena. I should call over there when I get home, too. Quinn could take that teaching job at Amelia’s house if she could get over being in public. That would help, but I’ll need to get another job. Maybe if I talk to Trent once more about a real job, while I’m finding out what was going on with Phoebe and everyone else. We’re barely making ends meet as it is, but if I lose my job, we’re—

       “Certainly, Gabrielle,” said the dark-haired man in the black tuxedo. “We left off at verse ten, completing the description of the Antichrist and how he came to power. And we also showed how the Antichrist is symbolic of multinational world governments like the United Nations and NATO, which the Presidential Council in Washington, D.C., thankfully cast out of Christian America, freeing us from the confines of Satan’s yoke. This video shows the demolition of the old U.N. headquarters building in New York City several years ago.”

       “That was a wonderful moment, Mike.”

       Boy, I wish I’d won a lottery a few years ago and hidden the money away somewhere. That would have been wonderful, indeed. We’ve almost drained the savings account to make do, and Trent’s just draining it all the more. What am I going to do about him? I’ll talk to him about getting a real job, it might work this time. Could Quinn call Mom and ask her for money? Mom talks to Quinn if I’m not around. Maybe Quinn could say something, make a plea for help. Mom’s law firm is doing really well, Quinn says. Why doesn’t she ever talk to me? She’s my mom, doesn’t she know I miss her? What did I do wrong aside from save a year-old girl from being dumped in the foster care system? My half-sister, for crying out loud! Was that such a bad thing to do? Christ!

       “Further,” continued the dark-haired man, “we showed how the seven heads of the great Beast are symbolic of the false religions and their leaders that have led millions into the claws of the great red dragon, Satan. Buddha, Brahman, Mother Nature, Confucius, Mohammed, Karl Marx, Charles Darwin—the familiar icons of evil in our time, false gods and deluded humans who work tirelessly to destroy our religion and our nation.”

       “If I remember correctly,” interrupted Gabrielle, “the seven heads of the Beast are Buddhism, Hinduism, Paganism, Confucianism—”

       “—Islam, Communism, and scientific atheism, exactly. The ten horns are the lesser false religions, which we’ll skip over for now.”

       Thank God! Two big boxes of dry milk left on the shelf. That’s about . . . twelve-fifty altogether. What else did we need? We’ve got too many batteries, first-aid kits, and gasoline cans already. Got enough potassium iodide to fight thyroid cancer for another year. Canned stuff? Got too much of it, we’ll never eat all those beans. Eww. How much is fresh bread? Where is the fresh bread? I don’t see . . . oh, it’s all gone. Oh, well. We have lots of crackers, at least. We stockpiled fairly well last year when the nuclear wars broke out. Maybe a candy bar to take home tonight, a surprise for Ronnie. She likes surprises. Maybe one for Quinn, too. Maybe a little one for me.

       “Mike, what should we make of this part, that one of the seven heads of the Beast is ‘wounded to death,’ yet appears healed? This is quite surprising.”

       “Yes, it is. When we last talked about the Four Horsemen—War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death—we showed how that prophecy came true over the last few years as the godless forces in Europe, Africa, and Asia consolidated their power—then, in one horrific year, fought two atomic wars one after the other. First, India was attacked by the nuclear forces of Pakistan and Iran, going to war against them both. Hundreds of millions died in that ghastly time, but almost all were non-Christians who will be denied the coming glories of the kingdom of Heaven, as it clearly says in verse eight of Revelations Thirteen. Many of our own Armed Forces were lost in the initial stages of this conflict, but our government pulled all the rest of our fighting men out of the Middle East and Asia. Many called it a disastrous retreat, but the reality was yet to be revealed. Then, the atomic terrorist attack in Jerusalem during the Arab Coalition assault on Israel provoked a devastating retaliation. As was foretold in the Bible, the Jews were brought to their knees in the fight, but not before they nearly slew one head of the Beast—that of Islam.”

       “That was a frightening time, Mike. Cairo, Amman, Damascus, Baghdad, Tehran—”

       “—Beirut, Riyadh, Basra, the holy cities of Mecca and Medina, and dozens more, and even engineering projects like the Aswan Dam—all reduced to radioactive ash. It was a dreadful time—but only the beginning of the end to come.”

       Daria found herself standing motionless in front of the few candy bars and bags left on the sweets shelf, listening to the TV. Black ash stuck to the soles of my shoes, tracked indoors and out unless I wash it carefully away, the black smeary ashes of over five hundred million dead. The whole world, land and sea, a graveyard for more than half a billion humans reduced to specks on my shoes, and more die every second of famine and cancer and radiation syndrome, millions each week, death without end, and I can give them no rest, no peace, no burial, nothing. What good am I? What good is my life? What can I do about anything?

       “And we’ve not even touched on the other wars that broke out in Africa, China, and Southeast Asia,” said Mike. “As foretold, peace was established, but at a terrible cost. The good news is, very little of this horror has affected our lives in any way.”

       How can you say that? How can you come right out and say something despicable like that? Her appetite gone, Daria swallowed with a dry mouth and put out a hand to steady herself against a shelf. I so seriously hate that goddamn show.

       “So,” said Gabrielle with an earnest look, “the other six heads of the Beast are still alive and active, right?”

       “Indeed they are, despite the terrible losses they’ve taken. Hinduism still survives in India; Buddhism, Confucianism, and Communism in China; atheism and Paganism in Europe and Russia—and some parts of the United States, unfortunately. The remnants of Islam hang on in Indonesia, India, and other countries in North Africa and Southeast Asia. We are the sole bastion of true Christianity on Earth, despite the claims of the tattered remains of heretical sects overseas. The fires of this two-stage world war still burn, and our forces remain engaged in the Philippines and elsewhere, stemming this fatal tide from reaching our hallowed shores.”

       “But, now we have mention of a second Beast, in Revelation Thirteen, verse eleven. What can we tell about this Beast, with horns like a lamb but the voice of a dragon?”

       “That’s a good question, Gabrielle—”

       I can’t take any more of this. Daria quickly marched her purchases to the cashier, her expression grim. “All done,” she said, setting the basket on the counter.

       Smacking her gum, Taylor Ann began scanning and bagging each item in a tattered, recycled plastic sack. She kept one eye on the TV as she did.

       “If we examine the seemingly magical powers of this second Beast,” said Mike, “we see that—”

       “Mind if I use the restroom?” Daria asked, hoping to lock herself in until the next commercial break.

       “Sure,” said Taylor Ann, finishing the checkout. “It’s right back there behind the canned goods. I’ll put your bag under the counter. You can pay when you come back.”

       “Thanks.” Daria walked quickly to the rear of the store as Mike and Gabrielle discussed the varied powers of the second Beast. She stayed in the decrepit little bathroom that smelled strongly of disinfectant, doing nothing, until she figured the show was over. Opening the Seals never lasted long.

       She came out too soon, however.

       “That’s right, Gabrielle,” said Mike. “The second Beast is the liberal, Christ-hating mass media that gives the first Beast its fame and power. The Mark of the Beast is the forehead chip-implant identification system being employed across these regions to ensure control of the population, though foreign governments and corporations claim they are merely replacements for the credit cards, passports, and drivers’ licenses of old.”

       “Thank you, Mike,” said Gabrielle, and she turned to the viewing audience. “And thank you for joining us. Tune in tomorrow when we talk about the Whore of Babylon. This educational series is a production of PBS, the Public Broadcasting System.”

       Daria exhaled heavily as she went back to the checkout counter. She got ready to place her right fingertips on the ID plate to pay for her purchases by credit, but hesitated. “Can I get some candy, too?” she asked. “I’m sorry to do it after I’m all done.”

       “No, that’s fine,” said Taylor Ann. “Go do it!” She looked back at the TV as Daria left.

       The Two-Minute News was on, narrated by a lively woman’s voice as Daria walked back to the candy shelf. “Christian America is looking forward to a speech scheduled for this evening, to be given by one of the seven members of the Christian American Presidential Council. Rumors that Council President H. C. Tristain underwent emergency surgery on Saturday after an assassination attempt were denounced as slander spread by the godless to undermine our patriotism and the national will. Congress votes tonight on a bill to brand the so-called Unitarian Church a non-Christian cult, allowing the government to seize that group’s assets. Outside the Capitol building, police arrested groups of liberal pseudo-Christian protestors who supported the Unitarian cause. In international news, the deaths of two FBI agents in Calgary are being blamed on a terrorist network with links in the United States, says the director of Homeland Security.”

       Daria froze in terror, one hand in the act of reaching for several small chocolate bars. Oh shit! Oh, please don’t let them think I had anything to do with that! Oh, shit!

       The news ran without stopping. “The director went on to say that Canada is treacherously harboring anti-American terrorists and criminal fugitives, and American military forces must immediately be allowed to search for and apprehend these dangers to our society. Ottawa said it would examine the issue, but the governors of eight Canadian provinces today declared in unison that they will, quote, resist to their utmost ability any military force crossing their borders from the paranoid, fascist, theocratic police state to the south, and may the God of the free be with us, end quote. Expatriate Americans who fled to Canada after the establishment of Christian America echoed that same threat. United Europe and Russia, as expected, are standing behind Canada, claiming that any attack on Canada will be regarded as an attack on every NATO, British Commonwealth, and United European member state. A spokesman for the Presidential Council said Europe and other foreign powers had no right to interfere in North American affairs, per the Monroe Doctrine of eighteen twenty-three, and warned of severe consequences should intervention be attempted.”

       Daria mindlessly grabbed several tiny chocolate bars and hurried back to the counter. She knew far more than she wanted to know, and wanted only to escape to the peace of the funeral home. Please don’t let them think I’m a terrorist! Damn you, Gary, what the hell have you doing all this time? How did you get mixed up in all this?

       “The Pentagon says no nuclear explosions have been detected in the last forty-eight hours in Asia or the Middle East,” continued the announcer. “Marginal fallout is expected across the red areas on the map. Take standard precautions. The weather for western Montana: Cloudy and cold, highs in the thirties, no rain expected within the next two weeks. Our thought for the day is from Matthew twenty-four, verse six: ‘And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.’ This has been the Two-Minute News.”

       Pressing her right fingertips to the ID scanner, Daria heard the device hum and flash a message that her purchase was complete. Above her on the wall, a colorful video showed a boy and his dog on the beach. Following that was the image of the blue Earth in space, with a radiant white cross behind it and the letters “PBS Educational Television” in front, which was replaced by video scenes of men and women in ragged clothes, working in a gravel quarry.

       “Tonight on PBS,” said a male voice, “we take a look at a special reeducation camp in the American West, where hundreds of criminals, homosexuals, blasphemers, pagans, and atheists learn the meaning of the Christian work ethic through hard labor. More importantly, they strive to gain redemption and forgiveness for their sins. See this unique religious experiment in, ‘Work Shall Make You Free,’ tonight on NOVA.”

       For a few long moments, as light music played from the TV, Daria stared at the counter where her tiny sack of groceries sat. “Love one another,” she whispered, feeling the grip of defeat. “Love one another.”

       “What?” said Taylor Ann, looking puzzled. “Who said that?

       Daria looked up in astonishment that swiftly changed to horror. She snatched up her goods and tried to leave the store as quickly as possible. The worn sack split across the bottom as she did, and she was barely able to keep everything from falling out and hitting the floor. Without wasting a second, she got out the front door with her arms full and made it to her vehicle. She used voice commands to open the driver’s door, then tossed the groceries in one by one to the front seats. Climbing in afterward, she piled the items on the floor, made sure the chocolate was safely stored away, and banged her shoes on the bottom of the door to knock off as much dust and debris as possible before bringing them into the cab.

       As she pulled away from D.T.’s Country Market, her gaze ran up a nearby slope to a tattered old billboard. The face of a bearded, long-haired white male looked back.

       JESUS IS WATCHING YOU! read the golden letters under the man’s soulless, emotionless face. The image followed her all the way back to work.

       Only when she got into her office at the funeral home did she realize that she had forgotten to buy herself anything for lunch. She allowed herself a small piece of chocolate as a consolation treat. She did not enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

Five

 

 

       “Goodnight, Daria—oh! Didn’t mean to make you jump! Were you dozing?”

       Daria sat bolt upright in the chair behind her office desk, her face burning as she looked up at the plump blonde in the open doorway—Melinda Wilson, the office manager. She cleared her throat. “Uh, no, sorry,” she mumbled, embarrassed. “I was, uh, reading. I didn’t see you come in.”

       “Yeah, it can get kinda dead around here late in the afternoon,” said Melinda with a grin. She stepped into the room, looking down where Daria was obviously hiding something under the desk. “What are you reading, dear—the Bible?”

       Daria’s discomfort became acute. Melinda knew Daria well enough, and she occasionally remarked that the probability that Daria would ever be caught reading the Bible for her own benefit, rather than for business purposes in preparing funeral remarks, was less likely than Jesus showing up for the Second Coming in a ball gown. Melinda said this only in front of people with a tolerance for good-natured blasphemy, which in the community of Devil’s Tongue (despite its name) meant only Daria and the sheriff.

       “No,” said Daria in a low voice, now beet red. She flashed the cover of the book in Melinda’s direction and then hid it again, avoiding eye contact and talking to the desk top. “Historical novel. Kind of interesting.”

       “Oh. Figures, you being so smart and everything. Don’t know why you’re so embarrassed about it. Must be dirty history.” Melinda winked. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow morning at eight. Everyone else has gone home. Oh, if Gary comes in, have him call me at home. I really need to talk to him about his appointment schedule for the rest of the month. Is he having personal problems or something? Not to pry, but it’s not like him to be away without an explanation or anything.”

       “I have no idea,” said Daria truthfully. “I’m a little ticked off about it.”

       “Mmm, that man’s in trouble now!” Melinda grinned and waved. “Goodnight, Daria, and God bless.”

       “Thanks. You, too.”

       When Melinda’s soft footsteps reached the end of the entry hall and the front door thumped shut, Daria carefully brought out the paperback she had been hiding: Barabbas, by Pär Lagerkvist. She had once again begun reading it because she was troubled by the day’s events—overwhelmed was a better word—and needed comfort. Bibliotherapy of this sort was an old habit with her, but Barabbas held a special place in her life that nothing else could fill.

       The book was an old copy she had found in a yard sale years ago when her family lived in Highland, Texas. Curious because the book had won a Nobel Prize for literature in 1951, she bought it for a quarter and read it. A ninth grader then, Daria found the book confusing and disturbing, but she kept it for reasons she could not articulate. She read it again during a lonely, depressing summer in Lawndale, Maryland, when her then-best friend Jane Lane became angry with her over an unwise romantic entanglement, then went off to an art colony for two months. Again, reading Barabbas snagged something within Daria, but again, she could go no further with it, and again, the book disappeared into the sea of her private library.

       Daria moved a number of times over the years that followed, and her most beloved books always went with her—and the little paperback with the lonely cross on the cover, though hardly beloved, came along for the ride. Six months after the terrors of 9/11, she read it a third time and was finally able to put her finger on why she kept it. In certain ways, the Barabbas of the novel was just like her: a flawed human who believed only in what could be sensed, yet was riddled with confusion and doubt over the question of whether things existed beyond mortal comprehension—miraculous things, spiritual things that could transform a doubter into a believer and grant an awakening and awareness of the soul, if only the conceptual breakthrough could be managed.

       Like Barabbas, Daria wanted to believe in these things, though she would have gladly died before admitting it to anyone but herself. Those who knew her saw her as a freethinking agnostic who always led with her mind, not her heart, but they also sensed she was capable of great empathy, compassion, and fairness. It had been so since her sophomore year in high school, when the accidental death of a former student on school property drove many of her peers to seek her advice in coping with the tragedy. In the divisive times of the present, her reputation as a helpful outsider was an asset in attracting those who wished an impartial handling of funeral arrangements, without heavy-handed attempts to enforce a particular denomination’s viewpoint over the affairs. In her mind, however, Daria was tired of sitting on the fence and wished to move on.

       Daria’s slow spiritual transformation went unseen by nearly everyone who knew her. This was understandable since she so rarely spoke of religious matters, much less her own religious beliefs, except in vaguely negative terms. This, too, was understandable, as she had so rarely been exposed to the positive side of this issue. A pedophilic minister who had tried to come on to her younger sister Quinn during their cousin’s wedding figured large in Daria’s youthful view of what religious authorities were like: inwardly corrupt, blatantly hypocritical, and never to be trusted. Still, there were inroads. Her sister Quinn’s later infatuation with guardian angels was annoying, but Daria had developed a grudging tolerance for the concept that surprised her—and made her less defensive about considering the unknown in the future.

       Almost all of the spiritual legwork had to be done on her own. Her parents—her father a lapsed Methodist and her mother a very lapsed Southern Baptist—were no help. None of her childhood acquaintances were particularly religious. Daria did not suppose she was much of a spiritual person, either, and imagined that those who waded through her soul would scarcely get their feet wet. She was cynical and annoying and sarcastic and rude, and she tended to look down on almost everyone she met—yet for all this she was still an ethical person, a moral person with high standards of conduct for herself and others. When she failed to live up to those standards, she fell into depression and anxiety, quickly and openly admitting her guilt and seeking punishment when possible to soothe her bruised self-esteem. She might screw up, and often did, but she was big enough to take the consequences without flinching too much. Whenever it occurred to her, she would try to develop a larger and more comprehensive view of reality within which she could comfortably arrange her beliefs, but she found this difficult to accomplish, more so than she had expected.

       And this is where Barabbas wedged its way in. With each reading, the book tore at the foundations of Daria’s rationalism and skepticism, which had been the core of her self-image and world-view for as long as she could remember. She had never believed in Santa Claus, magic, wishes coming true or the power of prayer, and especially never in guardian angels, a concept she found vain and pretentious in the extreme. She believed only in what was demonstrably real. Her mind was her most powerful asset and her greatest pride, and it had carried her through life in excellent order even when the emotional side of her stumbled and fell.

       Barabbas challenged her endless faith in reason, opening the door to a world she could scarcely conceive, but she remained trapped in the doorway and did not know how to continue beyond it. She still demanded physical proof of the supernatural, hard evidence that would be admissible in the courtroom of her mind, before she would take one step further. The closest she dared come to believing in God happened, oddly enough, while she was reading certain science-fiction books such as Olaf Stapledon’s Star Maker, Arthur C. Clarke’s Childhood’s End, various tales by C. S. Lewis, or Walter M. Miller Jr.’s A Canticle for Leibowitz, all of which led her to consider the existence of a Supreme Being through a combination of complex intellectual structures and profoundly moving moments of reverence and awe—helped along by a willing suspension of disbelief.

       During the summer of 2001, she finally accepted the reality of a Creator, given the irrefutable order and appealing logic displayed by the physical laws of the universe and the scientific evidence pointing to an actual moment of Creation, the so-called Big Bang. In mathematics, too, she found cause to suspect that God was hiding out there somewhere, given the magnificence of equations that hinted that the universe was but a single interconnected Work, and even Chaos, after a fashion, could be predicted if one went at it with enough paper, pencils, and determination. A random universe was not capable of creating such spectacular architecture. An Architect, therefore, had to exist.

       In such fashion she passed from agnosticism to deism. She would have nothing to do with the concept of Intelligent Design, that peculiar offshoot of Creationism mixed with actual science, as she could not intellectually accept a Creator who was prone to personally tinker with Creation as an ongoing process. If God answered prayers, for instance, why were not all prayers answered? What guaranteed that a prayer would be answered? Were some people more spiritually favored than others, and if so, why? Why did so many evil people profit so handsomely from their wickedness, if God was good? If God intervened in the world, why wasn’t life fair? Life frequently sucked. What did that say about God or Creation? She struggled with these questions in secret until she went to her undergraduate college classes in August. Some resources directed her to the Biblical Book of Job, which she dutifully read but found difficult to interpret. The big picture still lacking. The right path was before her, she believed, but she had taken only one cautious step, and the step-stones before her stretched away to infinity.

       As so often happens in life, the next step came when she least expected it.

       The horrors she witnessed first-hand on September 11, 2001, disrupted her carefully plotted path into spirituality. What was the meaning of what had happened? Why would any Creator allow such suffering and despair? Most answers to these questions she found contemptible, as they implied either an evil Creator, which she could not abide, or flaws in logic on the Creator’s part, which was equally objectionable. She knew what she had experienced: a dying woman smashed into the ground before her, her promise to do all she could to help, and the visible passing of the woman from life, with Daria helpless to do anything about it. Evil and Chaos became real, imprinted upon her consciousness forever, and guardian angels became the cruelest of cruel jokes.

       She struggled through the rest of that undergraduate year until spring break, when—while her best friend Jane was away on vacation with her future fiancé—she found herself alone in her dormitory room in Boston, tormented by nightmares of tall buildings falling upon her or of her falling from those same tall buildings. In this depressed frame of mind, she picked up Barabbas and read it a third time. Only a few pages into it, she understood at last why she and Barabbas were so much alike. By the time she had finished reading, she also knew what she had to do with her life. She would devote herself to helping repair the damaged world by helping the dead, which would honor those who had passed and help the living move on. In choosing this path she continued her accustomed life as a social outcast, though now she felt she was doing something truly good and useful, something that connected her with the larger world and in some way advanced her as a human being.

       Her personal bibliotherapy continued. She discovered books such as Harold Kushner’s When Bad Things Happen to Good People, and she accepted the thesis that God had created the Cosmos with free will for the living, and as a consequence had left the remainder of the job of Creation to humanity, for good or ill. A tale from Jewish tradition came to mind, too, about a rabbi who advised people to act as if there were no God or angels to intervene in the world. Each person was then solely responsible for bringing goodness into existence. In the forsaken aftermath of 9/11, this advice made sense. If there were a God, God was clearly not taking personal requests—but Daria could still reach out to God and do God’s will if she acted as if God did not exist.

       No wonder, then, that she was believed by all to be an unbeliever.

       And so she lived, struggling to do good deeds every day of her life even if she did not feel like it. She took to heart Kushner’s statement, “The dead depend on us for their redemption and their immortality,” and solidified her career choice. She matured rapidly, but the burdens she took on over time were heavy ones. The love of her sisters and her own dry sense of humor made the burdens a bit easier to handle. In a sense, becoming a mortician was almost comic. Aside from the career test that pointed her in that direction, teenage Daria had occasionally pictured herself as a gravedigger, in morbid daydreams in which she buried those she disliked, usually her sister Quinn. These fantasies did not lead her toward her future occupation, and even the occupational aptitude test had picked out her future career for the wrong reasons. Still, she sometimes wondered if the test itself had been a Sign—albeit from a God with a warped sense of humor.

       Others were less amused by her career choice. Daria’s parents had mixed feelings about it, but they were absorbed with their disintegrating marriage and could only wish her the best. Her sister Quinn was revolted at first, but gradually came around to the realization that Daria had finally found herself and was as happy (or content) as she could possibly be. And Jane . . .

       Jane left.

       The emptiness where Jane had been was never filled. Barabbas, though, stayed.

       Sitting now in her chair in the funeral home in Montana, Daria Lane flipped to the first page and first paragraph of the book, where Barabbas stood at Golgotha, watching the death agonies of Jesus on the cross. As she read that simply told moment, she remembered looking up at the burning North Tower on September 11th, 2001, then looking down at the final moments of the nameless woman who had jumped to escape incineration and in so doing changed another person’s life, exactly as Jesus’ own dying would change Barabbas.

       Why did I not die instead of her? Daria wondered, for the ten thousandth time. Why did it happen that I was there and lived, but she was there and died? Why?

       As Lagerkvist said of Barabbas’s thoughts at Golgotha: Why was he standing here? He did not know this man, had nothing to do with him. What was he doing at Golgotha, he who had been released?

       Daria closed the book and looked down at the cover. She wanted to believe. She was closer to her goal, but still far away. It seemed as likely she would jump to Judaism as to Christianity, but for her own reasons she wished to head toward Christianity in whatever way she could—still on her own terms, through her head as well as her heart.

       In these days, however, when Christianity was so cruelly split between the intolerant and their victims, Daria feared her spiritual movement was coming to an end. Where to go? What to do? And with so many other troubles before her, threatening her family and her job, was her soul even worth worrying about?

       That centurion did it, she thought. That centurion in Luke, who believed Jesus would cure his servant, he did it. Why can’t I? Where is my Faith?

       I have Trent to worry about first. Or my job. Or the FBI arresting me as a terrorist. Or a new world war, or a million other things. I can’t handle all this at once. I can’t do it. I want to get in my car and run away, but that would make everything worse. I need to call Amelia and ask what she thinks. I’ve never done that before. She’s got it together. She faces death every day of her life, and she still laughs, and she still cares about me as her best friend, even when I hardly act the part. How does she do it? How does she keep her faith and her head at the same time? She might know what I need to know. I should—

       Her wrist-phone rang. She jumped, then sighed in relief at the break from her ruminations. The caller ID said it was from Quinn. Whatever the call was about, it could only lead to better things than being paralyzed with worry. She gave the command to answer, then said, “Hi, there. What’s up?”

 

 

 

 

Six

 

 

       When Daria opened the garage door at home, she spotted Quinn and Veronica inside the cab of the sport utility truck. A subdued Veronica cradled the bloated Upchuck in her lap as she watched Daria. The long muzzle of the black assault rifle pointed up from a spot in front of Quinn, the rest of the weapon resting between her knees.

