Provocation Page 5

  I consider him, round-eyed. “What can we do?”

  “It’s already being done. You’re not the first one to ask questions. I expect even Dempsey won’t be able to contain the news of his trial once the investigation concludes.”

  My eyes bug out farther. “Really? He’s going to trial?”

  “You can count on it. Representative Poletti was instrumental in assembling an independent fact-finding body that has been investigating both the disappearances and Dempsey’s role in them. As I understand, there’s enough evidence to impeach him.”

  I have to blink before my eyeballs pop out. The world has been shifting beneath my feet, but I have only just now become aware of it. I’m struggling to keep up. “What do you think of Michael Poletti?” I ask.

  “I think he has intelligence, the guts to get things done, and the ability to make people follow him.”

  “You don’t think his ideas are too extreme?”

  “Not under the circumstances. And not with the oversight of a committee such as he proposes. It’s going to take a concentration of power to stop whatever this is, and Michael’s getting some solid backing. Senator Burghardt, for one. And, of course, Representative Macron.”

  I’m familiar with Constance Burghardt. A veteran politician, she’s been in Congress longer than I’ve been alive. But the other name is one I’ve never heard. “Who’s Macron?”

  “Andromeda Macron, a freshman Congresswoman. She’s young, pretty, and—ahem—taking up with Poletti, if you know what I mean. But she’s intelligent. An Ivy League lawyer.”

  “Would you be comfortable giving additional powers to Mr. Poletti’s committee?”

  “Absolutely. This is a temporary assumption of power. Once the crisis is under control, it will revert back to the people. These are good people we’re talking about, and the Republic follows a long tradition of freedom and democracy. We have more to fear from whatever is attacking us than whatever means we employ to stop it.”

  I nod thoughtfully. This downpour of information has given me hope for the country’s future, but none of it helps me solve my more immediate problem. “Mr. Sutherland, what should I do about Ruby?”

  Lowell sighs, and his shoulders slump forward. “I don’t know, Opal. I’ve heard of very few happy endings. You have more evidence than most. If you haven’t found her after two weeks of searching, perhaps it’s time to face the possibility that she’s not coming back.”

  ***

  The discussion with Lowell leaves me utterly defeated. I spend the night at his house, and in the morning, Neve drives me home. The day is as hot as any we ever experience this far north. We find Granddad sitting on the porch with a glass of lemonade in his hand and an electric fan pointed squarely at his face. He doesn’t say anything about my long absence. He just rises, holds me tight, and murmurs, “I’ve missed you, child.”

  Neve senses that this is poor timing for a visit. She stays only a few minutes, extending her condolences and asking after Granddad’s health. When she drives away, I drop into the chair beside my grandfather, and he angles the fan so the moving air catches us both. I have to face the fact that from here on out, it’s just me and him.

  Tears spring to my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Granddad.” Sorry I drove Ruby away. Sorry I’ve left you alone for so long. Sorry I couldn’t find her. But my throat closes after the first sentence, and I can’t push the rest of them out.

  He seems to catch all my apologies. He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Are you ready now to lay this to rest?”

  I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. It takes all the willpower I can summon to nod my head yes.

  ***

  We don’t hold an actual memorial, but the service Sunday morning sure feels like one. Most of the townspeople are members of the Episcopal church I’ve attended all my life, and many of them extend their condolences to me after the sermon. Their words are intended to comfort, but they remind me all too forcefully that Ruby’s promising life was…disrupted…far too soon. Without a body, I can’t completely close the door on hope, but there’s a definite sense of loss. Georgina glares at me through the entire service. She has not forgiven me any more than I have forgiven myself.

  Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael attend the service and hug me afterward. Mr. Carmichael’s face is haggard as he tells me, “I’m so sorry for your loss Ruby. I—” He chokes off. Tears well in his eyes, and I realize he and his wife are enduring the same torment as me and Granddad, only theirs is accompanied by shame.

  I touch his arm. “I know. And I’m sorry for yours.”

  I catch sight of Billy watching me across the churchyard. Though I long for the sturdy embrace that has borne me up so many times before, I manage to avoid him. The memory of our first kiss has become so tainted with guilt that I can’t even revert back to our long friendship. Ruby’s absence and the part I played in it are still too raw.

  Life in Tidbury soon resumes its usual cadence. I return to the cannery and the weeks of summer tick off, measured by long workdays, evening meals with Granddad, Saturday chores, and Sunday services. But it brings no closure. I just can’t reconcile my brain to the evidence, so I find myself dwelling on possible scenarios in which Ruby might be alive. I wake suddenly in the middle of the night. I monitor local websites for other leads. And despite his attempts to draw me out, I keep Billy at arm’s length.

  The president’s trial begins early in October. Granddad and I begin watching a recap of the days’ proceedings on my tablet each evening. Aged and bleary-eyed, President Dempsey appears overwhelmed by the charges levied against him. He certainly doesn’t look like a man involved in crimes against the Republic.

  “You know, I almost feel sorry for the fellow,” Granddad says.

  My heart hardens. “How can you, Granddad?” I have told him Lowell’s suspicions. And over the course of the summer, the disappearances have only increased, shifting completely from students to adults. “He’s behind the loss of so many thousands.”