       Quinn rolled down a window when Daria pulled alongside, and Daria did the same. “The ssseriff’sss offissse will have a car here in half an hour!” Quinn called, lisping badly. “There wasss a church burning near Big Pine, and they can’t get anyone over this way until then. Just ssstay with usss until they get here!”

       “Why are you two out here?” Daria said. “I didn’t understand what happened from your call. You said Trent and Ronnie got into a fight?”

       Ronnie sat up, lifting Upchuck as well. “He grabbed me and tried to—”

       “Ronnie!” shouted Quinn, waving her back. “Just wait a minute! Let me talk!”

       What?” Daria shouted, stricken. “Tell me what happened!”

       Quinn turned to her. The long scars stood out white against her red face. “He’sss drunk! He doesssn’t know what he’sss doing! Don’t go in there, okay?”

       Daria looked from Quinn to Ronnie. Ronnie hugged Upchuck, who struggled in her arms, then buried her face in his fur of his back. Her shoulders began to shake moments later. Daria watched her, then looked back at Quinn for a long second.

       She then unbuttoned her jacket and took it off in the cab of the Explorer.

       “Daria?” called Quinn.

       Daria unlocked and opened the driver’s door, sliding out of the seat to the ground. Her legs scraped against the running board and tore her stockings without harming the FBI anklet. She walked around the Explorer, heading for the door into the house.

       “Daria, no! Don’t go in there! Hey!” Quinn opened the driver’s door on the truck, pulling the assault rifle out with her. “Daria, damn it!”

       Veronica began to shriek. Quinn slammed the door, shutting her little sister and the marmot in the cab.

       Daria turned and pointed at Quinn when she came around the rear of the utility truck. “Stay here with Ronnie! Don’t give me any shit about it, either! Get back in the truck and protect your sister!”

       “I am protecting my sissser!” Quinn shouted back, her lisp worsening. “He’sss really out of it!” She snapped the safety off the semi-automatic rifle.

       “I can handle Trent!” Daria roared. “You get back in the goddamned truck! Don’t you dare leave Ronnie in here on her own!”

       “Why can’t you wait for the ssseriff? Wha’sss wrong with you?”

       Go!

       Quinn bit down on her lower lip, then looked back at the truck cab. Veronica was bawling her eyes out, her face and hands pressed against the rear window. Upchuck’s head was barely visible above the top of the seat back.

       “I’ll be right out!” Daria snapped. “Get in the truck! Go on!” Without waiting for an answer, she used her watch-phone to unlock the door, and she went inside in a flash. No one was in the living room when she came in. Once inside, she relocked the door, then keyed it to respond only to her voice, locking Quinn out of the house. After looking around and listening for a few seconds, she headed for the hall to the kitchen. The smoky air smelled like burnt toast.

       Trent was sitting at the kitchen table when she came in, wearing the same filthy T-shirt he’d had on when she’d left that morning. He looked up bleary-eyed from a plate of overcooked scrambled eggs. His dark, graying hair stuck out in all directions. A half-empty bottle of amber whiskey sat by his plate, and two empty cans of beer lay on their sides under the table. Smoke drifted up from the sink where the toast had been dumped.

       “What do you want?” he growled.

       “What do I want?” Daria stood across the kitchen and stared at him. “I want to know what happened while I was gone today.”

       “Nothing happened,” said Trent, looking away. He picked up a fork and dug into the eggs.

       “I’m talking to you! Tell me what—”

       Trent threw the fork at her, but missed. It bounced off the floor, scattering bits of yellow egg everywhere. “God damn it!” he shouted. “How the hell can I get any peace around here with you and Quinn and that little bitch getting on me every fucking second about every—”

       What did you say?” Daria voice cut through his and stopped him cold. She took a step closer in the silence that followed. “What did you say?

       He looked away again. “Nothing,” he grumbled. He looked down at his eggs, then got up and walked over to the dinnerware drawer.

       “Don’t you ever talk about one of my sisters like that, you got it?”

       Trent exhaled and continued pawing through the contents of the drawer.

       Daria’s voice grew louder. “Quinn said you and Veronica had a fight.”

       He did not respond, getting a fork out of the drawer before slamming it shut.

       “What happened?” She began walking toward the table as he did, moving to intercept him. Her shaky self-control began to slip. “This is my house, damn it, and I expect an answer!”

       Trent gave her a look of disdain. “Oh, fuck off,” he said as he sat down.

       Daria lunged across the table. The whiskey bottle was suddenly gone. She held it by the neck in her right hand, amber liquid sloshing inside. “Get out of my house,” she said in a hard, flat voice. “Get out and don’t come back.”

       To her amazement, she meant what she said. She couldn’t take any more. It was over. It was over and done.

       “Give me that,” said Trent, half out of his seat. One hand reached for the bottle.

       “You can have it when you get out of my house. Get in your car and drive and don’t ever come back here. We’re through.”

       Trent hesitated, halfway between sitting and standing, that one hand reaching out, looking at her as if she had just become an enemy.

       And he sat down again. He rubbed a hand over his mouth. He smiled.

       “We’re through?” he said. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. We can’t get a divorce, Daria, thanks to Congress. You know that, right? We’re married for good.

       “I don’t give a shit. Get the hell out of my house, right now.” A beat, and then she pointed to the garage door and shouted, “Now!

       Trent broke into laughter. He rocked back in his chair, eyes closed, and slapped his thighs and laughed.

       Daria stood waiting for him, still pointing to the door with one hand, holding the bottle with the other. She slowly lowered her pointing arm.

       “We can’t get a divorce, brainy girl!” he said as he laughed. “It’s against the fucking law! Don’t you know that? Where have you been all these years? Janey said you would do . . . this.”

       Halfway through the last sentence, Trent’s voice suddenly faded, as if he’d said something he wished he could take back.

       Daria drew back, eyes widening. “What?” she said. “What did—?”

       Trent saw how the comment had rocked her. He picked up his fork again, trying to be casual. “Yeah,” he said, taking another bite of eggs. “She said you’d do something stupid like that.”

       Though Daria did not move from where she stood, she seemed to grow smaller in moments. Her face reflected her shock. “When did she say that?”

       “Last night,” said Trent, chewing.

       “Last night?” repeated Daria, her eyes getting bigger. “You called her?”

       Trent nodded, feeling a smirk coming on. “Once a week,” he said. “Collect.”

       She stared for a long moment. “From here?” He couldn’t have, I see all the bills!

       He thought, then shook his head no.

       From one of his girlfriends’ houses. “Where—where is she?”

       “New York. Got a place out in White Plains, something like that. Married, kids.”

       Daria reeled from the blow. “She . . . you’ve been calling her since . . .?”

       “Since whenever,” he said, smiling in satisfaction. “She’s my sister, after all.”

       Daria’s face was frozen in shock, like a wax sculpture.

       “You’re pretty stupid for a brain,” he added.

       Yes, she thought dully. Yes, I am. She tried to get out the next few words. “Did she ever want . . . does she want to . . .”

       “Want to talk to you?” he finished, scraping up more eggs. “No. If she did, she would have called you, right?” He snorted. “Man, you’re stupid. Janey thinks you’ve flipped out. She said she knew you would. You were always too morbid. Mental problems or something, she said. I used to think you were cool. You sure fooled me.” He shook his head and ate his eggs.

       Morbid. Mental problems. She said that to me, too.

       “You’ve been calling her for years,” said Daria, a statement of fact. She thought she heard the garage door opening, but it didn’t matter.

       He glanced at her and shrugged. “What I said.”

       He’s called Jane for years, and she never once wanted to talk to me. She could have gotten any of my phone numbers, but she never did, all the time I missed her, all the time I tried to get in touch with her but couldn’t, all the times I called and left messages for her, and she never called back. She never once wanted to talk to me. Never.

       It’s over. It’s over and done.

       “Trent?” said Daria, focusing closely on him. Her grip on the bottle tightened.

       “Hmm?”

       “Did you make a pass at Ronnie today?”

       He started to laugh and he looked up just as the whiskey bottle came down in an overhead swing and hit him on the left temple right over his eye, exploding in a shower of amber droplets and glass. Trent fell off the chair to his right and hit his head on the wall, screaming. He struggled to get on his feet, knees crunching into glass shards on the wet-slick floor, more shards slicing into the palms of his hands and his left cheek, and as he screamed he cupped a hand over his blood-blinded eye. He stood and turned as Daria came at him a second time, clutching a black high-power flashlight a foot and a half long, made of heavy steel. He had no time to block it. The blow broke two bones in the back of his left hand, which had been holding up a flap of bloodied skin over his left eye back to his temple, and he fell back screaming a second time, hitting the wall but staying on his feet. Blood went everywhere. Something got into his left cornea then, a glass fragment, and the pain skyrocketed and his screaming redoubled. She hit him a third time with a roundhouse blow and fractured one of the long bones in his forearm, but he lashed out in half-blind reflex and kicked her across the abdomen and the left side of her hip above her thigh, knocking her across the kitchen to the floor. She rolled on her side, hissing, doubled over and unable to speak or breathe, then began thinking again and clawed her way up to her hands and knees. She had just remembered where the filament-edge carving knives were.

       From the corner of her eye she saw Trent coming at her, emitting a screeching whine. His head and upper chest were bathed in red. She met his charge and grabbed for his foot as he kicked her again, but she couldn’t block the entire blow. Trent’s right boot caught her under the chin and snapped her head back; she saw stars and bit her tongue and fell backwards, but Trent was drunk and off-balance and fell hard to the floor on his side. Tasting blood in her mouth, Daria got up on her knees again and crawled to the countertop by the stove. If she could pull herself up to her feet, she could reach the cabinet and open it and get to the knives on the lower shelf, the filament-edged carbon-steel knives she had sharpened until they could cut through literally anything, even husbands.

       Goddamn bitch!” shrieked Trent, getting up from the floor. He grabbed for the long flashlight with his good hand and stood up.

       Daria was on her feet. Her right hand went for the cabinet door and the knives beyond.

       An ear-jolting series of crashes echoed in from the living room. Heavy boots stamped into the house at a run. Pulling the cabinet open, Daria turned as Amelia came in flying and tackled Trent, throwing him backward into the edge of the kitchen countertop. The flashlight flew away and banged on the floor. Trent fell with a cry, Amelia on top of him, and in the next second Amelia had him face down, holding one of his tattooed arms up in a peculiar way that caused Trent to scream in piercing agony. Without releasing his arm, Amelia bent it another way and pulled up his other arm, then had orange plastic handcuffs on him and a knee jammed hard in his lower back to keep him down, and it was over.

       The knives forgotten, Daria tried to support herself against the counter by the stove, but her hand slipped off and she fell. Veronica caught her before she hit the floor, easing her down. Daria tried to speak, but blood ran out of her mouth and down her throat, and she coughed and turned her head as her little sister screamed her name. When Daria stopped coughing and looked up again, Quinn was there in the kitchen, too, but she wasn’t looking at Daria.

       “Quinn,” said Amelia, holding up a hand while she sat on Trent. “Quinn, put it down. Put it down. It’s okay now.”

       Isss not okay!” Quinn screamed. The assault rifle was in her hands, aiming down at Trent with a thirty-round magazine locked in and her index finger on the trigger.

       “Quinn, honey,” said Amelia calmly, “you’re going to hurt me. Be careful. Put the weapon down. Don’t hurt me. You could hurt all of us.”

       I want to kill him! I want to fucking kill him!

       “Quinn, don’t. Look at what you’re doing, baby. Look at what you’re doing. Take a breath and look at yourself.” Amelia waited, then said, “It’s over. It’s okay. It’s over.”

       Shaking all over, Quinn lowered the muzzle of the assault rifle and sobbed. Amelia got up and carefully took the rifle away from her, then ejected the oversized magazine, checked the chamber, and snapped the safety back on.

       Trent stirred and tried to get up. In one fluid motion, Amelia stepped next to him and hit him in the back with the butt of the rifle as hard as she could, knocking him flat. He cried out and wept and gasped for air.

       “If he tries to get up again, kick him until you break a rib,” Amelia told Quinn. Amelia then knelt down by Veronica at Daria’s side. “Oh, man,” she said softly, cradling her friend’s head. She swiftly checked Daria for injuries. “Tell me where it hurts, baby.”

       Everywhere. It hurts everywhere. Jane betrayed me. Trent attacked Ronnie. I’m losing my job and the world’s coming to an end. It hurts everywhere.

       Daria closed her eyes and began to cry. Blood ran from her mouth and into her hair and over her white blouse.

       “Hell of a day,” Amelia whispered. She tapped a device behind her right ear and began a call back to the station for help.

 

 

 

 

Seven

 

 

       “Told you that cleaning company did good work, didn’t I?” said Amelia in a good humor, setting a mug of tea in front of her glum friend. Though she was off duty, Amelia wore the fresh sheriff’s uniform she had donned after taking Daria and her sisters to the county’s emergency room. “You’ll get your garage door fixed Thursday. Sorry about the damage the hand ram caused.”

       “Eh,” mumbled her friend staring at the steaming mug. I hope this doesn’t sting my tongue. “I didn’t like that door anyway.”

       “As for your blouse and skirt, I know a dry cleaner who can get bloodstains out of anything. You should have seen some of my uniforms over the years. Swear to God, I thought I’d have to burn them all.” She turned a kitchen chair backward and sat down in it facing Daria, then took a sip from her own mug. “This flavor is good for helping you sleep. I brought it from home. Try it.”

       Daria, clad in a rust-red sweat suit with groundhog slippers on her feet, sat in her kitchen at the same table where, several hours earlier, she and Trent had the first, last, and only violent confrontation of their marriage. Her auburn hair was damp from the shower, her jaw tender and swollen but unbroken, and the FBI tracking anklet intact and in place. A plastic Natdia County Medical Center ID bracelet dangled from her left wrist. Her wedding ring was gone, waiting to be sold at a jeweler’s store later. She wrapped her hands around the mug, feeling her bones warm up, and smelled lemon zest in the air.

       “You need more sweetener?” asked Amelia. She looked around the kitchen. “I forgot where you keep it.”

       “No, this is fine,” said Daria in a low voice. “Thank you. And thanks for taking Ronnie and Quinn to your place for the night. And Upchuck, too. Sorry his carrier smells so bad. Taking them in meant a lot to me. While they’re out, I’d like to do some housecleaning.” Getting rid of Trent’s worthless belongings. The Goodwill people might not take them, though. Wonder if I could build a bonfire. . . .

       “Hey, you’re welcome, anytime. You’re my best friend.”

       An unhappy look passed over Daria’s face as she played with her mug. Amelia noted it and slowly set her mug aside.

       “Amelia,” Daria began, avoiding eye contact, “whenever you say that, I—”

       “I know,” said Amelia in resignation. “You’re my best friend, but I’m not yours.”

       “No,” said Daria, looking up. “No, that’s not it. You are my best friend, and you have been for a long time.” She grimaced. “I’m upset because I’m so lousy at showing how much you matter to me. I’m sorry I’m . . . that I’m the way I am.”

       “Oh.” Amelia was momentarily at a loss for words. “But I like the way you are. After what you told me what happened with Jane, I sort of thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d permanently retired the position of best friend, or maybe you were waiting around until Jane came back, and then—”

       No!” Daria shook her head, then looked down at her tea, embarrassed. “I’d never dump you, not for anyone. Other than my sisters, you’re the only real friend I’ve got. All things considered, you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I wouldn’t be sitting here alive and in one piece, I know that.”

       Amelia said nothing for a time, then got her mug and took another sip of tea.

       “I have to admit,” Daria continued, “I don’t know what you see in me that makes you want to be my friend, much less be a best friend. I’m a mobile disaster area.”

       Amelia shook her head slightly.

       “I mean it,” said Daria. “I’ve been a shitty friend. Maybe Jane was right after all.”

       “I doubt it. You know, maybe Trent lied about what she said.”

       “No chance,” said Daria flatly. “He said exactly what Jane once said to me in private, the same choice of words. She must have told him what she really thought of me. If she did, she wasn’t planning on seeing me again.” She shrugged. “I’m over it now. I should’ve gotten over it years ago, and I’m plenty sorry that I didn’t.”

       “Oh.” Amelia did a one-shoulder shrug. “Her loss, then.”

       Daria shook her head, her depression settling in. “She lost nothing.”

       “Stop it.” Amelia put her mug down again. “You know, ever since we were at Camp Grizzly the first time—wait, I know it drives you crazy to hear me say this, but hear me out—ever since first I met you, I’ve admired your courage, your honesty, and your integrity. You say what you think, and you stand up for what you think is right. You were always the kind of person I wanted to be myself. I was just afraid to do it. After we met again at the reunion, I got the courage to stand up for myself, and you’re to blame.”

       “Don’t do this,” Daria muttered, giving the tabletop a disgusted look. “I’m not in the mood to listen to lame testimonials.”

       “I’m telling you what I really think,” Amelia said softly. She smiled. “Get over your damn cheap self.”

       Daria relaxed a little, but she offered no smile of her own. “Please don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m a messed-up human, not an idol. Your little speech sounds like badly misplaced hero worship.”

       “Maybe you’re a badly misplaced hero.”

       Daria looked up, one eyebrow raised.

       “Well, it sounded right,” said Amelia, unfazed. “Just let me be the judge of what you’re really like, okay?”

       Daria groaned. “Speaking of judges, are you even supposed to be here? I just put my husband in the hospital, the county prosecutor’s probably going to charge me with assault and I don’t know what else—oh, my God, I can’t believe it. I’ll have a criminal record.” She covered her face with her hands. “Everyone’s going to read about what happened, just everyone. My life is ruined. I can’t believe I’m not in jail now.”

       Amelia gave a quirky smile. “For one thing, we don’t have the space.”

       “Great. Thank God for crime waves. And another thing—won’t you have to testify against me in court? The judge might get pissed off at you for hanging around with me and—”

       “Eh,” said Amelia with a shrug. “When I came in, Trent was coming after you with that flashlight. You didn’t have any weapons at all. And if the judge asks why I was here tonight, I’ll tell him I was questioning you, and he can suck ass if he thinks anything else about it. I really can’t take you home because of the conflict of interest thing, but what we’re doing at the moment is okay. The judge knows what I’m like. This is a small town. Everybody has to live with everybody else. I’ve busted the judge for drunk driving four times, so he’s not perfect, either.”

       Daria looked stricken. “Oh, Jesus, don’t tell me that! Now he’s really going to love seeing a friend of yours in court!” She buried her head in her arms on the table. “This is bad,” she said in a muffled voice. “This is really bad.”
       Amelia took a deep breath. “Well, I suppose you could say that. You insisted on saying you bashed Trent three times before he even got one hit in, and you admitted he didn’t physically threaten you beforehand, except with that fork or whatever, which doesn’t count. He looks like you dropped a house on him. As much as I admire you for it and want to take you out to dinner to celebrate, yeah, this could be pretty bad when it comes before the judge, which could be by the end of this week.”

       “Is there any good news?” Daria muttered, head down. Her tongue hurt where she’d bitten it, making her bleak mood worse.

       “Sort of. Both your sisters gave statements about Trent’s advances on Veronica which are pretty damning, even if she—thank God—tested out negative for sexual trauma, and . . . well, everyone knows where he’s been around town, so he’s no one’s favorite, but the judge is going to look at Trent, who’s got thirty-eight stitches across one side of his head, and that corneal abrasion that’s left him blind in that eye for a while, and his left arm’s broken, and the judge is going to look at you and think, My God, if this isn’t spouse abuse, what is? And the judge is kinda one of those hard-ass True Christian types, and he might think you’re not living up to that admonition Paul stuck in the Bible about the wife submitting to her husband, and he might—might—give you jail time but let Trent off with time served, considering the condition he’s in now.” Amelia made a face. “And you should know that Trent’s got the right to come back here, even if . . . if you’re not around, like in jail or something. I think Quinn and Ronnie should stay with us for a little while, if that happens. If that’s okay with—”

       Daria raised her head toward the end of Amelia’s evaluation. “No!” she said, her face filled with fury. “No way! This is my house, and that son of a bitch is not—”

       “Daria—”

       “—going to set one foot back in here again! No! Absolutely not!

       “Daria—”

       What?” Daria jumped to her feet and stalked aimlessly around the kitchen. “No way! No! He’s not coming back here, damn it!”

       “Daria,” said Amelia gently, “I hate to say this, but you two are still married. He can legally walk right back in here as soon as he gets out of the hospital and out of jail, though if I was him I would run like a—”

       Daria whirled and hammered a wall with her fist, then slammed it again and again in a rage. “God damn it!” she screamed. “God damn it! He can’t come in! I don’t want him around Ronnie! He doesn’t have a fucking right to come into my house and abuse my sisters! No!

       Amelia watched her, biting down on her lips.

       With a final blow, Daria subsided and closed her eyes, letting her arms drop to her sides and her head bow until her forehead touched the wall. After several long seconds, she began breathing through her nose.

       “I blew it,” she said in defeat. “I know I blew it. Shit!

       “Well . . . it depends on if—”

       “Can he take my house away from me? Can he petition to take a share of all my stuff, as my husband, even if we have a pre-nup that says he can’t?”

       Amelia hesitated. “The law’s not what it once was, and I’m not a lawyer,” she said. “Have you called your attorney yet?”

       Daria nodded. “He’s in court in Helena, but he’ll call back soon. He gets his messages.”

       Amelia’s gaze dropped to Daria’s right foot, to a spot just above the groundhog slipper. “Did those FBI guys say when they were coming back to see you?”

       “Oh. No, they were going to dig up whatzizname first . . . Wright, Matt Wright, see if that’s really him in the cemetery.”

       “That’s the part of all of this that I can’t believe, other than you trashing Trent.”

       Daria sighed and opened her eyes. “I think it was cloning.”

       “What?”

       “They used cloning to create fake body parts. A superficial DNA test would miss it, though a sophisticated one would figure it out. Matt must have known someone overseas who could do it, maybe through the military, and they had different types of tissue cloned from him, just enough to make some messy-looking remains. It wouldn’t take that long, since they weren’t growing a whole body. I don’t know how they faked his death during the pullout, though. I bet he’s not the only one to have done this. I’d lay money that this leads somewhere big, really big, but I don’t know what it’s all about, and I can’t imagine how Gary was involved in it, or why.” She turned her head to see Amelia. “Did you suspect he was tied up in something? You asked to see him this morning.”

       “Actually, no. I was trying to get hold of him because he missed an emergency call-in assignment as deputy coroner on Saturday night, and I was pissed as hell. He’s skipped out on me before, and I was about to fire him. As soon as I see him, I will.”

       “If you see him.”

       “Yeah, if.”

       Daria pushed away from the wall and walked back to the kitchen table. She dropped into her seat and picked up her mug of tea, sampling it. Her tongue came through fine. She took a longer drink.

       “Quinn took the teaching job at my place, for whatever it’s worth,” Amelia added.

       “Good,” said Daria, holding the mug and looking into space. She looked thoughtful. “Trent’s still got his car in my garage. If I put all his stuff in it and put it in neutral and pushed it down the hill, could he sue me, me being his wife?”

       “Daria,” Amelia said in an undertone, “whatever you do, please don’t make it worse right now. Just wait a little before you firebomb anything.”

       “I was kidding.” Pause. “A little.”

       Amelia cleared her throat and began to say something, but she stopped and looked away instead.

       “Get it over with,” said Daria, taking a sip herself. “Say it.”

       “Um . . . one possibility is that Trent might, um, accept Jesus and get out of jail the day he sees the judge, if not sooner.”

       Daria turned a cold gaze on her friend, but she said nothing. She pulled the mug back from her lips and waited.

       “It’s happening a lot across the country,” Amelia went on, looking pained. “When I called back at the station a while ago, someone had already called over from one of the churches to speak with him about finding the Savior. I can’t stop anyone from seeing him, if he wants to see them. And this judge gives one get-out-of-jail-free card to anyone not accused of a capital crime who professes to accept Christ and promises to do better. He’s done it before. People charged with capital crimes can get reduced sentences.”

       Daria looked away, her expression hardening.

       “Just wanted you to be aware of that,” said Amelia.

       “You mean in case I want my own get-out-of-jail-free card?”

       “In case Trent does.”

       “Oh.” Daria considered it. “It’s not likely he’ll do it, I think. Trent is what he is, and he doesn’t pretend to be otherwise. I’ll say that much for him.” She put down the mug and studied it. “Maybe I should just . . . no, forget it. I can’t do spur-of-the-moment conversions and make them look anything other than cynical pretensions.”

       “Can I ask you a personal question?”

       “Sure, but I’m not gay, so you’ll have to leave your husband for someone else.”

       Amelia laughed. “Damn! No, really. You never told me how you came to be a mortician. I’d never figured you would go that way. You and I talk about almost everything else, but never about that. Do you mind talking about it?”

       Daria fell silent. Steam drifted from her tea. “I guess not,” she said. “After today, I owe you one.”

       “Just tell me as a friend.”

       As a friend? thought Daria. Okay. I’ll tell you everything.

       And she did. Everything. The career aptitude test, the woman at the World Trade Center, Barabbas, deism, her infant daughter in a little grave in a cemetery in Maryland, why she had held on to Trent when there was nothing left of the marriage, how she tried to heal the living by caring for the dead, her desire to take her faith to the next level, and her fear that it would no longer be possible.

       She wound down an hour later. “So all this time I’ve wanted to ask you how you managed to . . . I don’t know how to put it, keep your faith going despite everything that’s going on. I can’t believe I’m worrying about this, with all my other problems, and maybe I should forget about it.” She looked Amelia in the eye. “All the times you’ve faced death, all the hard things you’ve had to do—how do you keep it together?”

       Amelia stared at Daria with mouth open, as she had for most of the time Daria talked. After closing her mouth and swallowing, she whispered, “I was going to ask you that. I was going to ask you that exact same question, right down to the same words.”

       “Seriously,” said Daria, incredulous.

       “Swear to God.” Amelia leaned forward, resting her arms on the table, and laced her fingers together. Her golden-brown eyes glittered. “We got an anonymous call to go out to Big Pine Wesleyan Church at three-fifteen this afternoon. Someone had shot the minister on the front steps of the church and then set the building on fire with an accelerant. The minister was dead when we got there. The building was fully involved. The volunteer fire department arrived, then a sniper on the mountain across from us shot two of the firemen. I had to crawl out to get one of them. The sniper almost took my head off. J. B. thinks it was one of those Aryan Nation supremacists from Idaho, but I think it was a True Christian or a wannabe. Wesleyans are pretty liberal as denominations go, and the minister had been threatened by Trues before. One of the firemen is okay. The other’s still in ICU with his spine shot in half. The bullets were armor-piercing rounds from an XM8 sharpshooter carbine, the type that was stolen two years ago with a load of other weapons from a California National Guard Armory in San Luis Obispo.”

       Amelia’s voice dropped. “When I was lying there next to the fireman who was shot in the back, and he was screaming and bullets were punching through the fender of the fire truck, right over my head, I wondered how you did it, how you made it through each day with all the burdens you had to carry, dealing with the dead like you do. I can do lots of things, but I couldn’t do that. I’m terrified of dying. I’m terrified of being a dead body in a coffin in the ground.” She shivered. “I don’t know how you do it. I thought maybe you could tell me how, so it would help me.”

       It was Daria’s turn to stare at Amelia. “I guess my day wasn’t so bad after all,” she said softly.

       “I’ve had worse,” said Amelia, “but I wasn’t at the World Trade Center, either.”

       “I’m scared for my family,” Daria said out of nowhere, and she made a face because she had meant to say, I’m afraid for my family, but it had come out like a child would say it, and she didn’t know why that had happened.

       “Me, too,” said Amelia. She reached across the table and took Daria’s hand in hers. “I’m so grateful to have you around. I love you.”

       “I love you, too,” said Daria, looking down at their hands because she couldn’t bear to look up.

       “You never told me . . . about your baby.” The last words came out in a rush. Amelia’s face turned red and her eyes watered up.

       Daria shrugged and said nothing. It still hurt, but it had been too long ago to cry about it now. She still cried, some days, but not now.

       “Ronnie and Quinn will be safe with me, I swear it,” said Amelia.

       “I know.”

       “You’ll be okay, too.”

       Daria merely shrugged.

       “You will. Trust me.”

       “I do,” said Daria, and she thought it was very strange that she said that. She had never trusted anyone all that much before now.

       Amelia glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink and groaned. “I’d better go,” she said, and squeezed Daria’s hand before releasing it. “Rob’s probably home from church by now, wondering what smells so awful in the laundry room and who all those extra people are in the house.” She stood up, half a foot taller than Daria.

       “Tell Quinn and Ronnie I said hi,” said Daria, getting up too.

       “I will.” Amelia reached over and hugged Daria to her, and Daria hugged back. “We’ll make it through this.”

       “I hope so,” whispered Daria.

       Amelia kissed her best friend on the cheek and left. Daria watched her go, then sat down at the table with her cooling lemon zest tea and said nothing for a long time. She was thinking that in order for Amelia to have shown up at the time she did several hours ago, she must have gotten Quinn’s call for help right after rescuing the fireman, then left the scene of the church burning immediately afterward. Amelia had literally dropped everything to come to Daria’s rescue.

       No one had ever done that for her before. Not even Jane.

       Daria shook her head, not knowing what to think of that. Then she drank her tea and began collecting Trent’s things, wherever she could find them. And making plans in case he really did come back. He wasn’t the kind to learn from his mistakes.

       And Daria wasn’t the kind to forgive that.

 

 

 

 

Eight

 

 

       They stood in front of the family’s former home in Lawndale, the only house standing in a razed, desert-like subdivision where only the roads remained. Sun-baked dust and rock stretched away in all directions. The two-story home was so dilapidated, Daria could see through it. Here you go, kiddo, said her father, holding out an envelope. Inside the envelope was a small golden key. She closed the envelope and put it away in a pocket of her blue-and-white checkered dress, which looked like it had belonged to Dorothy in Oz. When she looked up, her father was gone. Alarms rang behind her. The war, she thought, and she turned to look for the bombs. There was a blinding Light—

       Crying out, Daria sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath in the darkness.

       The phone rang again. She fumbled for the wireless unit on the bedside table, almost dropping it. Her whole face ached from being kicked the day before. “H-h-hello? Speaking. I mean—”

       “Mrs. Lane?”

       “Um . . . uh, yes?”

       “I’m sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but I wanted to catch you at home. This is Brad Ruttheimer. I’m a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My brother Brett spoke with you yesterday, I believe.”

       Daria rubbed her sore jaw, groggy and confused. What the hell was this about? She looked for the table clock, but she’d bumped it and turned the illuminated face away from her. “What?”

       Someone chuckled on the other end of the line. “Less awake than I thought. I told Brett this was a bad idea.”

       “What . . . what’s . . . I don’t—”

       “Brett and I need to speak with you privately today, Mrs. Lane. If possible, could we arrange to meet you at your home at eight a.m.? That’s about four hours from now.”

       “W-what are you doing? Why do you—I mean, why are you coming over?”

       “We need to ask you a few questions concerning the situation involving your supervisor, Gary Ray Bellows. It’s rather urgent. If we can get a few minutes of your time, we’ll try to be out of your hair before ten, promise. Can we—”

       “What time is it?”

       “Uh, four oh eight, Mountain Time.”

       “Four o’clock in the morning? You’re calling me up at four o’clock in the morning?

       “Uh, yes. I had to catch you before you went to work. We do want to meet with you at—”

       Daria thought she was hallucinating. “Couldn’t you have called me later, like at seven?”

       “We’re a little pressed for time, and this was the best we could do. Eight o’clock, at your place?”

       Furious, Daria hung up and tossed the phone back on the table, then lay down again and tried to go to sleep. She had been dreaming about something, but for the life of her she could not remember a thing now. Nor could she get to sleep again until almost five a.m. When her alarm went off at ten till six, she cursed it roundly and tried to reset it for six fifteen, but her sleep-deprived fingers weren’t up to the task. She got out of bed in the foulest of humors, showered, and was half-dressed for work when she remembered that the Ruttheimers were coming over—and no one else was at home except her.

       She got dressed anyway, fixed her hair, put on her good shoes, and went downstairs, taking time to see how different the house looked without Trent’s clothes and belongings strewn all over creation. His things were packed inside the trunk and back seat of his ramshackle Tercel. At six thirty she called Melinda Wilson’s desk at the funeral home and left a message that she had business to take care of and wouldn’t be in until later in the day, perhaps as late as noon. After a light breakfast, during which she realized how much she missed seeing her sisters and even Upchuck, she called Amelia, thinking her friend would certainly be up by then.

       The phone rang once before a man picked it up. “Good morning, Pastor Lawless. Can I help you?”

       “Bob, g’morning. It’s Daria.”

       “Daria, how are you?” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “Amelia was going to give you a call in a few minutes.”

       “I’m fine. Ronnie and Quinn behaving themselves?”

       “Quinn’s been wonderful, helping out everywhere. It’s amazing. I think we’re planning on keeping her here. I haven’t actually seen Ronnie yet. I think she and Pheebs are crashed downstairs in front of the entertainment center. They made popcorn. The whole house smells like it, anyway.”

       She almost smiled. “The smell probably covers up Upchuck’s odor, at least.”

       “Is that the mutant hamster in the laundry room? Wait, here’s Amelia. Take care!”

       “Thanks.”

       The phone changed hands. “Hey, Daria,” said Amelia. “You doing okay?”

       “I’m all right. Didn’t get much sleep. I put all of Trent’s things in his car last night and vacuumed the house, then went to bed about one or so, and then—” Daria pulled back to made sure the phone’s privacy scrambler light was on “—this morning at four, one of those damn FBI guys called me up and said they needed to talk with me at eight, here at my place.”

       Rapid footsteps sounded from Amelia’s end of the line. “Talk with you there? What about?”

       “Gary again, like I told you yesterday. They said it was important. I wish my damn lawyer would call back. I don’t know what his problem is. I really don’t want to talk with these guys, but I can hardly refuse, all things considered.”

       It sounded like Amelia had opened and shut a door, then continued walking. The footsteps clicked and echoed as if she were in a big room with a hard floor. “They didn’t say what this was about?”

       “No. I’m really worried about what they were saying about giving me ‘limited immunity’ if I cooperated. Is there any way you can check out what might be going on? I haven’t done a thing worth going to prison for, except maybe blasphemy, but God hasn’t hit me with lightning yet, so maybe—Amelia, what are you doing?”

       It had sounded a moment earlier as if Amelia had slammed a car door. Electronic beeps came from her end of the line. “Give me a few seconds,” Amelia murmured. “I’m in my patrol vehicle. Okay, listen, do me a favor, okay? Look at the plastic tracking band around your right—was it your right ankle? The band that the FBI put on you—can you see it closely?”

       Daria managed to put a foot on a chair seat in her kitchen and bend down to see it. “Uh, okay, what now?”

       “Is there a number on it? Read it to me.”

       After a moment of turning the anklet around, she located a ten-character alphanumeric code printed in small black letters, and she read it slowly into the phone. She repeated it when Amelia asked her to. “Now what?” she asked.

       “Wait.” Soft key taps sounded over the line.

       Daria straightened up, waiting, then gave up and sat down in the chair after brushing it off.

       “I don’t get it,” Amelia mumbled. “That’s the only number on it?”

       “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

       “I’m trying to pick up your band’s signal on the monitor in my vehicle, but I’m not getting it. The ID you read to me is legitimate, but the band’s not showing up on my locator. Read it to me one more time. Are you sure about the letters and numbers?”

       Sighing, Daria dutifully got up and read off the band’s code one more time.

       “Daria,” said Amelia, when she stopped tapping keys, “that band’s not been activated. No one can track you at all, unless they’re looking right at you. Is the band intact? It’s not been broken or damaged in any way, has it?”

       “No. Oh—oh, shit! If this thing’s not working, they might think I tried to take it off! Amelia, they might have already put my name on Homeland Security’s most wanted list! Can you check that for me? Please?”

       “Calm down. Wait a minute.” More tapping. “No, you’re not anywhere in the system. There’re no wants or warrants for you anywhere, nothing. Not even under your maiden name. I was wondering about this when I was trying to sleep last night, though I might try to track you just to see if I could. I can’t figure out what . . . damn, I dunno. Why wouldn’t it be activated? Those things are easy as hell to use. Not even a Congressman could screw it up—I think.” After a pause, Amelia added, “Daria, calm down. You sound like you’re about to hyperventilate. Relax, okay?”

       Daria held her breath for as long as she could, then let it out. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “I’ll be . . . I’m better now. Sorry.”

       “You want me to come over there before the agents get there?”

       “Uh—” If those Ruttheimer guys try anything bad, legal or not, I’d rather Amelia wasn’t there. I want her to be safe and out of this mess. “—no, no, forget it. I’ll be fine. I was just a little . . . I’m over it. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call you later, noonish.”

       “Maybe I had better come over. I don’t like this.”

       “Amelia, no, I’ll be fine. You’ve got to go to work. Can I talk to Quinn?”

       “She was in the bathroom, last I know. She fixed breakfast for Rob and me.” Amelia exhaled heavily. “Call me, then, around noon, okay? If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come looking.”

       “Yeah, that’s good. Do that.”

       There was a short silence over the phone. “I have to go,” said Amelia. “Please be careful.”

       “I will. You, too.”

       “Love you.”

       “You, too.”

       Click.

       Daria dropped the phone back in her pocket and sat down. Coherent thought was almost impossible. She made herself some coffee and sat down at the kitchen table again, her head in her hands, and worked it through.

       Possibility one: The Ruttheimer twins are coming to take me into custody because they think I’m about to skip town or something. Two: Brett remembered he’d forgotten to turn the anklet on, and he’s coming to activate it. Three: The anklet is actually working somehow or it isn’t relevant, and they’re coming to shoot me or tell me I’m under arrest because they think I was helping Gary do something illegal, immoral, or fattening. Mmm, nah, probably not, unless Brad was lying when he said they’d be out of my hair soon enough. Four: They’re coming to tell me I have nothing to worry about—no, that’s not likely. Brad sounded like there was something to worry about, but . . . beats me. Five: I don’t know. Maybe they’re not really FBI guys, since the anklet’s not activated, and they’re terrorists and they want me to join them, and we’ll have a ménage a trios far out in the wilderness where no one . . . no, Quinn and Ronnie would have to come along, too. No fun there. And there’s Upchuck. Speaking of which, what happened to the real Upchuck? I’d better not call him that in front of his cousins. Drink your coffee, Daria—your thought processes need caffeine to get back on track.

       By eight o’clock, she was doodling on a notepad, trying to complete a “To Do” list for the rest of the week, when she heard a vehicle pull up outside her home. She glanced at the security system box in the kitchen.

       The system panel was dark.

       She got up, feeling a chill. What’s wrong? Power failure? No—everything else is on, and the backup generator should’ve come on. Only the security system is off. I turned it on after Amelia left, I swear I did! Alarms should be ringing out everywhere, and should have been just after that car got off the highway, but—

       Car doors opened and slammed shut. For a moment, Daria was paralyzed with fear. At last, she made herself go to the front door and open it.

       A set of tall, auburn-haired identical twins stood on her doorstep in the cold morning wind, wearing FBI caps and clothing and weapons. Both were handsome and grinned broadly upon seeing her.

       “Trick or treat!” said one, his brown eyes twinkling.

       “Brett,” warned the other under his breath. He nodded at Daria. “Mrs. Lane? May we come in?”

       “I can’t say no, can I?” she said, and she stepped aside so they could walk in. She was on the verge of saying something about the anklet but stopped at the last moment. “I made coffee,” she said instead. “It’s in the kitchen.”

       “Thank you, but we don’t drink anything on duty,” said the polite Ruttheimer, reaching into a back pocket to pull out his ID wallet. His brother shut the door. “I’m Brad Ruttheimer, FBI. You don’t look like you’ve aged a day since we saw you last, back in Lawndale.”

       Daria flushed at the compliment, as few people commented on her looks. She still half-expected her arrest was only seconds away, but her fear also sharpened her tongue. “Thank you,” she said, too upset to think about what she was saying. “No one else is here but me, so you can get started on your interrogation. Did you bring rubber hoses, or do I have to supply my own?”

       Brad Ruttheimer stared at her, then turned to give his brother a questioning look.

       “Hey!” Brett protested, “I didn’t do anything yesterday! I was nice to her!”

       “Right,” said Brad with a trace of sarcasm. He looked at Daria apologetically. “Nothing like that will happen. And as you probably know, the family you’re born with is the family you’re stuck with.”

       “Odd,” said Daria, nervously leading the way to the kitchen, “you two don’t look like you’re Siamese twins.”

       Brad nodded again, rolling his eyes. “Stuck with, Siamese twins, very good. I can see why you were so popular at your high school.”

       “Robert Korleski said he went out with her once,” offered Brett. “Maybe she likes strong, silent guys.”

       “Brett,” said Brad evenly, “don’t.” He looked around the kitchen as they entered. “Beautiful place you have. I like the angel statuettes.”

       “Thank you. Those are Quinn’s.”

       “Natdia County,” said Brett. “That an Indian word, Natdia?”

       “It’s Piute,” said Daria. “Grab a chair.”

       Once seated around the kitchen table, the smell of coffee in the air but no one drinking it, Brad began. “To refresh your memory,” he said, “I’ll fill you in on why we’re here, though I don’t think Brett left anything out. An investigation is underway involving the shooting deaths of two FBI agents in Calgary, Alberta, last Friday by a man named Matthew Louis Wright. Mr. Wright was a childhood friend of your boss, Gary Ray Bellows, in Helena. Mr. Wright, a staff sergeant in the United States Army, was supposed to have been killed last year near Damascus, Syria, by a rocket-propelled grenade fired by insurgent forces on April tenth. Promised Land Funeral Home handled the funeral arrangements. We’re more than a little curious as to how a man supposedly dead and buried a year ago was able to shoot two FBI agents before he himself was shot dead by other agents. Brett and I, with agent Korleski, were sent here to see if you knew anything that could be of help to the investigation. I know it must be strange seeing us after all this time, but the bureau thought familiarity might bring help.”

       Instead of breeding contempt? Well, I don’t hate you. I don’t trust you, but I don’t hate you. Yet. Daria swallowed, feeling too vulnerable. “I told Brett that I would help in any way I could, but I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about. I’m getting worried that you aren’t going to believe me, but it’s the truth. I don’t have a clue about what to tell you.”

       “Let’s start with these.” Brad reached into the shirt pocket of his navy blue uniform and pulled out a collection of color photographs of men and women’s faces. He held each in turn before Daria’s face, asking if she recognized that person or had seen that person anywhere within the last few years. Daria shook her head at every single one.

       “Names, then. See if any of these sound familiar.” Brad put the photos away, then took out a penciled list and began reading from it. Most of what he read were the names of people, but a few were obviously the names of groups that, judging from their titles, were likely opposed to the government of Christian America. One of the names, “The Pipeline,” sounded like the oil pipeline from Alaska through Canada, but Brad shook his head no. Daria had never heard of any of those persons or organizations, and she said so—but her anxiety grew.

       With no positive response yet, Brad began questioning her about her activities a year ago in the spring. Daria answered as best she could, recalling nothing unusual about anything at that time, not even Matt Wright’s funeral. His parents and a few school friends had attended. Brad asked many questions about the funeral itself, especially who handled the remains sent over as being Matt Wright’s. Daria said truthfully that Gary had done that.

       “Mrs. Lane,” said Brad, putting the list away, “are you now, or were you at any time, a member of a group supporting the violent overthrow of the government of the United States of America?”

       Odd, he didn’t say “Christian America.” “N-no.” She thought her voice quavered too much.

       “Do you personally support the violent overthrow of the government of the United States of America?”

       Please, God, help me get through this. I’m so scared. “I . . . no. No, I don’t.”

       “Do you personally support the government of the United States of America?”

       She held her breath. They’d know if she was lying, thanks to their sensors, and a refusal to answer was as good as an admission of guilt in these days. “No,” she said in a small voice. “Not at present. I . . . I can’t.” It was over.

       Brad did not seem surprised at her answer. He reached into his shirt pocket again and took out a small black device like the one Brett held in her office the day before. After glancing at it, he turned and showed it to his brother, who merely shrugged.

       “Don’t shoot me in my own house, please,” Daria whispered, badly frightened. “I don’t want my sisters to come home and see it. Take me outside somewhere, far away from here.”

       Brad looked at her in sharp surprise. “Nothing of the sort is going to happen, Daria,” he said—and then flinched. “I mean, Mrs. Lane. Sorry. Didn’t mean to be overly familiar. Don’t be afraid of us, please.”

       “It’s okay. You can call me Daria,” she said, not sure if she should be relieved. Just don’t hurt me or my family. I am such a coward. I can’t believe I am such a coward.

       Brett spread his hands toward his brother and shrugged as if to say, now what?

       Brad shook his head, looking down. “She’s telling the truth,” he said. “Same as before.”

       “I know that, and you know that,” said Brett with some heat. “But—” He cut himself off and looked away, rubbing his mouth in frustration.

       Brad watched him, then looked back at the still frightened but increasingly puzzled Daria. “Sorry,” he said. “Give us a moment to sort this out.”

       “Do you want me to leave the room?” she asked, feeling her courage return.

       “No,” said Brad. He looked at Brett. “We may as well talk about it now.”

       “Here?” said Brett. He glanced at Daria. “Yeah, sure. May as well.”

       “Look, Daria,” said Brad, “we have no reason at all right now to believe that you are in any way connected with the activities of your supervisor. He seems to have been very good at keeping his actions and plans to himself, and there was nothing in his personal files that mentioned you in any way other than through your professional relationship and his need to keep his activities a secret even to you. We can’t discuss this case in any depth at present, but it’s . . . it’s pretty big and likely to get bigger. The international situation isn’t helping, either.”

       He hesitated, then plunged on. “Unfortunately, there’s a chance that certain other people might believe, regardless of the actual evidence, that you are more deeply tied up in this matter than you actually are. We’ve tried to be circumspect about our conversations with you, except for the necessity of getting Mister Bellows’s records yesterday as soon as we could. We’ve talked several times about putting you in protective custody, but if we keep this low key, that might not be necessary. So . . .”

       Brad looked at Brett again for a long moment, then turned to Daria once more. “Brett and I will be in the area for the week. We’re both concerned that problems might develop as a result of our investigation or because of Mister Bellows’s sudden disappearance, and as often as is acceptable to you, we’d like to check in on you and your family to make sure you’re safe.”

       “My security system isn’t working,” Daria interrupted. She felt marginally better, though she was still confused about what was happening.

       “Oh,” said Brad. “I’m afraid that was us. The system will be fine once we leave.”

       “Tricks of the trade,” said Brett with a smile. “Our car does that automatically.”

       Daria blinked, remembering the security-system failure at Promised Land Funeral Home the previous day. “Your car jams security systems?”

       “It’s got a TV and refrigerator, too,” said Brett. “Not allowed to keep beer in it even when we’re off duty, though.”

       “Anyway,” said Brad, with a reproving look at his brother, “we won’t keep you much longer.” He pulled a card from another shirt pocket and handed it to her. “If you encounter any trouble, please call me at once. We’ll do everything we can to help.”

       Daria took the card and put it in an inside pocket of her suit jacket without looking it over. “Where are you staying?”

       “A Motel Seven outside of town,” said Brad. “Not the nicest accommodations, but better than some I’ve had.”

       “You may as well know,” said Daria, seeing no reason not to mention this, “that I threw my husband out of the house last night. That’s not a suggestion that you stay here with me, but you should know I might be up for assault charges against him, so I’m already in trouble.”

       Brett and Brad looked at each other, clearly startled. “Oh,” said Brad, looking back at her. “I’m . . . I’m sorry to hear that. I hope things work out for the best.”

       “Me, too.” Daria decided to go for it. “As long as you’re not going to arrest or shoot me, I’ll ask you something I’ll probably regret. Whatever happened to your cousin, Charles?”

       “Oh,” said Brad. The brothers traded sober glances.

       Daria wished then that she had shut up.

       “Chuck left college and went into the Marines in two thousand one, just after nine-eleven,” Brad continued quietly. “He said he did it because it would make him more of a babe magnet.” He gave Brett a thin smile, then looked down. The smile was gone. “Lance Corporal Charles Ruttheimer the Third was killed by a sniper in Fallujah, Iraq, almost three years to the day after he signed up. House-to-house fighting.” He exhaled. “Good old Chuck. He wound up inspiring Brett and me, but we weren’t the military types. We joined the FBI when we got out of college, instead.”

       “We’d read a lot of crime stories before then,” Brett put in, “but Chuck was the big push, though.”

       “Jeffrey Dahmer,” said Daria, her mind dulled by shock. “One of you talked about a book you’d read about that guy, at the dance where we met.”

       “Yeah.” Brett rubbed his hands together, looking into space. “The Chuckster was a great DJ. Whatever he did, he threw himself into it. All or nothing, that was him.”

       “I’m sorry to hear about him,” said Daria. To her surprise, she really was. Her eyes began to burn. “I’m very sorry he’s gone. He was all right.” I forgive you for being a horny teenager, Chuck. You were better than me, after all.

       “That’s how it goes,” said Brett. He gave her a sad smile. “He always liked you, you know?”

       “What?” Daria’s mouth fell open.

       “He always said you were ‘feisty,’ sort of a Chuckism for exciting and wonderful. He admired you a lot, said he wished he’d gotten to know you better in school.”

       “Oh.” What the hell do I make of that? Damn it, Chuck. . . .

       “We should be going,” said Brad, pushing back his chair. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to call you this afternoon to check in. And Bob Korleski said he wanted to drop by and see Quinn, talk with her about what’s going on, since he knows her. Have you spoken with your sisters about this?”

       “No, not at all,” said Daria. “Maybe I should say something first. Quinn’s . . . staying with friends for the day.”

       “Uh, sure. Just to Quinn, if possible.” Brad stood, and Brett and Daria followed suit. She led them to the door. “Just go on about your usual business, if you would.”

       “You’ll know where I am, anyway,” Daria said—and wished she’d not said that.

       “What?” said Brad.

       “She’s banded,” said Brett, pointing down.