  Granddad gives me a hard look. “Last I knew, a man was still innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Even if he isn’t directly at fault, he’s still responsible indirectly. He had the authority to investigate, to crack down, to bring this to an end, yet he did nothing. And the economy’s in worse shape than I’ve ever seen it,” I add for good measure.

  The workforce has taken a massive hit. We’ve lost professionals faster than they can be replaced. Companies have closed. Services people take for granted—garbage removal, fire departments, and medical care—have become much harder to procure. The shortages have the whole nation clamoring for the president’s removal.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Granddad says, and I know he’s thinking of the war, back when he was a young man. But I don’t want to grant the president any leniency. I guess I just need someone to blame. And as the evidence stacks against the president, even Granddad’s objectivity starts to crumble.

  I click off my tablet in disgust after a full evening of testimony and stomp out to the porch to vent some of my anger. The sun has already set, masking the deep reds and yellows of the woods, but I don’t need light to find my way to the shore. I pick my way through the growth of bayberries and seat myself on a rock worn smooth by the motion of the waves. The tide is coming in, but my seat should remain dry for another hour, judging by the sound of the breakers. I can see them faintly, twenty yards out, curling white in the weak moonlight.

  The rhythm of the waves has always soothed me. Even as a young child, I would come out here on summer evenings just to listen to its endless cadence. More than once, Granddad had to carry me inside after I fell asleep on some rocky bed. I especially love the roar of a sea angered by a taunting wind. But tonight the waves are gentle. Mellow. Whispered reminders of happier days.

  I tuck my jacket more snugly around myself. The air is crisp with the taste of frost. It won’t be long before another northern winter freezes Tidbury in its grip. Long before the tide laps at my feet, my chair works its c
hill into my bones. I am preparing to rise when I startle at the sound of my name.

  “Opal?”

  It’s Billy.

  “Your Granddad told me where to find you. He thought you might want this.” He holds up a blanket. I drape it over my shoulders and tuck the end under my rear.

  Billy sits beside me, and for a moment it feels like old times as we watch the surf roll in. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

  “I haven’t felt much like socializing.”

  He crosses an ankle over his opposite knee in a figure four and leans back on his hands. I study his profile in the darkness. Straight nose, firm jaw, hair swept back off a high brow. “I miss Ruby too. She was a great girl with a sweet spirit. But you are not to blame for her disappearance. You know that, right?”

  I shift uncomfortably, and he turns his eyes on me. “You do know that, don’t you, Opal?”

  My guilt swells until my chest feels like a pressure chamber. The words burst out of me. “If I hadn’t given in to your kiss, she never would have stormed off like that.”

  “No, she wouldn’t have. But the foreknowledge to predict something like this is beyond human ability. We can’t plan our lives around every obscure and unlikely event our actions might prompt. And we can’t blame ourselves for things that happen outside our control.”

  I shake my head, refusing to listen. “She wouldn’t have run,” I whisper. “She would be safe at home right now.”

  “How do you know that? The same string of events could just as easily have happened on the day I planned to break up with her. Or she might have been hit by a truck on her way into town. You just don’t know. Life is too unpredictable. This is not your fault.”

  He twists on the rock so his whole body is facing me, his eyes blazing into mine in the moonlight. “You cannot shut yourself away for the rest of your life because tragedy struck. You are still alive. You need to live life. Opal, give yourself permission to think of yourself for once.”

  I wrap my blanket more snugly around myself. “I can’t.”

  He grips my shoulders with both hands. “Opal, do you love me?”

  I squirm again, avoiding his eyes. “If I were to answer that truthfully, it would feel like betraying Ruby all over again.”

  “Ruby would have soon realized that we were a terrible match. And when she reached that point, do you think she would have wanted you to deny yourself a chance at happiness? Opal, if Ruby had been totally honest with herself, she would have been apologizing to you.”

  I duck my head and hunch my shoulders, unwilling to listen any longer. I recognize that everything he has said is true. But his words don’t make the leap from my head to my heart. That gulf is still too wide.

  Billy drops his hands with a miserable sigh. “I can wait for your affection. But please, please don’t cut off your friendship.”

  He kisses my forehead and leaves me there on the rock. I listen to his footsteps fade away and soon see the beam of headlights cut across the dark sky as he pulls out of the drive. The same sense of loneliness that gripped me outside the restaurant in Bedford claims me again.

  Slowly, I pick my way back to the porch. I haven’t cried since Ruby disappeared. For weeks I’ve felt like she might walk in the door at any moment, throw her belongings on the floor for me to pick up, and give me one of her irresistible grins. It’s not like when Mom and Dad died. When their bodies were laid out in the funeral home and then buried in the ground. Ruby has simply been away. Now, Billy’s admonition to live has left me with a strong and terrible sense that Ruby has indeed died. That she’s not coming back. That the hole she left in our house—in my heart—will never again be filled.

  Granddad’s snores fill the kitchen. I retire to the room I shared with her and sob until exhaustion carries me over the brink of unconsciousness.