       Brad looked down at Daria’s legs. Her pantyhose did an excellent job of making the band disappear. After a few moments, Brad flinched and looked away, embarrassed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to stare.”

       “Sure you did,” murmured Brett, grinning.

       “Anyway, thank you,” said Brad, shaking Daria’s hand again. He was blushing. “We’ll be in touch.”

       “Okay.” Daria opened the door and let them out, then had a thought. “Oh,” she said as they walked to their armored SUV in the cold wind. “Was Matt cloned?”

       They both turned to stare at her.

       It was too late to wonder if she’d made a mistake, so she went on. “It struck me last night that his remains might have been cloned, what was buried of him.”

       “Yes,” said Brad slowly. “He’d been cloned. I dug up his grave yesterday afternoon.”

       “Not many groups can do that,” she said, thinking it was a lame thing to add. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

       “Okay.” Brad waved. “Goodbye, Daria.”

       She waved back and watched as they left, then went inside to avoid being around the fallout any longer than she had to. She sat down in her kitchen to organize her thinking about what had just happened. Instead, she found that she was hungry, which caused her to remember something. Getting up again, she went into the garage to her Explorer, got inside, and took out the eggs and powdered milk she’d bought the day before but had forgotten in the chaos. The eggs were still cold enough to be useable. Everything went into the kitchen and was put away.

       She also found the little bars of chocolate she had planned to give to Quinn and Ronnie. She ate both of them, promising herself she’d buy more as soon as possible that wouldn’t be for her. The need to give in to a guilty pleasure had been overwhelming.

       The security system came on again moments later with a multitude of chirps. Her lawyer called from Helena five minutes after that. This is going to be a long day, she thought, and she began to tell him what was going on in her life as she licked her fingers clean of chocolate.

 

 

 

 

Nine

 

 

       The Lawless home sat next to a small subdivision on the edge of Devil’s Tongue, on a six-acre parcel of land with a pine woodlot, a functioning windmill, and an old barn full of broken appliances, rusted cars, and plumbing supplies left behind by the previous owner. That afternoon at a quarter till four, Daria parked the Explorer to one side of the wide driveway by the house and climbed down to the running board before dropping to the concrete. She stumbled but avoided falling or twisting an ankle. I ought to have a ladder mounted on this thing, she grumbled to herself, tired from a long day. Her face still hurt, especially her jaw. Worse, all the stores were out of chocolate for some reason, so she had no gifts to bring home and hated herself for eating all the chocolate earlier.

       The dwelling itself was a white, two-story farmhouse with a covered porch running along the front and sides of the home. A flagpole rose from the middle of the front lawn, an American flag snapping in the cold March breeze. Black shutters and a bright red front door completed the domestic picture. On the black mailbox was a golden five-pointed star, patterned after a sheriff’s badge, with “LAWLESS” written over it in white.

       The red front door was already open by the time she had walked around the porch to come inside. Ronnie ran out in jeans, boots, and a light blouse, colliding with Daria and throwing her arms around her. “Daria!” she cried, pressing her face into the shoulder of her sister’s suit jacket. “I’m glad you’re home! I missed you so much!”

       “Hi, sweetie,” said Daria, her arms around her sister’s waist. Being wanted after a bad day was a unique and pleasurable experience. Veronica, almost thirteen, was two inches taller than her oldest sister, but the two of them fit together well. “Careful there,” Daria warned. “I’m getting squished. Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”

       “I was scared when Trent hurt you. I’m so glad that you’re okay.”

       Daria kissed Veronica on the cheek. “I was scared that he’d hurt you,” she said softly.

       “I’m all right, I promise. I love you.”

       “I love you, too.” Daria closed her eyes. “You’re my angel, my first little angel.”

       They hugged in silence, thinking of Daria’s other little angel. Veronica had been five when Daria lost her baby, but she remembered. “Quinn says I’m her little angel, too,” she murmured at last.

       “Yes,” whispered Daria, “but I said it first. Let’s go in before you freeze—or before I do.”

       Quinn waited for them inside the house. “About time,” she said, shutting the door once the pair entered. “What—” Her words ended when Daria brought her into a group hug with Veronica. Their arms entwined as they stood in the alcove, pulling close together as one.

       “Thank God we’re okay,” Daria said. “I’m sorry for messing things up so much. I should have thrown Trent out ages ago.”

       Isss not your fault,” said Quinn in a broken voice. She then began to cry, which set them all off. After many tears, they pulled apart and searched for tissues. Veronica went downstairs in search of her friend Phoebe, and Daria used the time to take Quinn into the master bedroom and tell her about the FBI investigation and some of its consequences.

       “I can’t believe they think you had anything to do with thisss,” Quinn snapped, sitting on the bed with her arms crossed in front of her. Her rage made her lisp more noticeable and distorted. “This pissesss me off so musssh, I can’t tell you! Gary never told you anything about what he wusss doing?”

       “Nothing. He never said a thing.”

       “What an a-hole! What isss it with guysss?”

       “Speaking of guys, the Ruttheimers aren’t the only ones assigned to the case. I think you know the third agent, Robert Korleski. He—”

       Quinn’s face went from a blustery red to an astonished shade of pale. “Robert?” she gasped. “Rober’sss here? Are you kidding me? The sssame one from ssschool?”

       “That’s him. I saw him yesterday at the funeral home with Brett.”

       “Why isss he here?”

       “Brett said the FBI pulled all the people it had who knew me from Lawndale, thinking I’d help them out, but I don’t have anything to tell them. Um, by the way, they said Robert might come over this evening to check—”

       Shocked, Quinn leaped to her feet, both hands clamped over her lower face. “No!” she shouted. “I don’t want to sssee him! You talk to him!”

       “Sure, okay. I will.” Daria got up from the chair and tried to put a hand on her sister, but Quinn shook it off. “I’ll handle it, okay? Don’t worry about it.”

       “Don’t let him sssee me! Just don’t!”

       “Okay.” Upset and confused, Daria tried to decide what to do next. “I’m sorry, Quinn. Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?”

       “No, no.” Her sister wiped her eyes with her palms, then straightened up. “I’m fine, but I jusss don’t want him to sssee me, okay?”

       “Okay.”

       Quinn sat down on the bed again. One hand went her face, fingers tracing an indentation that ran from below her right eye into the right side of her nose. Her hand dropped. “Ssso,” she sighed, “what elsss happened today?”

       “I stopped in at work for a couple of hours. I don’t think Melinda’s heard about the fight with Trent, or if she has, she didn’t show it. No word on Gary from anyone. I think the staff is starting to get worried. I know I am. If he doesn’t show up, we’re totally screwed. Even if he does show up, he’s in big trouble and we’re still screwed. I don’t see how we can keep the business going. He controlled the finances, and no one else can access the company’s bank account.”

       “Great—and speaking of jobsss,” Quinn interrupted, “Amelia said you were thinking of being a deputy coroner.” Calmer now, she gave her sister a restrained frown. “How can you even think about doing something like that?”

       “The pay’s not that great,” Daria admitted, “but maybe I can get a full-time slot from Amelia or someone if Promised Land goes under.”

       Tha’sss not what I meant! Honesssly, Daria, don’t you . . . oh, forget it. Isss not like I’m making a lot of money or anything, so why complain. At leasss I’m doing something with my time now. Teaching’sss fun.” Quinn hesitated, giving Daria a nervous glance. Her voice dropped. “Ssspeaking of money, I got a call from Mom a while ago, on my persss’nal phone.”

       Given everything else that had happed, Daria was only mildly surprised at this revelation. “What made her call today, of all days?”

       “She jusss’ called to call.” Quinn took a breath, and her words came out in a rush. “I said we were almosss broke. Don’t get mad about it, okay? I know we don’t have musssh left. Anyway, I think I talked her into it. She said she’d get a transssfer to my account in a day or two. She gave herssself a bonusss or something.”

       Daria discarded her objections. Money was money, and pride could take a walk. Did Mom ask about Ronnie or me? Does she ever? “Okay, I can’t complain. You’re right. Thanks. Did she have any other news?”

       Quinn visibly relaxed. “Oh, yeah, she’sss dating a marketing vee pee from a big-name company, Hyper-C or whatever. She didn’t say mush elsss.” She hesitated. “I told her a little about you and Ronnie, jusss minor stuff. Ssshe didn’t say anything about it, but ssshe didn’t hang up, either. Maybe ssshe’ll call you and talk before long, I hope.”

       Yeah, right—and maybe Jane will fly over in a UFO and cover me in chocolate. Still, Daria was grateful to Quinn for daring to bring her two sisters into the conversation. “At least you tried,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

       “When—if I get anything in my account, I’ll let you know. And Mom said gasss might go down to ten dollarsss a gallon soon, with all the drilling in Texsssusss and the old parksss and everywhere.” Quinn coughed. “So, thasss all my newsss.” She drummed her fingers on her legs. “What about Trent?”

       I should have killed him, but I guess it’s better that I didn’t. I have to keep telling myself that. “I called Amelia when I was at the office. She said he’s still in a room by himself at the medical center, but she’s got a guard posted at his door because he’s heading to the county jail as soon as he’s well enough to be released. That’ll probably be tomorrow morning.”

       Quinn gave her sister a wicked grin. “I thought he’d be in for a week. You banged him up pretty good, big sssisss. Way to go.”

       Daria nodded but looked away, unsure of how she felt about that. “Remember, he might go by the house again. I’m still trying to work out what to do in case he does. Amelia also said he’s also had visitors, mostly church people.” And probably a girlfriend or two. “As long as we’re on the topic, I talked to my attorney this morning about the whole mess. I told him everything. He didn’t say a lot in return, though. After I told him about the FBI, I think he got cold feet about helping me. The government’s not been friendly toward lawyers who defend potential traitors.”

       Quinn’s twisted smile reappeared. “Glad to hear you aren’t bitter about it.”

       “No, not too much. He said he’d drive over tomorrow afternoon, but I bet he finds something else to do.” Daria turned her head toward the bedroom door, hearing a brief whistling sound. “Upchuck wants dinner, I think.”

       “He’s hungry becausss he didn’t get lunsssh,” said Quinn, getting up from the bed. “I put him on a diet, and he hatesss it.”

       Daria got up to follow Quinn out. As Quinn opened the bedroom door, the front doorbell rang. She stopped dead, then moved aside so Daria could pass her. “Sssee who it isss,” she whispered, then shut herself in the bedroom. With a glance in a hallway mirror to check her appearance and fix stray hairs (Never used to do that, I remember), Daria went to the front door and opened it.

       “Hey, good to see you. How’s my role-model?” Amelia walked in from the front porch wearing her sheriff’s outfit. She gave Daria a hug, then took off her hat and hung it on a wall peg. “I got off a little early, but it could be a busy night. I doubt I’ll be able to stay. Guess who stopped by the office before I left? Another Robert! Too bad I already married one.”

       “Hmmm,” said Daria, already looking at the broad figure stepping nervously into the alcove from the outdoors. “Hi, Robert. Long time, no see.”

       “Yes, ma’am,” Robert Korleski said, his blue FBI cap in his hands. “Actually, I saw you just yesterday morning at—”

       “Kidding, Robert, just kidding.” Daria cast a quick glance over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. “Listen, I have to talk to you about something before you come any farther. Maybe we’d best go back out—”

       “Hey, Quinn?” called Amelia as she walked through the house. “Are the girls upstairs or downstairs?”

       The bedroom door opened. Quinn came out, in full view of the alcove and living room. “They’re—” she began, and then she saw Robert looking back at her, his mouth falling open.

       “No!” Daria gasped. She tried to interpose herself between the two, meaning to get Robert outside again. It was too late. With an agonized cry, Quinn whirled and fled back into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Horrified, Daria dropped her hands to her sides. There would be hell to pay for this disaster. She’d made a promise to her sister and failed to carry it out—and the worst outcome was right in front of her.

       Robert was round-eyed with shock. “Quinn?” he whispered, staring at the hall where she had been a moment before. “What—?”

       “Listen,” Daria began again. “This is really screwed up, but I have to tell you what hap—Robert?” He had stepped around her and was striding toward the hallway. “Wait! Robert, don’t! Robert!

       “Quinn?” he said to the door. His voice was strong but gentle.

       “Robert,” Daria said from behind him. “Please don’t—”

       He held up a hand to stop her. “Quinn,” he said, still looking at the door. He then turned the knob and went inside, into the darkness, closing the door behind him without a sound.

       Daria swallowed. She noticed Amelia was standing in the hall, having watched the drama play out with considerable anxiety. No sounds came from the bedroom except one low, deep voice, none of the words understandable. Daria and Amelia traded looks and shrugged helplessly: nothing we can do about it now. Giving up, Daria walked past Amelia to the kitchen, hearing Upchuck’s insistent whistling for his dinner. Amelia followed.

       “Damn it,” muttered Amelia, getting a glass of water while Daria prepared a bowl of food to take into the laundry room. “I didn’t know bringing him here would be a problem.”

       “I didn’t either, until too late.” Daria shut a cabinet. “Not your fault. Did you say you might have to go out again?”

       “Yeah, there’s a military alert. We have a few Space Force missile people who work at Malmstrom, up in Great Falls. J.D.’s got command of things at the office.” Amelia took a seat at her kitchen table. “Lately, some people get really upset when an alert gets called, thinking it’s Armageddon, and we get called out for everything. You wouldn’t believe what goes on. Or maybe you would, at that.”

       Daria finished filling Upchuck’s food dish, but set it aside for a moment. “Why a military alert?” As if I can’t guess. Goodbye, Canada. Nice knowing you.

       “Beats hell out of me. Malmstrom’s not the sort of place that gets alerted during a low-grade national emergency. All it has are missiles. Biggest missile base on Earth, last I heard. Minutemans, or whatever they’re called now.”

       “So you’re saying, like, if we were about to invade a country with no missiles, that’s not a place we’d use?”

       “Jesus, I don’t know. J.D. might know; he’s ex-Space Force and has some friends at the base. I hope nothing big’s going on. It’s not like we don’t have enough fallout now. We can wash it off the driveway and the house, but we’ll never get that shit out of our yard. Probably should have the grass bulldozed off and replaced, come spring. Oh, hope you did all your shopping early, ‘cause most of the groceries will be completely out of stock by midnight. Happens every time there’s an alert.”

       Daria knew this already, having been through several alerts in past years. She cast an anxious look down the hall to the bedroom door. She couldn’t hear if anything was going on. “Maybe I should go check,” she said aloud, though she didn’t move.

       “He seems like he’s okay,” said Amelia, looking where Daria looked. “Good thing he got into the FBI before they brought the draft back. Half the boys around here ran off to Canada or are still hiding in their parents’ basements.”

       “Wonder where Gary is.”

       “Screw him.” Amelia reached up and tapped behind her ear. “Excuse me a second. I’m gonna find out something.” She waited, turning in her chair so she didn’t face Daria. “Hey, J.D.?”

       While Amelia was on the phone, Daria walked softly down the hall to the master bedroom and paused before the closed door. She strained to hear anything she could, and she was successful only seconds later.

       The sound was muffled, but Daria knew immediately what it was. Quinn was crying.

       God, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have kept Robert out of the house for a while and explained everything, but I blew it again. I hurt my sister, and I feel rotten. Her hand reached for the doorknob . . . paused . . . then slowly pulled back. She could not go in to fix it. Head lowered in shame, she walked back to the kitchen.

       “I see,” said Amelia, talking into the air. She turned in her seat to glance at Daria, looking puzzled at her expression. “When did the Highway Patrol get called? Uh-huh. So what’s going on, do you think? Well, I don’t know, either, which I why I called you. You said something about Great Falls. Uh-huh. Wow. Oh. Okay, call me back when you can.” She tapped behind her ear again and dropped her hand, looking up at Daria. “Something’s going on. The Great Falls Police are conducting raids and mass arrests with the Highway Patrol all around Great Falls and Malmstrom. J.D. said a truckload of federal warrants came down, and they’re trying to execute them before midnight. None of the warrants have charges on them. I fucking hate this shit. This is seriously messed up!”

       I wonder if my name is on one of those warrants. What’s going to happen to Quinn and Veronica? They don’t deserve to get caught up in this! “Be careful when you ask around, okay? I don’t want you to get into any trouble on my account.”

       “I won’t. I’m just trying to find out . . . wait, I have a call coming in.” She turned around in her seat. “Hello? J.D.?”

       The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Daria. She heard Upchuck whistling again as she went down the hall to the living room, and she realized she had completely forgotten about his dinner. It never ends, it just never ends. It’s always something.

       Opening the front door revealed a plump, attractive blonde with a pixie cut standing on the porch, wearing a black business dress. “Oh, Melinda,” said Daria, stepping outside to be with her. Something seemed wrong. Melinda’s expressionless face was solid as stone. “Is everything okay at work?”

       “I had to say this to you in person,” Melinda snapped. She stepped closer—

       —and spat in Daria’s face. Her roundhouse slap came next. Daria recoiled with a cry, her eyes shut and drops of saliva splattered across her cheeks, nose, and forehead. Her hands shielded her face from further attack, but she could not stop the outrageous burning from her left temple down to ear and cheek. Tears filled her eyes.

       “God damn you!” Melinda stepped closer in her rage, hands balled into fists at her sides. “All this time I was so nice to you, and you turn out to be a . . . a lousy hypocrite!

       Too shocked to respond, Daria backed up to the wall by the open door. She stared at Melinda without comprehension, the left side of her face aflame.

       “I heard what you did!” Melinda said. “I heard about your damned abortion!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “How dare you! How dare you come into our community and—

       What the fuck?” shouted Amelia, opening the door. “What the bleeding fuck is going on here?”

       How can you have this woman in your house?” Melinda roared back, pointing at Daria. “She murdered her baby! How can you possibly—”

       “I didn’t have an abortion!” Daria cried out. Her nose ran, and her eyes streamed tears. “I never did! Who told you that?”

       “Melinda Wilson, are you fucking insane?” Amelia shouted at the blonde. “Did you hit her?”

       “She had an abortion, I said! Aren’t you listening to me?”

       “My baby died!” Daria’s wail stopped everything else. “She died before she was born! They had to induce labor because she died at twenty-eight weeks of a heart defect! I didn’t have an abortion! I didn’t want her to die, but nobody could do anything to save her! I had to bury her by myself because Trent ran off on me and left me there to deal with it, and I didn’t even get to name her! My only baby!

       Melinda’s face sagged. She stepped back and looked at Daria in horror.

       Who told you I had an abortion?” Daria screamed. “Who told you that?

       But she knew the answer before Melinda said it.

       “Your husband,” Melinda whispered. “He called . . . he . . .”

       “Trent Lane is under arrest for battery and attempted sexual assault,” hissed Amelia through her teeth. “He got drunk and attacked his wife and tried to rape her youngest sister, and you listened to that fucking piece of dog shit and you believed him? God damn your bitch ass, Melinda Wilson, what the fuck is wrong with you?

       Daria sank down, her back to the wall of the house, and covered her face. She shook as she wept. Amelia knelt by Daria’s side and held her close, but nothing she did had the slightest effect.

       Wordless and stunned, Melinda watched them together for a long minute. She then turned and mechanically walked back to her car, got in, and drove away.

       Quinn and Robert and Veronica and Phoebe came outside a few minutes later to report that J.D. had called again, on every line he could get. The news reported chaos across the homeland. Assassinations, rioting, bombings, and a coup in Washington, D.C., were underway. Martial law had been declared. The military and National Guard were called out in every city.

       No one paid attention to that. It was J.D.’s other news that mattered.

       Trent Lane had been released from the county medical center. His bail had been paid by Mary Anne Broadbent, the mother of Veronica’s friend, Emma. All charges against him were thereafter dismissed by order of the county judge, and bail was refunded.

       And a warrant for Daria Lane’s arrest was being processed. This warrant had a retroactive charge of premeditated murder of an unborn, on or about July 19th, 2010 A.D., in Middleton, Maryland.

       The charge was shortened on the warrant to infanticide.

 

 

 

 

Ten

 

 

       “I can’t do it,” Bob Lawless growled in frustration. A balding man in a flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, he tossed the bolt cutters aside on the kitchen floor, next to a pair of shrub-trimming shears, a hacksaw, two filament-edged kitchen knives, and a pair of heavy-duty cloth scissors. He patted Daria’s right foot before he stood and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Daria. Robert was right. I can’t do a thing to that band. Lord knows what it’s made of, maybe some Teflon-related something-or-other. I can’t even stretch it over your heel.”

       Daria glumly inspected her foot. The FBI tracking band was undamaged after a half hour’s work to cut it. Luckily, so was her foot, though her pantyhose had fared less well. “We’d better finish loading the Explorer,” she grumbled, getting up and putting her shoe back on. “We’re wasting time here.”

       “Amelia should be back any minute,” said Bob. He tried to sound positive. “We’ll find something to get that thing off! Don’t you worry!”

       But Robert Korleski said nothing we had would take the band off, ran Daria’s thoughts. He should know. The Ruttheimers handed me a line when they told me the penalties I faced if I cut this thing off. The tracking band’s impossible to remove once put on, except with special equipment from an FBI or state police office—or unless I cut my foot off. With shoulders slumped, she left the kitchen for the basement stairs, heading down to the pantry for the twenty-somethingth time. Veronica was there ahead of her, loading a cardboard box with canned goods while Quinn filled another box with the same.

       Quinn glanced down at Daria’s feet and made an anguished face. “Oh, crap! Bob couldn’t get it off?”

       “Forget it,” said Daria, feeling numb. “Give me something to take outside.”

       Quinn grabbed a ten-pound sack of flour and heaved it off a shelf, putting it in her older sister’s arms. Daria was wearily stomping back up the stairs when she heard Veronica whisper, a bit too loudly, “What happens if we can’t get that thing off her foot?”

       “Nothing good,” Quinn hissed. “Keep working and don’t worry about it. We don’t have a lot of time before we have to leave.”

       “But I am worried!” Veronica said.

       Daria kept stomping until she reached the top of the steps, so everyone would think she hadn’t heard. At least I won’t be in the first group of cars to leave for the cabin, which will help everyone else make their escape. Amelia had better be right that no one else knows about that place. I don’t want the sky to start raining FBI agents when they reach “safety.” She realized that she was mentally separating herself from her family and friends. May as well get ready for the worst. I have a bad feeling that I’m going to have to deal with things on my own pretty soon, but better that than dragging everyone else down with me. They deserve better.

       She went through the front door and out into the chilly evening air, heading for her Ford Explorer. Above her against a dark blue sky, the stars were coming out. Funny, just last week I had a job and a future, and I could take care of my sisters and at least pretend to be a good citizen, a responsible homeowner, and a halfway-decent quasi parent. Now I’ve no chance to keep my job or home, and my presence puts everyone in danger if this tracking band is activated. Of all the things I thought would happen in the future, this was the very last—oh, to hell with it.

       Trent, if only there was some way I could pay you back for everything you’ve put me through. It’s not very Christian to wish for that, but I’m not very Christian. I don’t think God likes hypocrites—no sense in pretending to be what I’m not. One more time together, Trent, that’s all I’m asking. Let me find you one more time, just for memories’ sake. Just for the memories. One more time.

       The angry fantasy evaporated. She swallowed, feeling depressed and alone. I don’t know why I bother hoping for it. I wouldn’t do anything if I did see him. Hitting him only made everything worse. Enough is enough.

       “Thanks, ma’am,” said Robert Korleski, taking the flour sack from her arms and packing it carefully into the open tailgate of the Explorer among a multitude of other items. “A few more boxes should do it. You want a jacket? You look tired, too. Here, get in here and do this. It’s easy.” He helped Daria on with his own jacket, lifted her into the rear of her SUV, then waved to her as he started for the house. “Be right back with some boxes, ma’am.”

       “Robert?” she called after him. “Wait.”

       He stopped and looked at her expectantly. “Yes, ma’am?”

       “My name is Daria,” she said. “I’m not a ma’am. Just call me Daria from now on, please.”

       “Oh.” He seemed taken aback. “Uh . . . yes, uh, Daria. Sorry.” He waved again before he hurried away, embarrassed.

       Thank God. Finally. On her knees in the back of the SUV with the seats down, Daria barely had to stoop to avoid the ceiling, but she was terribly uncomfortable in her wrinkled suit-skirt. Her underwear was riding up, her stockings were ruined, her feet hurt, her shoes were scuffed, and the place on her right foot itched like hell where the FBI band rubbed her skin. And Robert’s jacket smelled a lot like Robert’s sweaty armpits, which might be fine for Quinn but was not for Daria.

       That still amazes me, how fast Quinn and Robert connected. I know someone was carrying a torch for someone else—but both of them? I can’t see it. Oh, who cares. She sighed. I wonder if I could end this whole thing another way. If I could get my medical records from Middleton General over the Internet, the judge would throw out that stupid warrant and kick Trent right in the ass. The judge would see what really happened, in black and white, no doubt about it. I still remember the login codes for my records, and I’m sure I could get them printed out in a few seconds. Anyone could see it wasn’t an abortion. I can’t believe that idiot judge listened to Trent. I can’t even believe Trent said what he did about me. It’s too much to take in. I almost can’t believe he would do it. I almost can’t believe it, but

       A sheriff’s department vehicle pulled into the driveway and stopped next to the Explorer. Amelia got out and slammed the door. “Whole fucking county’s gone insane,” she snapped as she walked over to the tailgate of the SUV. “One more person asks me if this is Judgment Day, I’m running him over, and he can take the issue up with Saint Peter. Whoa, is that Robert’s jacket? You going steady with him now, or are you and Quinn taking turns?”

       “So nice to see you, too,” said Daria in a monotone. “Can we talk?”

       “Did Bob get that thing off your—”

       “No.”

       “God fucking damn it! That’s great, that’s just great. Sorry. Look, I’ll be right back. I have to talk to Bob about something. We don’t have much time.”

       “Amelia, listen to me. If—”

       “Just a minute! I’m not even supposed to be here, anyway. I’m supposed to be putting down a riot at Red Creek United Pentecostal. A riot in a church! Augh!” She threw her hands into the air, then left.

       “Wait! Why don’t you let me just—” Too late. Daria muttered a curse. One hell of a camping trip Amelia’s got planned, she thought, still reeling from all the shocks she’d taken that evening. I don’t see that it’s necessary, though. It could turn out badly if everyone gets caught. If I could just get away from here for a while and see that judge, and get him to look at my medical records, he’d see right away that Trent was lying and he’d put Trent in jail for perjury instead of

       “Robert sssaid you’d be in here,” grunted Quinn, handing over another overstuffed box. She peered at Daria closely. “Why are you wearing Robert’sss jacket?”

       “Oh, for—” Daria took the jacket off. “Here. More trouble than it’s worth.”

       “Daria, wait! Leave it on! It’sss cold out! Oh, fine, be that way, then.” She took the jacket. “That’sss all the medisssine ssshe’s got, in the box I brought out. I’m bringing toilet paper next. I’m damned if I’m going to live out in the woodsss without a butt load of toilet paper, ssswear to God.”

       “Amelia said we have to load only important—”

       “I don’t care what Amelia sssaid! If you want to wipe with poissson ivy, go for it.” And then she was gone, too.

       Nobody’s listening to me. Daria managed to get the medicine solidly on top of a container of canned goods. Amelia’s got to see reason. All the evidence I need to fight this stupid charge is right on the Internet. The judge could look it up himself, I’m sure, as the government can subpoena medical records for any reason. All that privacy stuff went out the window once they started hunting for AIDS patients and women who’d had abortions and doctors who’d performed them. And the Internet’s a trillion times faster than in the old days. The judge must have seen my records in order to issue the warrant, so he had to know . . . wait, wait, this isn’t adding up. He wouldn’t have believed Trent without evidence, but there was no evidence, so why did the judge issue the warrant, then? Trent couldn’t lie his way out of that, could he? He’d have to—

       “Hey! Daria, look at me.”

       Daria blinked and looked around, returning to reality.

       “Here you go, another one from Quinn.” Amelia pushed in a heavy box. “We’re almost done.” She moved aside as her husband brought yet another boxed load to the tailgate. “Just a few more things, and then we’re out of here.”

       “Look, I really have to talk to you. Don’t blow me off.”

       “Don’t worry about your leg band. Robert—Quinn’s Robert, not mine—said—”

       “This isn’t about the band. Listen, I don’t see why you want everyone to run off like this.” Daria sat back on her heels and wiped sweat from her eyes. “It’s going to make things a lot worse if we run, don’t you think? There must be millions of women who’ve had abortions in this country, from before it was criminalized, and almost none of them are being prosecuted for it. I know that the law changed, and I know about the ex post facto—”

       “Bob,” said Amelia from the side of her mouth, without looking away from Daria. “Go make sure Pheebs has her stuff packed. Get Ronnie to help her.”

       “Would you listen to me?” Daria snapped, as Bob hurriedly left.

       “No, you listen to me!” Amelia put her hands on her hips. “I’m going to say this only once, and I’m not trying to be mean about it, but it doesn’t matter what you know about the Twenty-Eighth Amendment. What matters is how the law is being applied. The Christian Amer—”

       “But I didn’t have an abortion, damn it! That’s the truth!”

       “That doesn’t matter!” Amelia shouted, leaning toward Daria. “It doesn’t matter what the truth is! If you try to see the judge to prove you’re innocent, you know what he’ll do? He’ll throw you in jail until your goddamned trial comes up a year from now! You won’t even get bail for one of the new federal felonies! We’re talking about judicial proceedings, not truth! The truth is irrelevant! Trent’s gotten the judge to believe you had an abortion, or else the judge believes there’s evidence that you did, and you—”

       What evidence?” Daria shouted back. “There isn’t any fucking evidence! I didn’t have an abortion, God damn it!”

       Amelia looked past Daria at someone on the other side of the SUV, angrily motioning the intrusion away. Daria looked back and saw Phoebe and Ronnie retreat to the house.

       Amelia gently took Daria by the chin and turned her around so she could look Daria in the face. “I believe you, but hear me out, okay? The prosecution of women who’ve had abortions in this country is more common than you think. Not all of them are up on murder charges, but a lot are, mostly the ones who make trouble. It doesn’t get into the news anymore because news editors don’t want to run afoul of the government and get arrested or shut down. I’ve managed to avoid ever having to bring in a woman who was accused of having an abortion, mainly by calling ahead and making sure no one was around when I showed up with the warrant. I once had a woman stand right at the end of her driveway, daring me to pick her up and arrest her, and I drove right by her and went back to the office and said I couldn’t find her. Wait—no! Don’t talk! Just shut up and listen!” She pulled back, contrite. “I’m really sorry I said that, but you have to listen to me! You have to!”

       Boiling, Daria bit her lips and forced herself to wait.

       “You know that the Christian America Amendment legalized ex post facto prosecutions for felonies that did not become criminal acts until that amendment was made law, with all of its many subsections. The people who wrote that amendment meant to clean house of everyone who might oppose them in any way, shape, or form, and they got the amendment passed when the country was overcome with paranoia because of the terrorism and wars and the general fucking decay of everything. The sponsors knew they’d have to fight other Christians as well as everyone else to get their amendment through, but they were up for it. They wanted blood. They wanted to make sure they stayed in power, as well as getting their brand of justice or political revenge for all the wrongs they believed went unpunished in the past. They covered all the bases.

       “But I can tell you for a fact, as the chief law-enforcement officer of this county that retroactive warrants of any kind are issued by judges only against people they believe are significant threats, not run-of-the-mill cross-dressers and flag-burners. There are too many people who could be prosecuted otherwise, and too many who already are being prosecuted. The prisons are so jammed, they’re reduced to building outdoor work camps—but the government still thinks it’s worth it. The warrants guarantee federal charges against anyone locally perceived as an enemy of the state, leaving behind only the people who will march in lock-step with the government. That’s what those warrants are really used for. That’s the truth.”

       Though she became calmer, Amelia gazed at Daria with great intensity. “The judge isn’t stupid. Trent was the one in the hospital, not you, and you’re the one who put him there. Everyone knows that. The only thing keeping you out of jail right this second is my report that Trent was attacking you when I came in. We don’t know what Trent said about your baby or about you, but whatever it was, it was enough combined with his condition to get a federal warrant out with your name on it. Trent might have said some other things about you, too, God knows what, or else the FBI’s suspicions about that son-of-a-bitch Gary have started spilling over onto you, and this just made it worse. J.D. said he heard there was a coup attempt going on in Washington, so who knows what’s really happening. We could be having a nuclear war right now, for all we know. I hate to say this, by the way, but Gary may have had something to do with that coup.”

       Daria felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. “What? How?”

       “You told me you thought this business of cloning military people who were supposed to be dead might be part of something bigger. I think you’re right. Maybe this was a way to get dissident military people lined up to take part in an attempted takeover and surprise everyone. Maybe the expatriates have been planning this for a long time, though I don’t think Canada could have directly helped. I can’t see them as wanting to get caught in the middle of this particular firefight. All I know is that a warrant’s coming with your name on it, and I can’t use my old excuses to protect you. You told Melinda Wilson today that your sisters were staying here, right?”

       “Yes, but I swear I didn’t know that she would—”

       “I know. Forget it. All that matters is that she might tell other people and they’ll come looking for you right here, in my house! I can’t pretend this time I didn’t see you! We have to get everyone out of here, and fast!”

       “But I didn’t have an abortion!” Daria’s voice came close to breaking. “This is all over nothing! The medical records from Middleton General will prove it! I know the court can get the records—”

       “Let it go,” Amelia said flatly. “The judge’s probably already seen them. When labor is induced because a fetus died in utero, it could be argued, at least initially in court, that the doctor actually performed an abortion and it was covered up in the medical records or made to look like something else. I’m not sure, given the climate of the times, that the judge wouldn’t agree with that. I’ve heard of it happening before. You said Trent wasn’t there in the room with you at the hospital, right? Did Trent ever say that he thought you’d had an abortion?”

       Daria’s shoulders sagged. She closed her eyes and bowed her head.

       “He did? What happened, honey? Talk to me.”

       “He—” She wiped at her face again, her voice dropping “—he said once that . . . it was my fault that . . . that it happened, that I lost the baby. He didn’t say it was an abortion, or how I was supposed to be responsible for the whole thing, but he said I made it happen. I said I did it on purpose to hurt him.”

       Amelia shook her head in disbelief. “How could he say that?”

       “Oh, he was drunk. It came up in a fight. I don’t remember what we were fighting about, but he came out and yelled it at me, and then we had a really big fight and almost broke up. It was just after we’d moved here. I don’t think he meant it, he was just trying to think of something that would hurt me, but it really . . . I keep thinking that . . . that maybe he was right and I did something that—”

       A hand touched Daria’s cheek and gently stroked her skin. Daria tried to avoid looking at her friend, feeling deeply ashamed, but she couldn’t help it. Amelia looked back with infinite sadness. “Honey,” she said softly, “you know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

       After a moment, Daria looked down and nodded. “I know,” she whispered. “It’s hard, though, sometimes.”

       Amelia swallowed. “There’s so much I want to tell you now, so much I want to say to help you put this behind you, but it will have to wait. I love you, Daria. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” The hand stroked Daria’s cheek once more, then fell away. “I have to go help inside. We’ll talk when we get away from here and join the others. I’m not going to let you live with this.”

       Daria sat back, exhausted and staring at nothing. After a moment, she heard Amelia walk away.

       Ronnie and Phoebe appeared a few moments later, each carrying a suitcase. “We’re done packing,” said Phoebe in a subdued tone.

       “And I can wear her clothes, since I can’t bring any of mine,” Veronica added, trying to be cheery. “Can you help us lift these?”

       “Wait until I get out,” said Daria, bone tired. “There’s no more room otherwise.”

       When every part of the Explorer was finally full, Daria shut the tailgate door. Bob Lawless’s black 4x4 pickup truck was also jammed with belongings, mostly camping gear but also including firearms, boxes of ammunition, and full gasoline cans.

       “Everybody, gather around!” shouted Amelia. “Here in the flower garden! Come on! Give me all your cell phones, every damn one! Shut ‘em off and give ‘em over! Everyone but you, Robert, and you, Daria. The three of us will need our phones for now to help Daria, but no one else needs one. Phoebe, that means I want yours, too! They can trace our location through them! If you have even one cell phone, pager, watch-phone, or anything with a GPS system or radio transmitter in it, they’ll find you! Come on!”

       All the called-for cell phones and pagers were thrown into a deep, narrow hole dug in the garden. “That all of them?” called Amelia. “No more are packed up or hiding under the car seats? Okay. That’s it, then.” She picked up a shovel and threw dirt over the pile until they were buried. “That should confuse them for a while if they come after us.”

       Daria looked over the motley, jacket-wearing group watching Amelia bury the phones. Robert Lawless stood with an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. Fighting tears, Phoebe and Veronica held hands, with Upchuck in his pet carrier in front of Ronnie. Quinn had one arm around Veronica’s waist—and held Robert Korleski’s hand with her other hand. Nice little group of two families, Daria thought, feeling like a stranger. They’ll make it without me, if they have to. I can’t believe Quinn was pining for Robert “Yes, Ma’am” Korleski all this time. They dated in school, yeah, but he was a throwaway guy, a date-filler when no one else was available. Was she hoping to meet someone who wanted her as she was, no matter what she looked like? Is she desperate enough to take any guy who shows an interest in her? Or am I missing something big here?

       “Next order of business!” Amelia pulled a scrap of paper from her shirt pocket and handed it over. “Quinn, here are the directions to the cabin. It’s north of us in the Helena National Forest, in a place I bet no one’s going to find for years. The roads are narrow and in bad shape, and we’ll be driving in the dark over the worst mountain roads to get there, so you’ll have to be extremely careful. I want you to take Daria’s SUV with Ronnie and Mister Woodchuck. Bob and Pheebs are going in the pickup. They’re going to lead. Quinn, you should follow them, but if you get lost, just follow the directions on the paper. If you get stopped, hide the paper—better yet, eat it. I’m not kidding. Don’t let anyone else see it. Memorizing it is best, if you can.”

       “I can do it,” said Quinn. “I memorisssed bunchesss of phone numbersss in high ssschool. It came in handy on datesss.” She grinned self-consciously. “Sssorry, Robert.” He merely grinned back at her.

       “Where’s Daria going to sit?” Veronica called.

       “She’s not coming with this group,” said Amelia. “Robert and I are staying back with her for a while, too. We’re going to get that FBI tracking band off her foot before we—”

       No!” Veronica’s face turned red. “We’re not leaving her behind! No!”

       “That’s right, Ronnie, we’re not leaving her behind!” Amelia agreed. “But Daria’s got a problem that has to be fixed first. Robert!” She motioned to Robert Korleski. “Tell Ronnie what you told Daria and me about the tracking band.”

       Looking uneasy, Robert rubbed the back of his neck before he pointed to Daria’s right ankle. “She’s wearing an FBI personal locator device that uses real-time GPS satellite tracking, but it hasn’t been activated yet. If the Ruttheimer brothers and I had thought Daria was part of a conspiracy against the government, we had the power to turn on the signal by remote control. Once it was on, we’d move in to apprehend her.”

       She’sss not part of a conspirasssy!” Quinn said, glowering at Robert.

       “I know, right,” said Robert, looking more uncomfortable. “But the band can be activated by other agents—even by satellite, if a warrant is issued for her. You need a special band cutter to remove it. The Ruttheimer brothers have one of those in the trunk of their car. While everyone else heads for the cabin, Amelia and I will take Daria to the motel where the Ruttheimers are staying, get the band cutter, and use it before the band is activated. I’ll be notified when the tracker has been turned on, so we’re okay at the moment.”

       “What if there’sss a problem with the Ruttheimersss?” asked Quinn in a low voice.

       “I think they’re on my side,” said Daria. “They’ll help us.” I must be the biggest sucker on Earth.

       “We’ll figure it out,” said Amelia. “Don’t worry. We’re not letting her go.”

       “I don’t like this!” Tears running down her face, Veronica bolted forward and hugged her older sister. “Make her come with us, please!”

       “Ronnie,” said Quinn, walking over to catch her little sister. She put her arms around Veronica, but a moment later hugged Daria, too, and then burst into tears.

       “I’ll always be with you,” said Daria softly, returning her sisters’ hugs. “I love you, but you have to let me go. It’s the only way I can get rid of this thing on my leg.”

       “I don’t want to let you go!” Veronica sobbed. “Please stay with me!”

       “And with me, too,” whispered Quinn, sniffling. “I love you, Daria. Thank you for being there when I had no one to turn to. Thank you for being—” Her voice broke. The golden angel on her necklace swayed between the three women, turning from one to the other.

       “I’ll always be with you.” Daria kissed her sisters. “Love one another. Do that for me, and I’ll be with you before you know it. Love one another for me.” She then shut her eyes tightly and bit her lip to keep from crying with them. It didn’t work.

       The sisters were quickly pried apart by others. Quinn and Veronica got into the Explorer, putting Upchuck’s carrier on the floor by Veronica’s feet. Bob and Phoebe got into the 4x4 pickup after hugging Amelia goodbye. Robert gave Quinn a long kiss through the driver’s window, then she rolled it up and wiped her eyes with her hands.

       The vehicles started. The pickup pulled away, turning right when it left the driveway in the direction of the mountains. After a moment, Quinn got the Explorer going as well.

       Veronica pressed her tear-stained face to the passenger window of the Explorer as it drove away.

       Goodbye, Daria thought, waving. Goodbye. If I don’t see you again . . .

       “Let’s get over to the motel,” said Amelia, already moving. “We can’t wait any longer. Get in my car.”

       . . . love one another . . .

       “There a GPS system on the chassis?” Robert asked, pointing.

       “Yeah, but I’m about to disable it. It’s right by the front left tire If J.D. was right, and he usually is, the warrant’s coming out at midnight, but we have to get moving into to the cabin as fast as we can after that tracker’s gone.”

       Amelia unlocked her car from her cell phone. Daria took the back seat, and Robert got shotgun; both got in and connected their safety harnesses. Amelia leaned inside, one knee on the driver’s seat, and checked the dashboard’s computer readouts.

       Daria sighed and reflected on the irony of the statement Amelia had made so long ago at Camp Grizzly: So from now on, I’m going to start thinking for myself, just like Daria, and I don’t care if I end up like her, with no friends. She shook her head. Amelia had gotten almost exactly what she’d asked for. It was enough to make one wonder about God’s sense of humor.

       “Seventy-eight emergency calls waiting for me,” grumbled Amelia. “That’s too bad. I just went off-duty forever. Okay, Daria, here’s the plan: Robert said the Ruttheimers were at the Big Belt Inn, which is about thirty minutes away. If Robert can distract them and keep them busy, I can break into their trunk with a nifty little tool I picked up from a car thief I put away when I was—”

       A cell phone rang.

       “Mine,” said Robert. He pulled it out and activated it. “Korleski here. Hey, Brad.”

       “I’m gonna kill the GPS,” said Amelia. “Take just a minute.” She got out of the car and took a jackknife from her pants pocket.

       Robert gasped. The cell phone was pressed to his ear. “When did—?” he said, then listened intently.

       Daria stared at him, filled with dread. Now what?

       “But she’s—” Robert turned in his seat to stare at Daria with a look akin to horror.

       The radio in the sheriff’s car beeped loudly. Amelia got up from peering under the car and looked back inside. “What’s wrong?” she asked Robert. When he didn’t respond, she snatched at the radio mike. “One Alpha Alpha here, over.”

       “Scramble three!” said a tense male voice over the radio.

       Amelia punched several radio buttons. “Scrambled. J.D.? What’s going on?”

       “Amelia!” the radio cried. “That Lane woman’s GPS locator is on! It came on a couple minutes ago! Half-a-dozen state and federal cars just left the station to pick her up—and the Global PinPoint system says she’s right inside your car at your home, with you and a federal agent, too! Are you guys bringing her in, or what?”

       Shit!” Amelia threw the mike on the floor under the steering wheel. “Get out of the car!”

       “My car, hurry!” shouted Robert, flinging himself out of the door. He then threw his cell phone into the gathering darkness, far from the house.

       The three of them ran for the dark blue, mid-size Tauron-X parked in the grass by the flagpole. Robert shouted a series of numbers at it, and the doors unlocked. Once inside, he reached under the steering column and popped open a small plastic cover, then stuck his fingers inside and pried loose a fuse, which he threw away. Amelia jumped in beside him and slammed her door.

       Daria opened the rear door behind Amelia—and hesitated. It is time. “Robert!” she yelled.

       “The GPS system is off!” He gunned the engine. “Come on!”

       “Daria, get in!” Amelia cried.

       Instinct took over. It was indeed time. “Robert! You and Amelia can’t help me! If you ever want to see Quinn again, lock the doors and take Amelia to the cabin, right now! Don’t come back for me! Go!

       She slammed the door—and with hardly a delay, Robert punched a button on his door twice and called out a command word. A thump ran through the vehicle.

       Daria!” Amelia screamed, fighting with her now-locked car door. “No! God damn it, no! Open the door! NO!

       Daria stepped back as the tires squealed, throwing sod around until they hit the driveway and burned rubber all the way to the road. In moments, the Tauron-X had vanished around a bend in the road and was swallowed by the darkness.

       And then, as she knew she would be, Daria was alone.

       Guess he had a torch going for Quinn after all. Lucky girl. Still wonder if she had one for him, too. I’ll never know, now.

       The cold wind blew. Daria shivered, then walked over to the sheriff’s vehicle. She had no way to drive it. No other working vehicle was on the property, except for a tractor.

       It is done. That’s what the seventh angel said, wasn’t it, when the last plague was released before Judgment Day. I should look it up.

       I should get warm, is what I should do. They’ll be here in a few minutes. I should go get warm.

       When the government forces arrived at the Lawlesses’ house seventeen minutes later, armored and armed to the teeth, Daria was sitting at the kitchen table wearing sweats and sneakers from Amelia’s closet, drinking a mug of hot lemon-zest tea.

       While reading the Bible.

 

 

 

 

Eleven

 

 

       When Daria heard tires screech to a halt outside the house, her first impulse was to stand up at the table, which she nervously did. She had a few words she wanted to say before being arrested, basically that she surrendered, would not resist her arrest, and was willing to talk about her so-called murder charge without legal representation. She figured her lawyer had abandoned her by now, and attorneys were going to be in short supply around Homeland Security interrogators.

       Then the window over the sink burst inward, knocking curtains down and spraying fragments of glass across the kitchen. Slivers lanced into Daria’s exposed hands. Her face was saved because she was turned toward the entrance to the kitchen from the front hallway. She flinched in pain and turned toward the sound of the crash, one bleeding hand raised to ward off a blow.

 

—[discontinuity]—

 

       She swam to back to consciousness lying face down on the kitchen floor, her head stuffed with gray cotton. She thought there had been an explosion. Though she was stunned and numb, the difficulty she had raising herself to her hands and knees warned that she might be severely injured. She coughed on smoky air as a long strand of red-stained drool fell from her lips to the glass-covered floor. Her mouth and face and the back of her head were starting to hurt. Red pools began forming around her bare hands, pressed into shards of broken glass, as a pricking sensation raced up her numbed arms and awakened them to pain.

       What happened? Where am I? What—

       Terrific bangs rang through the house, vibrating the floor beneath her. She barely heard the noise through the screaming whine in her eardrums. Get up, get up, hurry and get up. She tried, but she couldn’t make her legs work properly.

       A large, dark figure rushed at her from the right. She had almost turned her head when it struck and crushed her to the floor, knocking out her breath and pinning her arms. “Down!” a man roared into her right ear, his voice muffled by the screaming whine. “Keep your fucking head down!

       Boots stamped around her. Frightened, she tried to get up again, but the weight on her back redoubled. Her arms were jerked around behind her and pulled up. She screamed at the pain in her shoulders. A plastic band snaked around her wrists and pulled them tightly together in an unbreakable grip.

       Package!” a man shouted above her. In the background, men shouted, “Clear!” as they moved from room to room.

       “Up and out!” Powerful hands seized her thin arms by the shoulders and heaved her off the floor as if she were a child. She came down on her feet, but her knees gave out and she stumbled. The hands jerked her back up. Dazed, she looked wildly around at huge men with goggled faces wearing black combat armor devoid of insignia. Then she was dragged away between the two titans who gripped her arms with both hands. Her feet were unable to keep pace. Something entangled her thighs; she looked down and saw it was the sweat pants, which had been knocked loose by the explosion and the violent motions of picking her up. Groggy but shocked that her underwear was visible, she tried to reach down behind her with her strap-tied hands, but she could not snag the waistband with her fingers to pull the pants back up.

       The front door of the Lawlesses’ home lay broken in two on the floor in the hallway. A shivering wind blew in from the darkness outside and washed over her. The men carrying Daria ran over the smashed door, lifting her higher as they did, then went through the doorway with the left-side man going through first, hardly slowing down. Other men followed them outside into the clear, frosty night, across the front porch and down the steps into a sea of red-and-blue flashing lights. Black vehicles were parked everywhere over Amelia’s front lawn and driveway and along the road at the end. Helmeted men in dull black armor stood around on guard, assault rifles at the ready. Radios spewed static and shouted orders.

       Daria’s hearing began to clear. Something in the freezing air thumped like a faint, rapid heartbeat. Helicopters, she thought. Why are they here?

       The men holding Daria slowed as they approached a black van, then stopped and set her down on her feet. The man on her left reached down with his free hand and roughly jerked up the back of her sweat pants. She hooked two fingers into the waistband and tried to say, “Thank you,” but it came out as a drunken mumble. Real pain was gathering across her body from numerous cuts and bruises. Her glass-sliced hands were slippery with blood, and the plastic cuffs were cutting off circulation in her hands.

       “We’ve got the package!” called the man holding her right arm. He reached out with his free hand and opened the black van’s side door, shoving it back with one motion.

       “No, don’t bring her in here!” someone shouted from inside the van. “Go behind the house, where they’re setting up the L-Z! Over there! Move!”

       Daria coughed on the blood in her mouth. Something small and hard rolled over her tongue. She spat it out and realized it was a chip from one of her upper front teeth.

       “Get her away from here!” shouted the man in the van. “She’s spitting!”

       The hands digging into her biceps abruptly changed their hold, and her head was immediately forced down while her arms were held in the air behind her. Her shoulders were in agony, and she thought her neck would break. Crying out, she tried to get free. The man on her right stepped back, then drove a knee into her stomach with the strength of a freight train. Her lungs emptied, and she almost lost consciousness from the pain. The men lifted her by her arms and again began carrying her, though at a slower pace. She gasped and wheezed, but no air filled her lungs no matter how hard she tried.