  ***

  “…and in other news, Representative Poletti and his Ubercommittee have implemented yet another policy change. Curfews will now be enforced in communities across the nation, beginning an hour after sundown.” The voice of the male deejay breaks into my stream of Christmas music as I roll the dough out for a pumpkin pie. “How do you feel about that, Dinah? It’s rather a lot to take in, following last month’s fuel and travel restrictions. And with Christmas less than three weeks away. Do you think folks will grumble?”

  “I don’t think we have any grounds for complaint,” a woman answers. “With the number of missing in the tens of thousands, I’m just glad somebody is finally taking the initiative to do something about it.”

  “I think most of the city agrees with you,” the man says. “They might even say the government still isn’t doing enough…”

  I tune them out. The station beams in from the Odessa where shortages of food and medical care have taken a heavy toll on the population. But here in Tidbury we’ve lost far fewer people, and we feel the changes less intensely. We aren’t accustomed to luxuries. We seldom travel far. And even if we can’t always procure things like soap or bread, we always have fish and the produce grown in our gardens. The curfew will hardly affect us either. Main Street always closes down early. The only time I heard any serious complaining was after the Ubercommittee created a national paramilitary police force to augment local law enforcement. Greencoats, we call them. Folks didn’t much like the idea of the federal government itself raising a private army. But the protests died down when the force submitted to local law agencies. Now we just nod politely when the Greencoats show up on our sidewalks and go on our way without too much fuss. I’m not sure what we could do about it anyway.

  As the Christmas music resumes, the first song is interrupted by an incoming call. I glance at my tablet. Billy. A click and his face fills the screen. “Hey.” He smiles. “How about we drive to Bedford for a burger this evening?”

  “Tonight? It’s freezing outside.”

  “That’s never stopped us before.”

  “I’m growing wimpy in my old age.”

  “I’ll lend you a snowsuit.”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks.” Then I push back a strand of hair, purposefully smearing flour across my cheek. “I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

  “I can wait.”

  “We’ll run out of daylight. Haven’t you heard about the new curfew?” Who knew it would come in so handy so soon?

  “The new what?”

  “Curfew. We have to be off the streets an hour after dusk.”

  Billy’s face darkens. He and his father have been among the most vocal opponents of the Ubercommittee’s initiatives. “I’m not surprised. And it’s only going to get worse with Gilbert in office.”

  Perhaps the most notable change that’s taken place in Tidbury recently has been Gilbert Sweeny’s election to the office vacated by his father’s recent retirement. Gilbert didn’t have much of a platform. Only the enthusiastic endorsement of Representative Poletti’s new policies. But he skated in on charisma and his daddy’s coattails, becoming the youngest mayor in Tidbury history.

  But before Billy can fully start in on that subject, I cut him off. “I’m sorry, Billy. I’m really tired. I just don’t feel much like going out tonight.”

  His face sags. “Yeah. Sure, I understand. Maybe next time.”

  I push aside a twinge of regret and finish the pie, then I curl up in front of the living room fireplace and watch the continuing coverage of President Dempsey’s trial with Granddad. Afterward, I retire to my room and scan the web for any local news that might remotely be connected with Ruby.

  I nearly shoot out of bed when I come across a story claiming that three unidentified women have been rescued from an old hunting lodge near Diamond Falls and taken into protective custody. The body of a fourth was recovered nearby, and other corpses are likely to be found, according to the article.

  I don’t sleep all night.

  Before dawn, I’m in the car and on my way to Diamond Falls half an hour away, skipping work and using a week’s fuel allotment to make the trip. I arriv
e hours before the police station opens and have to wait impatiently in the parking lot. Not surprisingly, I soon find myself part of a crowd. Fifteen cars already packed the tiny lot when I pulled in, and while I wait, at least twenty more pull up along both sides of the main road. All individuals who have lost someone and are hoping beyond hope that one of the surviving victims might prove to be their loved one.

  It began raining about the time I arrived in Diamond Falls, a slow, steady drizzle that soon picked up in earnest. By the time the police station opens, the parking lot has flooded and runoff flows through the street like a small river. I have to wade through an ankle-deep current just to reach the sidewalk in front of the door.

  Inside, the station is in chaos. The phone rings incessantly. Reporters and hopeful relatives cram the lobby to capacity. I am one of the lucky ones who makes it through the door. Others have to stand outside in a downpour that changes to sleet as we wait for word. At last the police chief stands on a chair and whistles for silence. “I’m sorry, everyone. The three women have all been identified and their families notified. Please leave your name and contact information with my secretary. In the event that we find additional bodies, we will be in touch.”

  “What happened?” one reporter calls out. “How old were the women? How long have they been missing?”

  “Should this give us hope that others might be recovered?” asks another.

  “Can you tell us who the perpetrators are?”

  The chief waves his hand for silence. “The department will issue a statement to the press by the end of the day. Until then, I have nothing more to say about this matter.”

  He climbs down from the chair amid another volley of questions and disappears into his office. Half a dozen deputies escort us out the door.

  As I swim back out to my car, I consider using my knowledge of the area to drive into the forest and search for the lodge myself, but the growing intensity of the storm makes me decide against it. There were no other survivors. And corpses can wait.