       “Lost her pants again,” said the man carrying her by her right arm. “Glass in her hair, too. Traitor girl’s lookin’ real good.”

       “There he is,” said the man on her left. “Sir! Hey! Where do you want the package?”

       “Let me see her.” A gloved hand caught Daria’s chin and lifted it. She was still gasping for air and trying to cry as well, which made breathing even harder.

       “Careful, sir, she spits,” warned the man on Daria’s right. “She might have AIDS.” He pulled up Daria’s pants again but pulled too high and too hard, hurting her crotch and lifting her legs as well.

       “I’ve had my shots.” The gloved hand released her chin. “She’s the one. Top team wants her bad. Did the flash-bang mess her up like this?”

       “Sure did, sir.”

       “Don’t let her get busted up too much. She’s got talking to do.”

       “Yes, sir!” said the men holding her.

       “I surrender!” she cried in a shrill voice, her lungs aching. “Please don’t hurt me! I quit! I surrender!”

       Men roared with laughter all around. The thumping noise in the air grew louder.

       “I’ll do anything you want, I swear! Don’t hurt me, please! Don’t—”

       The officer slapped her in the face hard enough to make her stop. It was easier to cry after that, even if it hurt.

       A pistonlike pounding drowned out all other sounds. A gigantic two-rotor transport helicopter came out of the darkness and landed a stone’s throw away from her, in the center of a circle of lights set up in Amelia Lawless’s backyard. On the side of the gigantic black helicopter was a white cross with thirteen stars around it, over a six-digit number. The rear door of the copter fell to the ground, and black-armored soldiers spilled out running. When perhaps two-dozen men had left the cargo hold, someone motioned to the men holding Daria, urging them forward. They lifted her again and jogged toward the helicopter. Their boots pounded over the backyard where Daria once shared picnics with her sisters and Amelia’s family, on long, green summer weekends that now seemed like someone else’s life, someone who had lived a very long time ago on another world.

       The rotors of the gigantic copter whipped the brown, fallout-poisoned grass like the sea in a hurricane. Freezing wind tore through Daria’s sweat suit and speared her bones as she looked into the black cargo hold ahead of her, the beast’s open maw.

       Death was not far away. She knew it for a fact. She had a little time to prepare and push down her raging fears. The Lord is my shepherd, she began, her thoughts moving quickly. I shall not want.

       The men carried her through darkness and blinding pools of light. She had to pee even though she’d gone to the bathroom before she was taken from the house. A rotor-fed wind lashed her face, forcing her eyes shut, and whipped her long auburn hair until the barrette was torn out. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He

       It got very dark, even with her eyes shut. The roar of the rotors and the wind were deafening. The men holding her ran up a metal ramp that gave slightly and bounced. She lost her place in the Psalm and skipped to the only other lines she remembered.

       Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no

       Package!” shouted the man on the right. She opened her eyes in a black tomb that smelled of aircraft fuel and oil and dust and cloth and steel and sweat.

       I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me! Thou art with me—Thou art—

       She realized she had forgotten the rest. Her defenses melted; she could feel and smell Death all around her. She screamed out and struggled to get free. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, squeezing her cheeks hard. Consumed with terror, she tried to bite the hand, but it jerked away. It came back as a fist.

 

—[discontinuity]—

 

       The right side of her face was a mass of rhythmic pain, and she couldn’t see out of that eye. A terrific hammering noise jarred her bones. Her throbbing headache was unbearable. The sharp stink of urine filled her nose, mixed with a vile sour taste in the back of her throat. Her legs and bottom were wet. She was sitting upright on a bench, her arms gripped by armored men on both sides. The trembling, red-lit cavern in which they sat was moving very fast. Inside the Beast, ran her crazed thoughts. I am inside the Beast. I am Eaten.

       Her stomach heaved, a delayed reaction to her headache and being kneed in the gut. She doubled over and threw up between her knees. A gloved hand grabbed the long hair above her forehead and slammed her back against a steel-hard wall.

 

—[discontinuity]—

 

       She was very cold all over. Her head and face hurt so much it was impossible to think coherently. She was being dragged again, head hanging and shoes scraping over paved ground, her sweat pants fallen around her knees. The fast pounding of rotors receded in the distance. Many men passed by, men in heavy black boots who laughed and made crude remarks when they saw her. Her mouth tasted unspeakably foul; she slowly spit out blood and sour vomit and let the drool run down her chin. She could not feel her cuffed hands anymore.

       Her lips parted and moved without making a sound.

       Save me, God, I beg you, or let me die before they hurt me again. Save me or kill me, but please hurry.

       The men dragging her along changed direction and went up a sidewalk. She managed to raise her head and open her left eye to see where they were going.

       They were at the Natdia County Sheriff’s Office in Devil’s Tongue. Neither Amelia nor any of the regular deputies were visible, only black-armored male soldiers with every sort of weapon. She realized the helicopter had landed in the parking lot of the building next door to the office. She thought the building next door had been a church, but she couldn’t remember.

       The men holding her arms lifted her as they went up the front steps to the sheriff’s office. Someone had stuck a sign on the glass front doors, and Daria’s gaze rested on it for a moment, taking in the bearded white man with long hair who stared back at her without expression.

       JESUS IS WATCHING YOU, read the sign.

       Her head fell, her tangled hair shrouding her battered face from view. She let herself be dragged in through the doors without resistance.

       The two men laid Daria on the dirty hall floor of the sheriff’s office, in front of a heavy wooden door next to a security station. One hauled her pants up a last time. Men in shirtsleeves, standing behind heavy viewing windows, spoke with her escorts through microphones and loudspeakers. Daria—injured, exhausted, and barely conscious—followed nothing of what was said.

       A buzzer sounded. One of the men pulled the heavy door open, held it in place with a booted foot, then bent down with the other man to lift Daria by the arms again. After dragging her through a second door, the men carried her down a long hall to a small cell with a sliding barred door. They left her on the cell’s floor beside the toilet after cutting away her handcuffs. Her shoes were removed and taken away, as were her watch-phone and rings. Someone tossed a bright yellow jumpsuit and a towel on the cell’s cot, then shut the door and locked it. “They’re gonna see you soon,” said one of the men, “so get cleaned up and get changed. Let’s move.”

       Several minutes passed before Daria realized she was alone in the cell. She tried to push herself up, but her arms wouldn’t work. Rolling over on her side, she saw to her horror that her hands had turned almost black below the wrists from circulation failure. Her wrists were marked with dark bands where the cuffs had pressed into her skin.

       With great effort, she was able to get to her knees and let her arms dangle limp at her sides, jiggling and swinging them in an effort to get the circulation going. Both her scarred hands were covered with dried blood. Her entire chest hurt, with sharp pains on the lower right side where she had been kneed. She hoped she did not have cracked ribs. The front of her sweatshirt was stained with vomit, blood, dirt, and bits of broken glass. Her neck and shoulder muscles were painfully knotted, and the back of her head throbbed with a dull ache that filled her skull and made thinking difficult.

       She smelled worse than she looked, though.

       A noise caused her to look toward the bars with her half-open left eye. Two male guards lounged against the wall on the other side of the bars, watching her with mild interest. She looked away—nothing she could do about that—and instead scanned her cell, taking in the wall-mounted bed, the sink and unbreakable mirror . . . and the toilet, which was in full view of everyone looking in on her. Amelia had employed women as deputies, who among their other tasks checked on any female prisoners. Tonight, Daria had not seen a female soldier or police officer anywhere, or at least none she recognized as female. This did not surprise her; the federal government and many states did not place women in any position of authority, or anywhere in the military or police, per certain restrictions in the Bible.

       Daria had never thought an all-male policy would affect her personally. She belatedly realized she would have eavesdroppers on everything she did in the county jail. At least her pants were up at the moment.

       Trying not to think about it, she managed to get to her feet by careful degrees, pressing her aching arms to her sides to keep her pants in place. Feeling was coming back into her arms with a vengeance—the pins-and-needles stinging was outrageous. Once up, she shuffled over to the bunk and sat down, studiously ignoring the guards. The yellow jumpsuit caught her attention. It had only the word “PRISONER” printed across the back. No underwear or other clothing came with it, not even shoes. The off-white towel was worn but serviceable. I guess I’m supposed to wash myself in the sink, she thought. That’s probably why I have an audience. Must not be anything better on TV. Still, if I can be grateful for anything, it’s that my family and Amelia’s family got away. Better that I’m here than they. I’m expendable, but they are not.

       The pain in her hands increased. Gritting her teeth, she struggled for several minutes to make her numbed fingers move. She was rewarded with spasms of the worst pain she could ever recall, but her fingers finally bent and curled even if they could not form a strong grip. When she felt could pick up objects again, she got to her feet—and noticed that the guards had left. Relieved, she shuffled over to the sink, carrying the towel, and looked in the mirror. The sight caused her to gasp.

       Her long hair was a tangled, befouled mess half covering a huge green-and-black bruise on the right side of her face, stretching from mid-cheek to the top of her eyebrow and over toward her nose. She forced her swollen right eye open and saw the cornea was bright red with blood. Her face had about a dozen small cuts and scrapes, some still with glass shards in them which she carefully removed. The chipped front tooth was the least of her worries, even on a purely aesthetic level. She was glad that she had gone in for laser eye surgery long ago, as had Amelia and even Veronica, so she didn’t have to worry about lost or broken glasses, too.

       With unhurried motions to avoid increasing her considerable pain, she lowered her head and began washing her hair in the sink with liquid soap from a wall-mounted dispenser. Glass fragments in her hair dug into her fingertips, but she pressed on. As she worked, she tried not to think about her ultimate fate. It would not be pleasant, she was sure. Complaining about it would solve nothing, except to make it worse than was first planned. Trent’s current whereabouts and activities weren’t worth thinking about, and she did not waste much time wondering why she had been treated like this, either. All she had been accused of earlier was having an abortion (which I did not do, she added with emphasis), but she now figured the charges were much more serious, if equally false. Try as she could, though, she was unable to imagine what Trent had accused her of that would merit this kind of handling. Then Amelia’s warning came back, that Gary’s secret deeds might be causing trouble for her even though she had no connection to them. Traitor girl, one of the soldiers had called her. If the Christian American government was fighting off a coup attempt, it would be paranoid without limit and unwilling to listen to reason—not that it ever had.

       As she did her hair, wrung it out, wrapped it in the towel, and began working on her face and neck, most of her thoughts centered on her sisters and Amelia. Daria’s former friend Jane had long ago remarked, when Daria expressed worry for a troubled boy who had confided in her: Any kid who looks to you for nurturing is more than just lost. The comment had stung dreadfully, ranking at the time as the meanest thing Jane had ever said to her. It drove Daria in later years to make sure its implications were proven false, when she assumed legal responsibility for her infant half-sister. You’re the best big sister-mommy ever, Veronica had told her on numerous occasions, though sometimes as a means of buttering Daria up before asking a big favor. Looks like you lose, Jane, Daria thought, rising off her face. No one is lost who ever came to me—no one but you. She tried to smile in triumph, but it hurt too much.

       And Quinn, Daria’s nemesis in childhood, had come to Daria for nurturing, too, after her two-timing spouse sliced her face to bloody ribbons when Quinn told him she was getting a divorce. Daria took in her sister without hesitation, helped her though therapy, and found homebound part-time jobs for her whenever possible, to keep her busy and involved in the greater world, and to prevent a slide into depression or worse. With the loss of their father and the estrangement of their mothers, the three sisters had grown together as a tight-knit family, sustained by love through the worst of times.

       The worst of times until now, Daria thought. I’d never imagined it could get as bad as this—but I still win, even if I don’t make it, too. My family and friends live on. I win. She finished dabbing her sore face with a corner of the towel, then glanced at her cell bars. Seeing no one around, she hurriedly dropped her sweat pants, took off her underwear, put her pants back on, and washed her panties in the sink with soap. They might be the only pair she got for the foreseeable future. Wringing them out, she hung the undies to dry on a pipe under the sink and continued washing, moving down her body without taking off the soiled sweat suit no matter what she was doing. The hot water warmed her feet on the cold floor as it ran down her skin.

       Her thoughts ran on as she worked. I wonder what they’re doing now, Quinn and Ronnie and Amelia and everyone else. Amelia will be pissed as hell over my little trick, but it saved her, so I don’t regret it. She’s got Bob and Phoebe. Robert and Quinn, what a pair. Good luck to them both. Maybe she’ll finally have kids of her own, succeeding where I failed. Ronnie and Phoebe will make it together, best friends through everything. I hope so, anyway. It didn’t work for me with Jane, but maybe with Amelia. . . . no, I won’t be there with her, will I? And I’m sorry about that, I really am.

       She sighed. She had never figured out Amelia’s attraction to her, particularly since Daria had never seen herself as a reliable friend. It wasn’t a regular friendship, that was for sure. It wasn’t a gay romance, either, despite Amelia’s semi-butch tomboy personality. And it wasn’t hero worship from a fan, though Amelia sometimes made it seem like that with her remarks about Daria being a role model. Perhaps she did that just to pull Daria’s chain a little. The attraction was hard to pin down in any regard.

       The one thing Daria knew for sure was that Amelia loved her profoundly and completely, without reservation. It was an experience to which Daria was unaccustomed, as it was not logical. Amelia was careful of Daria’s quirks and sensitivities in a way Jane had never been, even when feeding her friend unwelcome truths. Most amazingly, Amelia glowed in Daria’s presence. She laughed and told terrible (but funny) jokes and talked about personal things she had apparently never shared with anyone else. Where had this love come from? Until she moved to Montana, Daria had figured she had seen the last of her Camp Grizzly roommate at the reunion when they were high-school seniors. Then fate cast them together again, and Amelia had been delighted. Daria had been hungry to find a friend with whom she could share her thoughts in a way she couldn’t with her sisters. The connection was made, a real friendship bloomed, and then it became something else—but what, and how?

       I’m overanalyzing this, Daria thought. She glanced at the bars again, seeing no one, and continued washing. Amelia’s my best friend. She’s the sunlight when my world is dark, the only one who can cheer me when I can’t get up. She’s there for me when I need her. I should just accept her and leave it at that, but I am grateful for all she’s done for me. She certainly loves me more than Jane ever did. Sometimes I think Amelia would die for me if she had to.

       Daria froze in horror, her aching hands up under her sweatshirt, soaping her underarms.

       She would. She would die for me. I one-upped her when I got her and Robert out of the area before the government came. She’s never been one-upped. She’s been elected sheriff three times running.

       She’ll come back for me. That idiot fool will come back for me.

       Daria pulled her hands from her sweatshirt and tried to readjust her evaluation. Maybe she’ll come back, but it’s not for sure. She might have more sense than that. With my FBI locator band, she knew there was no help for me. I had no chance to hide, and anyone with me had no chance, either.

       The re-thinking rang false. Amelia had never backed down from a challenge. Tonight, her biggest challenge had been to save her family and Daria’s at all costs, even that of her job and life. She had taken charge every step of the way—until Daria had Amelia taken away against her will. Daria had cheated Amelia of a complete victory. Amelia would never stand for someone to sacrifice more than she could.

       Daria shut her eyes, grimacing. She’ll come back. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! I know she will. Oh, God, please, don’t let her do this. Stop her in any way You can. Save her for my sake. Let me die if You have to, if that will allow her to live. She’s got so much ahead of her, she has so much to offer the world, so much more than I do. Save her, I beg you. Stop my friend and save her.

       Boot steps sounded down the corridor. Daria hastily rearranged her clothing and looked at the bars. Four men in black armor appeared, coming to a halt at the cell door.

       “Put on the jumpsuit,” said the man with the keys. “You’re wanted.”

       Daria looked down, realizing she would have to put the jumpsuit on over her stinking clothes. “Can you give me a moment so I can change?” she asked, her words coming out oddly because of her swollen face.

       The men looked at each other and shrugged. “One minute,” said the man with the keys, and he led the others away. She waited until they were far up the hall, then stripped, put on her damp underwear, adjusted her bra, got into the jumpsuit and zipped up. She finished just as the men returned and opened the door. Each of them was a head taller than she was.

       “Can I keep my hands free?” she asked, feeling very vulnerable. “I won’t try anything.”

       “Better not,” said the man in charge. They left the cell with one man in the lead to open doors, one man walking behind, and one on either side of her. Her bare feet slapped the floor, the sound masked by the soldiers’ boots. At the end of the hall, they passed through the door and turned down a new corridor. Daria looked through an open doorway halfway down the corridor, peering into what appeared to be an internal security office. Several men sat or stood watching banks of black-and-white high-res television monitors. Several of the larger monitors showed a small empty cell, seen from above at various angles. On the floor of the cell lay Daria’s discarded sweat suit. All the men in the room turned and saw Daria pass. Several of them snickered.

       Microcameras were in the room, she thought, mortified to the bone. They were watching me the whole time. They saw me doing everything.

       The snickers turned to raucous laughter that followed her to the end of the corridor. The lead man unlocked a door and held it open for the others. Beyond the door was a small room with a table and two chairs, but nothing else except a long mirror on one wall. Fluorescent lights filled the room a gentle flicker. A man in a clean white shirt, dark slacks, and a thick mustache glanced up from the chair across the table as she came in, then continued to thumb through a sheaf of papers in his hands. On the table was a small pen.

       “Have a seat,” said the man. The four armored soldiers with her moved to positions against the wall behind her and to her sides. With mounting fear, Daria sat down in the unoccupied chair across from the man with the papers.

       Satisfied, the man dropped the sheaf of papers on the table in front of Daria and turned them so she could read them. He then moved the pen within reach of her right hand. “Take a moment to—” he began.

       An urgent knock came from the door. The man looked annoyed but gestured for the door to be opened. A soldier did so, and another soldier in black armor came in with a folded slip of paper, which he handed to the man at the table with a muttered, “Sir.”

       The man opened the note and read it, glanced at Daria, then nodded once and put it in his shirt pocket. The soldier saluted and left. The door was closed after him.

       “As I was saying,” said the man, “look over these, sign them, and then we’ll move on with a few questions.”

       Puzzled, Daria bent over the papers and began reading through them. “These are confessions,” she said, a few seconds later. “Wait, I didn’t do any of this. I really didn’t. This . . . I didn’t commit conspiracy.” Her voice began to rise. “This says I conspired to overthrow the government of the United States of America—”

       “Of Christian America,” corrected the man across the table.

       “Whatever! I didn’t do it! And—” She gasped as she read “—oh, my God!” Boots came up behind her, but she couldn’t control herself. “You’ve got to be kidding! What weapons of mass destruction? What are you talking about? You’re saying that—”

       Heavy gloved hands fell on her shoulders. Her voice rose to a squeak. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She pushed through more papers. “Defiling human bodies by cloning? You’ve got to be kidding! What the hell is going on?

       “Are you going to sign, or not?” the man asked patiently.

       No!

       He shrugged and gathered up the papers and pen, tossing them aside on the floor. “We’ll get on with the questioning, then. First, where are FBI special agents Brad Michael Ruttheimer, Brett Lee Ruttheimer, and Robert James Korleski, and Natdia County Sheriff Amelia Jean Lawless?”

       “I don’t know where they are!” Gloved fingers dug into her shoulders, but she could not calm herself even out of fear. “I swear to you, I’m telling the truth!”

       “Did you kill them, or did you order someone else to kill them?”

       Something inside her snapped. “No!” she shouted. “And fuck you!”

       The man sighed, got up, and moved the table aside. The men on either side of Daria grasped her arms and pulled them behind the back of her chair, holding her down by pressing on her shoulders. The other two armored men caught her feet by the ankles and forced them down, too, pressing hard on her thighs as well. Terrified beyond reason, she fought to get free, but to no avail.

       “They told me you were a fighter when you were brought in, so we’ll do it the hard way,” said the man, moving his chair closer to Daria. He rested his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward, hands clasped before him. “Here’s a news flash: we caught your pal Gary Bellows up in the mountains yesterday. It took a while, because he needed a lot of encouragement to remember things, but he told us everything about his connections with the traitors in The Pipeline, and how you covered for him at the funeral home while he was recruiting—” His fingers made quote marks “—deceased soldiers for rebel attacks on American military targets.”

       “But I didn’t—”

       His voice rose. “That plot to launch nuclear missiles on Washington from Malmstrom Base was stopped dead earlier this evening, and I do mean dead. We got everybody there who was involved. Councilman Seth Atbe survived the attack on the White House, so he’s in charge. Senators Greenwell and Boynes did not survive the counterassault, so they won’t be taking over the government as The Pipeline planned. The Pipeline and its allies are finished, and as of a few minutes ago, our government began taking action against everyone north of the border connected with the insurrection.” He regarded Daria solemnly. “Your side has lost. It has lost everything down to the last domino. Are you following me so far?”

       “It’s not my side!

       “I hope you weren’t particularly attached to Mister Bellows. He repented for his misdeeds for a long time, and I think he found his penitence rather agonizing. He was more than ready to meet his Maker at the end, so he got a little help from us with that. A little charity, you could say. Are you ready to meet your Maker, Mrs. Lane?”

       “I didn’t have anything to do with this!” Her voice broke and she began to cry. “I swear before God I had nothing to do with it! I’m innocent! I don’t know what Gary was doing, but I wasn’t a part of it! Please believe me!”

       The man stared at her intently, fingers playing with his mustache. He then lowered his hand. “Women are usually a bit vain,” he said. “They don’t like being punched in the face time after time. It ruins their beauty.”

       God help me, I didn’t do it! I swear I’m innocent! I didn’t do it!

       “Funny to hear you call on God for help, all things considered.” The man looked her over. “I don’t think you’re the type who’d break just to save your face. The fighters never do. You’re not that good looking, anyway. Not now.”

       Daria found it impossible to reply through her sobbing. Whatever was coming would hurt worse than any pain she had ever experienced. She knew it for a fact. She hoped that she would pass out swiftly and never regain consciousness, regardless of the torture applied.

       The man reached into the pocket of his crisp white shirt and removed the slip of paper. He unfolded and read it to himself. “Mrs. Lane,” he said, “do you own a red nineteen-ninety-eight Ford Explorer, four door, Montana license plate nine-seven-E-nine-one-G?” Seeing Daria’s left eye widen in shock, he nodded and continued. “And does Sheriff Lawless’s husband, Pastor Robert Joseph Lawless of the Natdia County Lutheran Church, own a black four-by-four Dodge King Ram pickup, Montana license—”

       He paused and looked up, hearing Daria’s keening wail. Her red face was screwed up, on the edge of a total breakdown.

       He stared at her and went on in a low voice. “It seems they were trying to flee north on County Road J toward the Helena National Forest earlier this evening when they were stopped at an Army roadblock—”

       Daria’s shrill cry drowned out his words. She struggled to get up, fighting so hard that the four men barely held her down. She shouted for God to stop what was happening. She begged for mercy. She pleaded for the lives of her sisters and the Lawlesses, offering herself to the man for anything he wished to do to her, even if it meant her death, if only her family and friends would be spared.

       The man pulled the table back, picked up the confessions and the pen, and set them carefully in front of her, then motioned for the soldiers to release her. Daria signed the documents as quickly as she could. She did not bother to read them. When she was done, the man collected the papers, nodded, stood up, and left the room without a word.

       “I think that was a record,” murmured one of the soldiers in amazement.

       “He gets what he wants,” said the soldier who carried the keys. He shook his head in admiration.

       Daria was walked back to her cell and left alone to lie down on her bunk. Broken as the world, she did not go to sleep, instead staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Hours passed.

       Footsteps came down the corridor, but they were regular shoes, not military boots. The mustachioed man stood at her cell bars with an envelope.

       “They tried to run the roadblock,” he said. “The pickup exploded when it came under fire. The Explorer behind it attempted to turn around and escape, but it came under fire and went off the road, rolling down a rocky slope to a creek bed about seventy feet below, where it landed on its roof.”

       He pushed the envelope through the bars of the cell, let it fall, and then walked away. The door at the end of the hall shut behind him.

       The white envelope filled the vision of Daria’s uninjured left eye. She heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing else but the envelope. Her hands shook when she opened it.

       A thin gold chain fell out on the cold floor. Every link of it was encrusted with drying blood. The golden angel on the necklace looked up at her from where it lay. A red stain obscured its tiny face.

       Outside the sheriff’s office, startled soldiers stood and looked around when they heard the screams from deep inside the building. The screams went on and on and on.

       “The Ministry of Love,” said one of the soldiers under his breath. He smiled at his own wit. No one else understood the reference, though, and they returned to their duties.

 

 

 

 

Twelve

 

 

My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Why art thou so far from helping me,

And from the words of my roaring?

 

 

       She lay on the floor of her cell in her yellow jumpsuit, dead to the world and to the cold. Her right eye could not be opened, and her left eye would not close to bring her sleep, so she gazed without blinking at the angel on the thin chain that rested out of her reach. Nothing else existed in her mind. It was all that was left of everyone she had loved.

 

 

Oh my God, I cry in the daytime, but Thou hearest not;

And in the night season, and am not silent.

 

 

       Sometimes noises echoed down the hallway; at times prisoners called out and cursed and fought, while soldiers laughed and swore and fought back. Sometimes people came up to the bars of her cell to peer in at her, wondering. The noises went away in time. All the people turned and left her alone. She lay on the floor as if drugged, insensate, beyond all further pain. No moving thing disturbed the mountain of her grief.

 

 

All they that see me laugh me to scorn;

They shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying,

He trusted on the Lord that He would deliver him:

Let Him deliver him, seeing he delighted in Him.

 

 

       She did not know whether to believe in God anymore. She did not think about her path toward salvation. She did not think of her home, her career, or her future. All of that had been taken forever. All that was left was the emptiness of her life, the vacant places where she had kept the things she knew that were good. Every atom of it was gone, and she did not believe even Death would free her from her suffering.

 

 

My strength is dried up like a potsherd;

And my tongue cleaveth to my jaws;

And thou hast brought me into the dust of death.

 

 

       Time ceased to exist. There were cycles of time around her, but they did not reach into her sphere. The coming and going of days mattered not. The minutes were centuries, and the hours went by like eons of galactic time, endless and eternal. She drank nothing, ate nothing, went to the bathroom only when forced to. Then she lay down on the floor again and let the weight of the universe press down upon her, flattening her out like a spirit under the devil’s hooves in the burning bottom of Hell.

 

 

For dogs have compassed me:

The assembly of the wicked have inclosed me—

 

 

       “Daria Lane!”

       The cell door opened. She did not stir; she barely breathed to prove she was alive.

       “Get her left arm. You two get her feet.”

       Strong hands fitted leather cuffs over her wrists and ankles, then threaded thick leather straps through the cuffs’ steel loops and through loops on a leather belt around her waist to create a set of walking restraints—quieter and less expensive than chains, though less imposing as well. As the hands raised her to her feet, she reached for the bloodstained necklace but was pulled away. The men forced her to walk through the corridors of the building. She did not care where they took her or what they did to her. Nothing worse could be done than what had already been done.

       They brought her to a small courtroom in which a handful of soldiers sat on folding chairs around her. She made no effort to resist or escape. At the judge’s bench, in front of a flag, sat three officers. The one in the middle wore a black uniform with silver eagles on his lapels. The one on the right had silver oak leaves on his shoulder boards and a dark blue uniform. The one on the left wore black and had silver crosses on his collar.

       “This tribunal of the Armed Forces of the United States of Christian America is now in session,” said a captain to one side. “Colonel Hightower presiding.”

       “Let us proceed,” said the colonel, and he began to read from a list of charges.

       Daria’s attention immediately drifted away. With tilted head, she stared at a spot on the floor between her and the tribunal, her mind empty.

       “Do you understand the charges being brought against you, Mrs. Lane?”

       The long silence was ended when the colonel turned to the chaplain and whispered, “Does she have mental problems?”

       “Her family tried to run a roadblock north of here, escaping into the mountains,” said the chaplain. “I believe they were helping The Pipeline, too. She learned about it only last night. Both of her sisters were killed.”

       “If I may, can we get on with this, sir?” said the major. “I’m due back in Grand Falls this evening for a meeting with General Sharps.”

       The colonel sighed and sorted through his papers. “I read the case summary on the way over. Damned clever setup, working out of a funeral home.” He paused to read one of the papers and rolled his eyes. “I can’t honestly believe she had anything to do with that Silo Thirty-nine nightmare. That was—”

       The lieutenant colonel cleared his throat and looked meaningfully at the colonel, who groaned and dropped the papers on the bench before him. He looked down at the diminutive prisoner. “Have you anything to say before we pronounce sentence, Mrs. Lane?”

       Another long silence drew out.

       Give me death, she thought, neither moving nor saying a word. If you have any shred of mercy left in you, you will sentence me to die and carry the sentence out at once, shooting me where I sit.

       The chaplain passed a hastily scrawled note to the colonel, who read it and frowned, then shrugged. “Mrs. Daria Marie Lane,” he said, “you are found guilty of one count of attempting to use a weapon of mass destruction against a populated area within the United States, one count of attempting to use a weapon of mass destruction against persons employed by and facilities of the government of the United States and its military, eight counts of conspiracy to overthrow the government of the United States, three counts of felonious desecration of the human body by means of cloning, one charge of attempted murder of your husband, one charge of felonious assault against your husband—” The colonel shook his head, as if what followed were of no importance to him “—one charge of instigating marital discord, and a charge of murder of a preborn. You are found guilty on all counts and are sentenced to death.”

       Her head rose. Her gaze fixed on the colonel, a flicker of life stirring in her one good eye.

       “However,” he continued, “in view of your sex and the secondary or tertiary role you played in the most serious crimes, and given the recommendation of Chaplain Smith, sentence is hereby commuted to life in prison at Wilderness Reeducation Camp Number Ten at Anaconda, where you will seek divine redemption through hard labor, to the end of your natural life.”

       The flicker of life died. She lowered her head.

       What?” said the lieutenant colonel with a killing glare. “Are you serious? Life in—” He broke off his words and rubbed his face vigorously with one hand, turning away. “Sorry,” he made himself say. “It’s been a long week.”

       The colonel waited to see if there were any further outbursts, then picked up a gavel and rapped on the table once. “Court is adjourned,” he said. He sat back, collected his papers, and made small talk with the chaplain. The major left the room to make his appointment.

       Daria was taken back to her cell. Many hours passed while she lay on the cold bare floor, staring at her sister’s necklace, thinking things that did not bear speaking aloud.

       She did not remember when her left eye closed.

       Again, she stood on the plaza of the World Trade Center on Manhattan, near the base of the North Tower. The tower rose above her into a leaden gray sky. A gaping hole was visible near the tower’s summit in the outline of a jet’s fuselage and wings. No smoke or flames were visible. No people could be seen but her.

       She looked down at the dead woman at her feet, the one she had tried to save. The force of the dead woman’s impact had shattered the concrete beneath her; the cracks radiated out for yards. A breeze stirred her dead hair.

       Her dead eyes opened.

       Terror that Daria had never known robbed her of the ability to move. The dead woman arose and sat up on the broken concrete. Untouched by injury, she wore a white business suit with a knee-length skirt, her feet bare, her short dark hair simply styled.

       “You have ears, but you do not hear,” said the dead woman. “You have eyes but do not see.”

       The grip of terror lessened. “I don’t understand,” Daria said in confusion.

       “That is because you think,” said the dead woman. “Your father gave you a key.”

       She remembered the golden key. She checked, and it was in her pocket. Curiously, she wore a white business suit, too. “What will it open?”

       “Whatever you believe it will.”

       Daria knew of only one thing she wanted, one purpose for which she would ever use the key. Will it open the impossible? “Must I believe in order to use it?” she asked, fearing the answer. “Will it open whatever I wish?”

       The dead woman nodded in the affirmative to both questions.

       “But I can’t believe!” Daria cried in anguish. “And what I want is gone! I can’t get there!”

       “That is because you think,” repeated the dead woman, drawing up her legs. She wrapped her arms around her knees, peering at Daria intently. “You think the shortest distance to your goal is a straight line, but there is no straight line from here to there. There is no shortest distance.”

       “Then how is it possible?” Daria held out her open hands, which were bleeding from the holes through her palms. “I don’t understand how it works!”

       The dead woman shook her head. “There is no shortest distance,” she said. “It is all or nothing. You cannot walk to your goal. You must let go of the earth and jump.”

       Daria looked at the North Tower behind the dead woman. “A leap of faith,” she said in understanding—and was afraid of the dead woman’s reaction to her choice of words.

       The dead woman did not take offense. “You could say that,” she said, getting to her feet. She brushed invisible dust from her seamless white suit. “A leap of faith. It is the only way.” She raised her gaze to meet Daria’s eyes. “The key is a gift. You have one chance to use it, then it will be gone. You are the cup, but not the drink. You are the mouth, but not the breath. You are the pen, but not the Word.”

       Daria’s puzzlement must have been apparent. “You will see,” said the dead woman. She began climbing a staircase where there was none. “It worked at Capernum,” she said, ascending. “It is the way, the only way.”

       “Capernum?” Daria did not understand, but she knew the dead woman had tried to help her. “Thank you!” she called. “Thank you!”

       “Thank your father for the key,” said the dead woman, rising into the air. “He is behind you.”

       Daria gasped. She turned around.

       He smiled. “Hi, kiddo.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

       Daria opened her left eye. She lay on the floor of her cell in the jail attached to the county sheriff’s office. Quinn’s necklace was on the floor before her. For a moment she didn’t know where she was or what had happened.

       Then the dream came back, and her father’s warm smile. She had forgotten how much she missed him.

       Daria covered her face and wept. Long minutes later, cried out but feeling clearer-headed than she had in ages, she dabbed her bruised face on her sleeves and sat up on the floor. Drawing up her knees and putting her arms around them as the dead woman had done, she looked down at the bloodstained chain of gold, resting her chin on her legs.

       Despite the dense symbolism and peculiar dialogue, she understood most of what the dream probably meant. A few references proved elusive, such as the one to Capernum (it sounded oddly familiar, perhaps being a place), but no matter. She understood what was being asked of her—no, she corrected herself, what was being offered to her. Fearing she would forget an important detail, she went over the dream again and again until she had it memorized—only she wasn’t sure that it was a dream. It had been more realistic than any dream she’d ever known, though it had been clearly unreal at the same time. A vision, perhaps? A sending? Or an exhausted prisoner’s shot at wish fulfillment?

       Whatever the dream truly was, Daria sensed that the critical issue was what she would do about it. Her rational mind struggled in vain to accept the unfamiliar path opening before her, but something within her awakened for the first time: a sense that her goal of achieving a deeper spirituality was within reach, and with it a newfound ability to appreciate the journey—and the will to carry it forward.

       And that was even stranger than the dream itself.

       All my life, when I’ve felt I was surrounded by fools and idiots and was powerless to do anything about it, I retreated into a shell and kept people at bay with my bad attitude. It took years to grow out of it, but I still slip into that habit now and then, avoiding people or insulting them, hiding behind my sarcasm and cynicism. If Mom didn’t do anything else for me, she fought dearly and hard to keep me from going that slope forever. I owe you that, Mom, and thank you. I’m still cynical, but it hasn’t crippled me. She smiled thinly. I wonder if that’s like saying I drink a lot, but I’m not an alcoholic.

       The smile soon faded. Taking in Ronnie after Dad died, that was the first time I had to care for someone who was completely dependent on me. It squashed out my bad attitude when I had to care for a baby, when I watched her grow and was responsible for her in every imaginable way. Then I took in Quinn after she got out of the hospital, and we became closer than we ever had before. I was finally able to say aloud that I loved her, and she said she loved me—but she’d said that a lot before then. It took time for me to do it, but I did it. I grew up. I made my mistakes, and lots of them, but I grew up.

       She stared at the necklace. I can’t go back into my shell now, even as awful as things are. The lady in the vision said I had the power to gain the impossible, but I have one chance and one chance only. If I fail . . . then all I’ll have left of everyone I cared about is that necklace and the knowledge that I let my loved ones remain dead. If I succeed, I’ll have Ronnie and Quinn and Amelia and all the rest of them with me again, and maybe even that bloated marmot. I can’t let them down. “The dead depend on us for their redemption and their immortality.” I want them to be redeemed and live, even though I can’t imagine how that could ever happen. Reality says it’s impossible—but the real world is serving me nothing but death and destruction. Real-world ways will save no one. I’ll be a victim to the end of my life in a miserable prison camp, haunted by the ghosts of my sisters and best friend. I would rather die than suffer that.

       I have one chance to change a part of the world and save my family and friends. One chance only. And to do it—

       She bit her lip and lowered her head.

       To do it, I must give up everything but my faith. Everything. I barely have any faith left after the life I’ve led. My faith is tinier than a candle flame, so small it could barely warm an ant. I have to give up everything but that tiny flame, and take whatever comes. I must let go of the earth and jump. I must make my leap of faith.

       She smiled again, a small smile. If nothing else, I should remember what Mom used to say to her clients in legal cases: If you didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. I’ve not seen what really happened to my sisters and the rest of them. Despite what that man said, I have no proof that they are dead. I still have a chance to turn this around and save them, if I choose.

       And I so choose. I surrender to God. I can do no more than that.

       She got up, reached over, and carefully picked up the necklace. After inspecting it, she closed her eyes and kissed the bloodstained angel, then put the chain around her own neck so that it hung down inside her yellow prison suit.

       Let them see me do this. Let them think I’m crazy. Reality has gone mad, madder than I could ever be. I will trust in the Lord, for I have no one left to turn to. As was said in that book, A Canticle for Leibowitz: Fiat voluntas tua. Thy will be done.

       She then did something she could not remember ever doing before. She knelt, closed her eyes, bowed her head, and prayed.

       She felt the cold necklace against her bare neck under the jumpsuit, felt the strangeness of trying to communicate with a power she could neither see, hear, or feel. Her lips moved in silence for several minutes. When she was done, she whispered, “Amen,” and hoped it was enough. She then arose from the floor, feeling curiously light and relieved, and drank cold water from the sink, cupping her hands under the faucet and raising them to her lips until she was full. After using the toilet, she washed her hands and face, dried herself with the towel, walked to her bed, and lay down, pulling the single woolen blanket over her. She never once wondered if anyone was watching her. In moments, she was asleep.

       No dreams came.

       When she again awoke, men were at her cell door, opening the lock.

       “Get up!” one called as the men filed in. “It’s Friday morning. You’re heading for Anaconda. Sit up on your bed while we get the restraints on.”

       Daria pushed off the blanket and sat up. It was cold in her cell. She blinked at the overhead lights but was completely alert. The right side of her face was tender and swollen, but her right eye had opened at last. Is today the day it happens?

       The men put the leather restraints on her wrists and ankles again. She looked down and saw that the FBI tracking band was still in place, sending its invisible signal. It doesn’t matter. It cannot stop what is coming. I am free.

       “I’d like to knock her teeth in before we go,” said one of the soldiers, finishing with her leg restraints. “Give her a little something to remember us by.”

       “Not here,” said a man who sounded like he was in charge. He wore sergeant strips on his black armored uniform. “The colonel hates to see women get beaten up. Wait until we get to Anaconda. There’s a rest stop right before the main gate, next to some woods. You can do your partying with her there, for as long as you want. They don’t care what condition she’s in when she gets through the camp gate, but she has to leave here in one piece, and she has to go now.”

       Several men laughed. Others eyed Daria with renewed interest. They were making plans. Looking down in fear, she pressed her legs together and swallowed with a dry, aching throat. I will be brave. I will trust in God.

       “Let’s go,” said the sergeant. He reached down and hauled Daria to her feet by one arm. The top of her head barely reached the chins of most of the men. “Got anything to say before we go, little girl?” he asked. “You ready for a party tonight?”

       After a moment, she looked up. Her face was clear, her brown eyes bright. “I forgive you,” she said, her voice trembling the slightest bit.

       “You forgive me?” said the sergeant, an eyebrow raised. “That’s good to know.”

       She never saw the blow coming. The men carried her out of her cell by her arms while she was doubled over, gasping for air through her dry heaves.

       “She tried to jump one of my men, sir,” said the sergeant with a straight face to the colonel, watching the convoy prepare to leave in the crisp morning air.

       “Right, whatever,” said the colonel tiredly. His breath created a cloud of fog that drifted away. “You’d better get on the road if you’re going to get to Anaconda by nightfall, with all the stops you’ve got to make. Don’t slow down, because we can’t give you air support. Malmstrom’s expecting you before noon. Keep your radios on in case we need to reroute you. The Canucks are putting up a hell of a fight north of here, everywhere we’ve come in.”

       “Yes, sir,” said the man. He gave orders. Daria was dragged to a dark green military vehicle shaped vaguely like an SUV, where she was loaded into the back seat behind a thick wire mesh and plastic window that separated her from the driver and front-seat passenger—a cage car, she heard it called. She was belted in, still in her leather restraints, still coughing and wheezing from the blow to the gut. The cage car was next in line behind the lead vehicle, an old hardtop Humvee with four soldiers equipped with automatic rifles and a machine gun on the roof. The helmeted gunner stood up in the middle, his head and shoulders poking through the hatch behind a long-barrel .50-caliber weapon. The cage car’s two military occupants had only side arms, but behind their car was a line of other vehicles, including three-ton trucks, semis with trailers, long-distance personnel carriers, and fuel tankers.

       By the time Daria had regained her breath, the twelve-vehicle convoy had moved out. She thought at first they would get on the Interstate to Great Falls and Malmstrom, but the convoy instead took a two-lane mountain road, climbing into the forested peaks of the Big Belt Mountains in low gear. She guessed that the Interstate was jammed with civilians fleeing the cities, fearing atomic war. Atomic war was not her concern, however. She was afraid of more immediate things, like what would happen when the convoy came to a halt and the soldiers felt a need for hard recreation.

       Her lips moved. I trust in You, God, whatever happens. I surrender to You. It is the only way to save all that I love. Thy will be done.

       “What the hell did you do to get in this kind of mess, girl?” the front-seat passenger called back to her through the wire mesh, after sliding back the plastic window a couple of inches. The gold bar on his uniform indicated that he was a second lieutenant. The vehicle was relatively quiet, so he didn’t have to shout over the road noise.

       She wasn’t sure how to answer this question. “I don’t know,” she finally said.

       “You don’t know? Damn, that’s one I’ve never heard before.” The officer and the driver chuckled. “You sure about that? You one of them innocents I keep hearing about?”

       “I thought I was,” she replied, trying to breathe in a way that didn’t make her ribcage hurt so much.

       The men laughed again. “What kind of job did you have before you got arrested?” called the driver.

       Daria remember her conversation with Brett Ruttheimer. “I was an undertaker,” she said, finding the word more suitable than funeral home director or mortician.

       “An undertaker?” exclaimed the lieutenant. “You serious? Little thing like you, an undertaker for real? Girl, if you’d just stayed home and cooked for your man and had his babies, and didn’t go messing around with dead people, you wouldn’t be in this fix, let me tell you.”

       There was no answer for that—no answer that was printable, anyway. Daria elected to shrug instead of make a verbal reply. She had no urge to curse these men, anyway. She had forgiven them, too, letting everything go as much as she could. She forgave Jane, Trent, Mrs. Broadbent, and everyone else who had betrayed her, everyone who had hurt her. They got a blank check for a pardon and were out of her life forever.

       “So, let me ask you a question,” called the lieutenant, some minutes later. “You sound like you might be smart or something. Why is this county called Nat-dee-a? Who was Natdia? Was he an explorer with Lewis and Clark or something?”

       “Natdia?” She saw no harm in talking. It helped take her mind off the long party that she had been promised that evening before the convoy pulled into the labor camp. “Natdia is a Native American term,” she said softly. “It’s not a person, it’s a thing. It’s a Northern Piute word.”

       “Piute? You mean Indian? What’s it mean, then?”

       “It means ‘ghost dance.’ The Piute created a special circular dance in the late eighteen-hundreds that they thought would bring the spirits of their ancestors to heal the earth and humanity.” She mulled over the rest of the story, which she had learned shortly after moving to Devil’s Tongue, then decided to tell it anyway. “The spirits were supposed to come and put an end to the dominance of the white men, but not totally destroy them. The earth would swallow up everyone of evil nature, white or otherwise, letting all those who were good take back the renewed earth so they could live in peace.”

       “No shit?” said the lieutenant with interest. “Getting rid of white men would be a pretty tall order these days, wouldn’t it? You believe in that pagan bullshit?”

       “I believe in God,” she said after a reflective pause.

       “That’s good,” said the officer, nodding sagely. “That’s good. You’re probably going to need that, where you’re going.”

       “She’s going to a par-tee!” said the driver, grinning and chewing gum.

       “That’s what I hear,” said the lieutenant. He looked Daria over. “She’s pretty small,” he said with a critical eye. “With the boys we’ve got, though, I don’t know if she’ll go that long. Some of the boys might not get turns.”

       “She’ll go long enough,” said the driver, still grinning. “You’d be surprised, sir, how long some of those small women will last.”

       Shivering, Daria hunched over and looked down at her clasped hands. She then closed her eyes and prayed for strength as hard as she could. It was difficult enough to concentrate given the deep pain in her abdomen where she had been punched, but it was made worse by her rising fear of what would happen later. Psalm 23 came to mind, and she skipped right to the middle: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

       “I don’t know if praying’s going to help,” said the lieutenant, still watching her. “Maybe the line’s busy. Maybe God’s out helping someone who really deserves it, ‘stead of you.”

       “God’s on the side with the biggest guns,” said the driver cheerfully. “That’s us.”

       “That’s what I hear,” said the lieutenant. “Colonel Hightower said he heard we’d dropped a nuke on Ottawa, decapitated the Canadian government.”

       “Serves ‘em right,” said the driver. “Helping out traitors like they did. Fuck ‘em.”

       “Uh, huh. It’ll be a fight, but we’ll pull through.”

       “I don’t see how it’ll be much of a fight,” said the driver. “They don’t even got a real army up there, do they?”

       “They’ve got something up there,” said the lieutenant, settling back in his seat. “Colonel said our boys were having hard going up north. We might have to help out. What’s really worrying him, though, is the goddamn Euros, the French and Russians and Germans and all them, the Brits and everyone. The Euros said they’d go toe-to-toe with us if we ever tried to invade . . . hey, what the hell’s he doing up there?”

       Startled, Daria opened her eyes and looked up. The road was curving to the right around a steep slope. To the left was a sheer drop, with mountains in the distance beyond a great valley; to the right, a crumbling rock cliff that ran straight up. The Humvee with the roof-mounted machine gun, twenty car lengths ahead of them, was slowing down.

       “There’s a bridge just around the mountain, sir,” said the driver. “Maybe it’s out.”

       “Nah,” said the lieutenant. “I know that one. It’d never go out. Must be a rockslide.”

       The cage car came around the bend and into view of a long, two-lane highway bridge spanning a deep, stream-carved rift in the mountainside. The bridge had no superstructure, only a three-foot-high concrete barrier and elevated sidewalk on either side. At the lower end of the bridge, about a quarter of a mile away, was a dark blue midsize car parked diagonally across the middle of the road. Armed figures in dark blue bodysuits stood near the car. One waved a red cloth over his head as he stood in front of the sedan. Daria glanced to the right: a sign on the near end of the span read: MEGIDDO CANYON BRIDGE.

       “Shit, roadblock.” The lieutenant reached down into a satchel between his feet and began rummaging through it. “Got the papers on us and our girl right here. Shouldn’t take but a minute.”

       Daria squinted. Three men were at the far end of the bridge, wearing dark blue outfits and blue baseball caps with white lettering on them. Two of them had assault rifles slung over their shoulders and pistols on their belts. The two looked alike even at a distance. The third man, waving the red cloth in front of the Tauron-X, was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired giant with a submachine gun with a long clip strapped in front and a long, unidentifiable cylinder on his back, looking vaguely like a rocket launcher.

       And getting out of the Tauron-X at that very moment was a figure in a khaki county sheriff’s uniform, with a broad-rimmed sheriff’s hat, mirrored sunglasses, and a large pistol on the right hip. The sheriff’s chest and hips were markedly feminine in shape, and her hair was dark brown, parted in the middle, and shoulder length.

       Amelia.

       Daria’s eyes widened. Glancing at the two soldiers in the front seats, she quickly closed her mouth and tried to control her breathing. She could not look away—but she prayed for the life of her friend, eyes open, as she had never prayed before.

       “Go on, pull up behind the Hummer,” said the lieutenant. “Let’s get through this and get on to Malmstrom. We don’t have all damn day.”

       “No prob,” said the driver, pulling forward. Daria risked a look back through the rear window. The rest of the convoy was moving up as well, until nearly all the vehicles were on the bridge, creeping toward the roadblock. Squealing air brakes, rumbling engines, and honking truck horns echoed from the mountainsides.

       “Why aren’t they using the radio?” asked the driver.

       “Snipers, I bet,” said the lieutenant. “Some of them snipers got military radios with scramblers. The colonel told me about ‘em. If these fellas are maintaining radio silence, there might be snipers way up ahead. I’ll ask.”

       “Think they’d like to go to the party with us, sir?” asked the driver, grinning again.

       “Nah, I wouldn’t ask. They’re FBI. Look at their caps. I don’t think they’ve got a sense of humor.”

       The lead Humvee creaked to a stop before the dark car blocking the road. The driver got out and walked forward, carrying a handful of papers. The twin FBI agents casually waved and carried on a private conversation, hands rising along the straps across their chests. The heavy-set FBI man with the red cloth went to the Humvee driver and began checking the papers, one by one, while the driver took out a cigarette. Someone far behind the cage car shouted, “What’s the holdup?”

       The female sheriff strolled past the lead vehicle. She was walking toward the cage car, looking through the windshield at Daria. Amelia’s face hardened as she approached, her jaw muscles rippling with tension. Daria tried to sit upright. She stopped praying and thought only of her breathing. Her heart pounded in her ears.

       “Howdy,” said Amelia in a pleasant voice. She took off her mirrored sunglasses and stuck them in a shirt pocket. Her cold gaze took in Daria’s battered face and restraints, then settled again on the two men in front. “We’re doing a spot check for terrorists, won’t take long. I’ll need to see your I.D.s and papers.”

       “Right here, officer,” said the lieutenant. He handed them over across the driver’s chest toward the rolled-down window. “Can’t imagine we look much like ter—”

       Gunshots chattered from immediately in front of the vehicle. Daria looked through the cage car’s windshield as the driver of the Humvee fell backward, arms flailing, and hit the asphalt. The heavyset FBI agent then took a step forward and turned his submachine gun on the Hummer, spraying ammo back and forth through an open window into the interior, smoke and fire flashing from the barrel. The back window of the Hummer blew out in a thousand pieces. Someone threw open a door and tried to get out of the right side of the Hummer, but red mist erupted from his chest and back as bullets went through his jerking body and ricocheted off the concrete wall behind.

       Fuck!” yelled the lieutenant, pulling back. “Get—”

       Amelia’s gun went off at point-blank range in the cage-car window. Deafened, Daria saw the driver’s head snap to one side, the right half of his head and the contents of his skull spewed over the panicking lieutenant. Amelia then crouched low and fired again with both hands on her black .45. The lieutenant’s face burst into a red fountain as he was flung backward against his car door, the window behind his head exploding outward. A thousand streams of blood ran down the inside of the windshield and the plastic shield between Daria and the front seat.

       Daria was hardly aware she was screaming. Automatic gunfire erupted in front of her and behind her.

       The driver’s door was thrown open. Amelia reached across the almost headless driver and hit a button on the dashboard. Even through the deafening whine in her ears, Daria heard the doors on either side of her unlock. Amelia was out of the car and opening the left rear door in a second, cold air rolling in with her. “Get the fuck down!” she shouted, shoving Daria flat on the seat. Amelia climbed on top of her, hands struggling with the seat belt. “Keep your fucking head down and stop screaming, God damn it!

       “Amelia!” Daria cried. “Be careful!”

       Fuck that!” Amelia threw the unlatched seatbelt aside and tried to pull Daria sideways out of the car. Then Amelia emitted a loud “Oof!” and fell to one side, hitting the open car door and dropping flat to the road. Her hat was knocked off.

       No! This wasn’t supposed to happen! Still tied up, Daria inch-wormed her way out of the car. The two-foot-wide ankle restraints tripped her up, and she fell flat beside her friend. A cold mountain wind bit through her prison garb, but she hardly noticed.

       Amelia’s face was contorted in pain. “Fucking hell!” she gasped, curled up and clutching her stomach. “I’ve been shot!”

       Despite the restraints and the surrounding gunfire, Daria got up on her knees, grabbed Amelia by the shirt, and hauled her bodily around the open car door until they were in front of the stalled cage car. Daria had the vague idea she shouldn’t have been able to do any of that, as she was small and not particularly muscular, but she put it down to hysterical strength and let it go. She thought she was hysterical enough to do it, with bullets ricocheted from concrete and asphalt and metal all around her. Soldiers farther back in the convoy screamed in pain for medical help.

       “It fucking hurts!” Amelia groaned, her hands soaked in her own blood as she tried to cover the stomach wound. “Goddamn fucking hurts!

       “I’m with you!” Daria told her, unaware that she was yelling. She had no idea what to do, and it was killing her to be so helpless. “I’m with you, Amelia!”

       “I’m scared!” Amelia was trying not to cry. Blood soaked through her clothing across her abdomen and through the back of her shirt. “I don’t want to die!”

       “You’re not going to die! I’m not going to let you!”

       Amelia’s eyes closed. “Hurts so much,” she said through gritted teeth. “I love you. I had to . . . I had to come back for—”

       A flash of light went by Daria on her right, up the unused lane of the bridge. With it was a hissing sound like a rocket’s exhaust. Daria saw it and turned to look, remembering Robert’s weapon. Less than a second later, a vast orange fireball erupted from far back in the convoy. A spinning tanker trailer flew up into the air, enlarging the fireball three times over with the giant blowtorch of gasoline spilling from one end of it. The explosion’s thunderclap was nothing compared to the face-searing heat that followed. Daria ducked her head and covered Amelia as best she could with her own body. Burning metallic debris rained down everywhere, along with human body parts. The air reeked of burning fuel. Demonic screams ran out and echoed around them as men were roasted alive.

       “What . . . what happened?” gasped Amelia. She shuddered, her eyes closing again. “Daria,” she whispered. “Daria, I’m—”

       The rumbling of a three-ton truck washed out everything else Amelia tried to say. The military truck roared past Daria and Amelia in the open lane of the road, moving at high speed for the roadblock ahead. A moment later came a loud crash noise, followed by a low whoomp! and another light and heat flash. Daria looked behind her. The military truck had hit the Tauron-X, and one of the two had blown up. A gasoline-fed fireball enveloped the front of the truck and the Tauron-X as well. Daria saw no sign of the two Ruttheimers or Robert, only the dead from the Humvee.

       Then she realized that the new explosion had completely blocked off her nearest escape route from the bridge, with fire and wreckage. She looked back up the bridge toward the convoy. A sea of flaming gasoline was rolling downslope through the packed line of military vehicles. Fire and black smoke swallowed up everything in its path like lava, even as men tried to flee from it.

       We’re going to burn to death here. There’s no escape.

       Daria grabbed Amelia’s shirt and fought to haul her to her feet, but Amelia was unresponsive. The best Daria could do was to drag her friend sideways toward the concrete barrier, away from the cage car. She stood up to do it, hampered by her short ankle restraints, but no one was shooting anymore. Only a few screams could be heard from the convoy. Everyone in the vehicles nearest Daria lay on the ground, half out of the doors, or sprawled against the seats, the front and side windows of their vehicles shot out in dozens of places.

       At the yard-high concrete barrier, Daria looked over the side. The slope fell away toward a dry, rocky creek bed hundreds of feet below her. She looked upslope and saw that the rolling sea of flames would be on her in seconds.

       In the space of a moment, she remembered September 11th again: the burning tower, the long fall, the unforgiving end. She remembered the choice the woman had made, to burn or jump, the woman who died in front of her and thereby changed Daria’s life forever.

       I’ve come full circle. It’s my turn now. Thy will be done.

       With all the strength she had left in her, Daria pulled Amelia’s sagging body up against her chest by her shirt collar. She put her spine to the barrier and leaned backward, pulling Amelia with her as she went over the edge and into space.

       It was a long way down, the universe whirling end over end in a face-blasting free fall. It was impossible not to scream. It seemed to last forever.

       But it didn’t.

 

 

 

 

Thirteen

 

 

       As you have believed, let it be done for you.

       A door was before her. She pulled the golden key from her pocket, slid it into the keyhole (it fit perfectly), and turned it. The lock opened. The door swung wide. Though there was only darkness beyond it, she went through.

       Her left eye opened as the vision ceased, but her right eye did not. She did not remember right away who she was or what had happened, as thinking was very difficult, but with time she remembered her name and her past and the bridge and the fall. The bridge itself was at the edge of her field of vision, far above her. No sensation could be felt from any part of her body, which was not a good omen. Neither was the invisible presence she soon became aware of, hovering unseen above her left ear. Time to go, whispered the presence. It is time to go.

       Not yet, she thought, making herself turn away from the summons and focus on what she knew to be real. She lay on her back, her head turned to the right, at the bottom of a rocky ravine. Dirt and bits of gravel covered what little of her body she could see: the end of her nose and part of her outstretched right arm, the bloodied palm turned up to the sky. Someone else was sprawled just out of reach within her field of vision: this other person lay face down without moving in a dirty khaki uniform, her face hidden by her dust-filled, shoulder-length hair.

       Amelia.

       No.

       Even as her despair ignited, she fought it, smothered it, hurled it away—and into her head flew the word Capernum. It was strange that now of all times she would remember the centurion of Capernum, who asked Jesus of Nazareth to heal his servant with but a single word, because his faith was so great he knew only Jesus could do it.

       She tried to speak, to ask God to say the word and heal Amelia, but she could not move her lips. Only her eye could move, and even that ability was fading. The whisper of the presence above her grew more insistent with each passing moment. Her ability to resist was eroding fast. She had only moments left in which to act.

       Thy will be done. she thought, knowing only God would hear her plea. Thy will be done, and all my loved ones will be healed.

       There was silence for the space of one long second.

       As you have believed, let it be done for you, a Voice replied.

       Amelia groaned and stirred. Her arms twitched and jerked convulsively, then pulled forward as she pushed herself up on her elbows, spit gravel from her mouth, and stared groggily at her dust-caked hands. “What the fuck?” she muttered, then got up on her knees to examine her uniform around her abdomen, searching for a nonexistent gunshot injury. She then craned her neck and looked straight up at the highway bridge hundreds of feet above. Thick black smoke still rolled from most of its length, drifting away on a cold wind. Her mouth fell open in disbelief. Bewildered, Amelia lowered her head to gaze at her immediate environment—

       —and she saw Daria. Her face went white. “No!” she screamed as she scrambled over the rocks to crouch beside her best friend, filling Daria’s field of vision. “Daria! DARIA!

       Good to see you, too, Daria thought, her heart filling with joy. Glad you could make it.

       She then heard more people coming and looked in the direction of the noise, beyond Amelia. Crying out her name, Quinn and Veronica were hurling at breakneck speed toward her, descending the rocky slope of the dry ravine while dodging boulders and jumping over tree limbs, stirring up great clouds of dust as they ran. Bob and Phoebe Lawless, Robert Korleski, and Brett and Brad Ruttheimer were right behind them. Quinn and all the men carried assault rifles and wore ammunition pouches on their belts. Their worried faces were smudged with dirt and streaked with mud from their sweat.

       They had all survived, everyone she had loved. How that was possible, she couldn’t imagine. The obese Upchuck was doubtless around, locked in a car so he would be safe from predators until the others returned. Her leap of faith had worked.

       Alive, she sang in her thoughts. My family and friends are alive. Glory to God in the highest, glory to You forever—and thank you, dearest God, from my heart and soul. I thank you. Her relief reached a crescendo and filled her with the greatest joy she had ever known or imagined. For a moment she felt very close to the Infinite.

       Then the moment passed. The joy, though bright, began to fade. She could hold out no longer against the adamant prodding of Death. Even as her sisters reached her and knelt over her and washed her with their tears, she let go of the world. Her left eye closed. She leaped into the darkness.

       It is finished.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

       Darkness, darkness all about . . . and then out of the darkness appeared a light that grew as Daria rushed toward it at impossible speed. Within the field of unimaginable light stood a lone figure. She spread her arms to greet him. They became one in space.

       “Hey, kiddo,” said her father. His arms were warm around her.

       “I’ve missed you, Dad,” whispered Daria. “I’ve missed you so much.”

       “I’ve missed you, too . . . but you won’t be with me long, you know.”

       “Huh?” Daria looked up. “What?”

       Her father beamed at her. He looked like the man Jake Morgendorffer could have and should have been, freed of his inner torments, self-doubt, and rage. “It’s not your time,” he explained softly. “In a few moments, you’ll have to go back.”

       “Go back?” she said, surprised. “But Death said—”

       Her father chuckled and waved it away. “Death says a lot of things. He’s worse than my father was, bless his heart. Ignore him. You have lots left to do. They’ll need you back there soon, before the new world comes.”

       Daria looked up at him, wordless.

       “Everyone who survives the transition to the new world will need you,” her father explained. “The old world is dying. The final war has started. Atomic weapons have been loosed, and times will be hard for those you love. They’ll need you to see them through so they make it to the new world—and I need you, too, to take care of my children, your sisters.” Her father stroked her hair. “You’ll come back to see me again one day, but not now. I’ll wait for you, Daria, however long it takes. I’ll always be here for you.”

       “But why me?” asked Daria. It was not a complaint, only surprise that it was her of all people her father was counting on.

       “Because you can do it.” He grinned. “It’s why I gave you the chance for that miracle. I knew your faith would be strong enough to make it happen. If anyone could do it, I knew it would be you. You’ve never let me down.”

       She felt his arms tighten around her. “Thank you,” she murmured, and laid her head against his chest.

       “You’re welcome,” said her father. He cleared his throat. “Oh, and by the way, kiddo, remember that they’re going to be a little taken aback when you get up in the bloom of good health, given the condition your body is in at the moment. Be careful with them at first. It might take a while for them to get used to you, if you get my drift.”

       “Sure.”

       “Oh, uh, and I forgot to mention that when you return, you’ll have the power to heal any injury or illness just by touching whoever is hurt. I don’t think your loved ones will be able to manage for long without that, so, um, there it is. You might try it on Quinn first, because of her face. That would be a good start. On the downside, I’m afraid that’s going to be something else that everyone will need time to get used to, on top of everything else. It can’t be helped, though.”

       “Okay. Thank you for that, too.”

       “Oh, and one more thing—”

       “I don’t think I need to walk on water, Dad.”

       “What? Oh! No, that wasn’t it. I was going to say that everyone will probably tell you some long weird story about how they survived running into that Army roadblock, and how they tricked the Army into believing they were dead so they wouldn’t be followed, and how they tracked you down using signals from that FBI band on your foot and listened in to radio messages to set up the ambush, et cetera, et cetera. Don’t take anything they say about that too seriously, okay? The reality is kind of cobbled together, still has some rough edges. It was the best I could do. Never look at miracles too closely. Just a bit of advice for the future.”

       “I understand. Thank you, Dad.”

       “That’s my Daria.”

       She gave him one last hug. “Goodbye.”

       “Goodbye,” he said, “for now.”

       And then the light rushed away, and she was falling once again.

       This time, however, she was not afraid. There were sisters and friends to hold, a marmot to feed, a new world to create, and a message for all who made it through.

       Love one another.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Notes II: In May 2005, Brother Grimace challenged me to write a fanfic with certain conditions, namely:

 

  1. Daria and Jane both discover love and have to be happy at the end of the fic;
  2. No deaths, destruction, or scything insanity amongst the innocent townspeople was allowed; and
  3. There had to be a cuddly animal of some type involved which could not be harmed or killed.

 

I struggled with his conditions, but in the end wound up bending some a tiny little bit in order to let the story go where it was going. Some readers anticipated this might happen (TerraEsperZ among them). Anyway, I began writing in mid-June and finished at the end of July.

       “Darkness” was not my first wandering into blasphemous fanfic. I think “The Morgendorffer Code” (and its follow-on, “Illusions”) was first, and then “Deus Jane.” I figured after making Jane God, the least I could do for Daria was make her the Messiah.
       The current year in the story is about 2017, which I like because it was the year used in a unique SF episode of the old TV show, Run for Your Life. The unusual episode was set in Los Angeles in 2017, as a dream sequence. I have used the general series chronology set forth by Richard Lobinske in his most excellent essay, “The Daria Temporal Analysis Project,” assuming Daria was born in 1981 and graduated high school in 2000. See the essay here:

 

http://www.outpost-daria.com/essay/rl_daria_temporal_analysis_project.html

 

       The dream Daria has at the beginning is partially based on Daria and Jake’s internal musings on the airplane in “Of Human Bonding.” The matching of Quinn with Jamie White paid homage to the same linking in Daria’s story in “Write Where It Hurts.”

       The inclusion of a dreadful Daria/Trent relationship was partly inspired by Kristen Bealer, who made a comment about Daria/Trent shipper stories that stuck in my mind. She was talking about the last chapter in “Potential” and said, on March 17, 2004, “Eh, I liked it. Partly because I’m sick to death of ‘Trent, the man who can do no wrong’ stories.” I thought if other people felt like that, too, I should do something with it.

       Robert Nowall was the original creator of Veronica, the “youngest sister” of Daria and Quinn, in a story begun in a post dating from February 5, 2004 (“Another story idea dumped here...”). February 5th is hereby declared Veronica’s birthday.
       C. E. Forman must be credited for starting the use of Marie as Daria’s middle name in his fanfiction. It is derived from the Hebrew word for “bitterness.” Perfect.
       The third-season Daria episode, “It Happened One Nut,” features the career aptitude test that pegged Daria as a future mortician. I could hardly resist.
       Brett and Brad Ruttheimer appeared in the episode, “Daria Dance Party,” and Amelia appeared in “Camp Fear.” Much of Daria’s relationship with Amelia is directly spun off from events in that fifth-season episode. Robert (last name invented by me) was featured in a number of episodes and had a very brief date with Daria in “The New Kid.”

       Daria Lane’s address (County Road L, Box 513) refers to Lawndale (L) and the final episode of “Daria” (#513). I use this number frequently in stories to indicate something very bad is (possibly) going to happen.
       Natdia County, Montana, does not exist as such. It is actually the southeastern corner of Lewis and Clark County, where the capital Helena is. The Missouri River and its lakes form the western boundary of Natdia County, with Cascade, Meagher, and Broadwater Counties to the north, east, and south. Devil’s Tongue, the county seat, also does not exist, but the flowering cactus for which it is named does. The town supposedly lies west of the foothills of the Big Belt Mountains (and Helena National Forest) and east of Highway 264. The Devil’s Tongue cactus was perfect as a metaphor for Daria, too, so it became the seat of Natdia County.

       It’s obvious that the Montana cabin fund mentioned in the The Daria Database had something to do with this tale. James “CINCGREEN” Bowman asked about this in an editorial he did in the Daria Fandom Blog entry for May 1, 2005, “Serials with Roasted Nuts,” which got me to thinking about it. I thought there was an Iron Chef about this once, but I cannot find it.

       Council President H. C. Tristain and Councilman Seth Atbe are anagrams for “Anti-Christ” and “The Beast,” respectively. Both America and the rest of the world were developing in parallel as Antichrist political systems.
       “Work Shall Make You Free” (Arbeit Macht Frei) is the inscription on the iron gates of the Dachau concentration camp, which I personally saw in mid-1979 on a tour of Munich while in the Army. For more, see:

 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arbeit_macht_frei

 

 

Some Philosophical Digressions: Several themes kept after me while writing the story.

 

  1. Violence begets violence. (“Blood calls for blood,” I think they say in the former Yugoslavia.) Daria’s entire life changes after she attacks Trent, whether he deserved it or not, and what she did to him is done to her in turn as a consequence of his revenge.
  2. Redemption comes only through suffering. You cannot be redeemed without repenting for your sins and crimes in full and fixing them. You have to hit bottom.
  3. Impossible situations can only be resolved by doing the impossible.

 

       Several readers asked why a supernatural ending was necessary. The point of the story was to put Daria in an impossible situation from which only the supernatural would allow the rescue of her dead loved ones. The rescue had to be logical, however, within the context of the story and its background, and given the parallels being drawn between the world’s situation and the Apocalypse of the Book of Revelation, the story of the centurion of Capernum was the perfect way out. Daria could get only so far on her intellect; to go further, she had to let go and have faith. It’s supernatural, but in a Biblical sense, only that will work.

       Daria has no hope in the future and believes she is powerless to change anything on a greater level than she can reach—and sometimes (as with Trent) not even then. Her quest for greater spirituality has stagnated. She is the Hanging Man of the Tarot, waiting for the proper circumstances for transformation. I wanted to paint Daria into a corner and see how she would escape it, in a Daria kind of way.
       The story mixed the Apocalypse with the Passion and Crucifixion of Jesus, which is why so much angst and dreadful stuff was present. (If it was good enough for Mel Gibson, it was good enough for me.) There was the Last Supper with Amelia (last cup of tea, maybe), the betrayal by Trent (Judas), the scourging by the Christian American army and interrogators, and other similarities, mixed up with the specifics of Revelation at the same time. I had no impulse to make Daria’s story exactly the same that of Jesus; hers is a different tale altogether with pronounced parallels, as best as could be brought out.
       Revelation 13:17 was helpful (“And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name”). Daria uses this very system to buy things at the market, even though the U.S. government claims only other nations use it. The “Mark” here becomes certain physical characteristics used by an accounting system to identify individuals without fail, which is also the system used by the federal government to ID people without fail, sort of like a Social Security Number combined with fingerprints and DNA code.

       I liked the parallels with Jake as Daria’s father and God as Jesus’ father. I left it vague on purpose so there’s some question as to whom Daria is really speaking with at the end, perhaps both Jake and God at the same time. Also, I had meant for the FBI agents to survive on their own (Daria did not see them before she made her leap of faith), and only those she believed were dead were resurrected. I could make that clearer, but as Jake says at the end, it’s best not to look too closely at miracles.

       The “falling” aspect of the tale was entirely based on the horrible choice given those trapped in the upper stories of the WTC towers, to burn alive or jump to their deaths. I thought of the phrase “fallen angel,” too, but it didn’t apply as well. Daria’s life changes dramatically on 9/11/01; she comes full circle at the end of the tale, taking the place of the woman who died at her feet, but being resurrected instead. She has worked with the dead all her adult life as a way of healing herself, trying to recover from the psychic trauma she suffered on 9/11; in dying, she is finally healed.

 

Acknowledgements II: First of all, thanks to Brother Grimace for his inspiration, without which this story would have never been told. Thank you, BG! FireWalkWithMe also found missing words in the online version, which I fixed (I hope).

       Considerable research was accomplished using the Internet to flesh out my knowledge of funeral directors; 9/11; hoary marmots; the extreme Christian right and its goals; church and state political issues; the Big Belt Mountains and Lewis & Clark County, Montana; Christianity in works of fiction; old Daria episodes (especially “The New Kid,” “Daria Dance Party,” and “Camp Fear”); torture and police brutality in various countries (including here, sorry to say); ICBM bases; and more. Thanks, Internet!

       Thanks also go to the popular Left Behind series and radical Christian fundamentalism, which provided me with material to which this tale could respond. Minor bits were also added referring to post-nuclear works by Harlan Ellison (A Boy and His Dog), Nevil Shute (On the Beach), and Walter M. Miller Jr. (A Canticle for Leibowitz). Look for the part where Daria sees a short film clip of “a boy and his dog on the beach” on the TV in the market. George Orwell’s 1984, which is echoed extensively here (“Jesus Is Watching You”), is a post-atomic war setting.

       Numerous Iron Chefs and similar challenges had a pronounced effect on the development of the story. The relevant influences follow in chronological order.


bower of bliss (09/07/03): Write a story that has a minor character in a major role and doesn’t deviate from their cannon personalities, with Daria in a subplot. Minor characters to choose from are: Brad Ruttheimer, Brett Ruttheimer, the cowboy Travis, Ethan Yeager, Brooke, Alison, Amelia, and Lesley DeWitt. (While this tale is not completely faithful to this, the challenge did inspire the use of Amelia and the Ruttheimer twins.)

Mahna Mahna (09/26/04): Write a story that shows what would’ve happened if Jane and Daria hadn’t ditched the Ruttheimer twins, Brett and Brad, during “Daria Dance Party,” or a story in which the girls run into the twins later on. (I used the latter option, but only Daria met the twins.)


The Angst Guy (01/19/05): Write a story in which Daria has a different best friend. (My own challenge came back in a different form. This story is not an alternate universe, except for the presence of Natdia County and Devil’s Tongue. It is supposed to be a possible future in the Dariaverse.)

Roentgen (03/01/05): Write a Daria/Trent shipper in which Daria is the one who changes in order to make the relationship work. (And so she does, here ignoring the problems they have until it is too late.)

Dr. Mike (03/30/05): Write a commercial featuring Daria or someone else from the show. (This became Daria’s TV commercial for her funeral home.)

 

Bubba-Ho-Tep (04/23/05): Write a story in which Daria and Jane part ways permanently. Tom Sloane cannot be the cause of the parting. (Jane’s dumped Daria loads of times for a boyfriend. What if she met Mister Right? Daria could be history, and it’s entirely part of the show, as Jane does come from a very unreliable family background.)


Ben Breeck (05/02/05): Write a story about Daria’s half-siblings on Jake’s side of the family. (This would be Veronica.)

E. A. Smith (05/05/05) Write a fanfic about a post-college interview for Daria. The twist is that, since she graduated from Raft, things haven’t been going well, and she’s running out of options. She’s interviewing for a job she needs desperately, but she sees this particular occupation as “selling out.” (Daria’s interview was conducted by Amelia by phone, for the position of deputy coroner for Natdia County.)

atimnie (05/07/05): Write a fic featuring the Fashion Club, in which Sandi becomes anorexic, Tiffany becomes fat, Quinn becomes disfigured, and Stacy defeats Daria in a battle of wits. (Only the Quinn part was used here.)


One other person was responsible for several other influences, since I tend to save certain Iron Chef threads on PPMB and reread them constantly for ideas. Ms. Lee, later Ms. Kinnikufan, contributed the following ideas.

(03/15/03): Write a story about the characters and how religion factors into their lives. (Religion is a core issue in this particular tale.)


(06/16/03): Write a story in which a Daria character loses something, major or minor, material or abstract. (Daria lost her baby with Trent.)

(06/20/03): Write a story in which a Daria character finds themselves in the “shoes” of another character. (Daria finds herself in her mother’s shoes, being the breadwinner of a family but with a difficult husband.)


(09/23/03): Write a story in which a Daria character is OOC (out of character), but not because of romance or drugs. (Daria is acting OOC here because she is now an adult with great responsibilities, though she’s also much the same person she was as a teenager: cynical and world-weary.)

Thank you all for reading!

 

 

 

 

Original: 06/06/05-07/30/05, modified 06/17/06, 09/23/06, 05/29/07, 07/26/08

 

FINIS