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Briar stood staring for a moment. She hated seeing those crisp uniforms here, in Independence Falls. She felt an aversion to the soldiers, a dislike that, being honest with herself, she knew came from their profession than the men themselves. She’d seen too many of those uniforms during her childhood.

She had a circuit that took her past each table every ten minutes or so as she called out “Cigarettes! Cigars! Fine novelties!” She would have skirted around the army men, but a woman at a nearby table gestured her over looking for a pack of Merits. 

 Lowell Briggs was standing next to the military men’s table, puffing away on a cigar. He was one of the most prominent citizens in town, and Briar wasn’t surprised he had introduced himself to the soldiers. “If there’s anything we can do to speed up the process of rebuilding,” he was saying, “just let us know. Briggs Bank has emergency funds that can be employed in times like this.”

“Perhaps a donation to help cut the costs of airlifting food,” the mayor suggested.

“That won’t be necessary,” said one of the officers. She recognized Col. Deacon, the same high-ranking officer she had seen the night of the rockslide. 

Up close, he looked like his features had been chiseled from stone. His thin mouth slashed like a scar across his face. He wore a tan uniform that was almost the same color as his hair and skin. The ribbon rack on his chest were the most colorful thing about him. 

“We have ample funds to cover the costs of the operation,” he said in reply to Mr. Briggs’ offer.

“Well. Anything we can do to help.” He stood twirling his cigar for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “I’m sure you’re aware of the issues we’ve been having in town lately. I just want to make sure … that is, I wanted to clear up any suspicion ….”

“What are you trying to say, Lowell?” The mayor slid her eyes toward the military men then back to Mr. Briggs.

“I just wanted to assure the colonel here that no matter what he may have heard—no matter what someone printed in the paper this morning—this is a good town, with good people. There’s been a lot of talk. Some people are even saying that one of these … these Independents caused the rockslide.”

Briar had a good idea who Lowell Briggs was worried about. After all, his son Clayton had destroyed the statue of Mamie Watkins in the town square when he publicly used his powers. 

She kept an eye on the colonel to see his response. 

“Don’t worry, sir,” Deacon said, just before his words warped and twanged in her ear. “We don’t believe the rockslide was man-made.”

“Watch it, young lady,” said the woman who was holding her cigarette to Briar’s antique lighter. “You nearly set my hair afire.”

“Sorry,” Briar said, clicking the lighter shut before she did any other damage. 

Her hands were shaking. She had assumed the rockslide was natural, but now Deacon’s lie seemed to point to the possibility that the rockslide was man-made. 

Who would do such a thing? Who could? 

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it,” Mr. Briggs said with satisfaction evident on his face. Just then, the waiters arrived with four steaming plates topped with silver domes. Mr. Briggs said, “Well, I’ll leave you to your dinner, then. A pleasure to meet you gentlemen. Angelica, good to see you.”

“Indeed, Lowell,” said Mayor Watkins-Price as Mr. Briggs walked away. She turned back to her dining companions. “Don’t mind him. He’s concerned because both of his sons were listed in that article this morning. He’s right, of course. None of our people would have done something so destructive.”

“Where, do you suppose, the paper got their information?” one of the other officers asked. 

“The editor refused to give me his source, Lieutenant Cavanaugh,” the mayor replied. “Freedom of the press, you know. But I get the impression it was someone on the inside. Maybe one of the people who is part of that group, the Independents, somehow let it slip.”

Deacon made a non-committal noise. Briar wanted to continue listening to their conversation, but she caught Mr. McPherson’s furious smile from across the room. 

She scampered off to continue her circuit with her mind whirling. Who could have been powerful enough to cause a rockslide of that magnitude? She didn’t believe Clayton Briggs would do such a thing, but was there anyone else who might possess that kind of power? Clearly, the list published that morning hadn’t been complete. Her name wasn’t on it; nor was Charlie’s. Could there be someone else in town who was disguising that kind of power?

As quickly as she could, she made her way back toward the mayor’s table. 

One of the servicemen caught sight of her and gestured her over. “Well, aren’t you a sweet young thing,” he purred to Briar. 

When his gaze strolled down her body, he definitely wasn’t counting the number of cigarettes on her tray.

“What would you like, sir?”

His grin made Briar’s skin crawl. “You can call me Sergeant Pangburn.”

She cleared her throat nervously. “We have Benson and Hedges, Raleigh, Tareyton ….”

“Why don’t you pick something out for me,” he said, leering at her. “You look like you know what a man needs.”

She managed to transform her sneer of disgust into a weak smile and grabbed a cigarette at random. She ignored the eager way his eyes ate up her bosom as she made his change. She hated this job, hated being leered at and ogled. 

When she tried to hand back the coins, he winked at her. “Keep it, sweetheart.” 

She stuffed the coins into her pocket. She had to find another job, one that didn’t require that she trade her dignity for a few cents.

Mickey Dorsey, who taught music at the high school during the school year, tapped out a beat on his drum kit. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said into his microphone. 

His voice was deeper and smoother than the one he used in class. Somehow, the stage transformed him from a portly, long-married, middle-aged man into a dignified bandleader oozing with charm. 

“Welcome to McPherson’s Supper Club, where the champagne is cold and the women are hot, hot, hot. We are the Breakneck Band, so named because we play as fast as the rapids. So cats, grab your kittens, and get out on the floor because we’re ready to dance the night away.” 

At his signal, the band launched into a upbeat version of “What a Little Moonlight Can Do.” The floor filled with couples. Briar spotted Col. Deacon turning circles with Florence Briggs on the dance floor. He appeared to approach dancing with the same rigid precision he did everything else. One of the soldiers—Lt. Cavanaugh, she thought the mayor had said—was laughing uproariously while doing an enthusiastic foxtrot with Mrs. McClure from the doctor’s office. 

Briar looked down at her mostly-full tray and sighed. Violet Miller had been wonderful at this job because she had been charming and elegant, capable of spreading her charm like rich, buttercream frosting. But Briar was struggling to make enough to cover rent and gas for her car. It wasn’t worth the humiliation of wearing this skimpy outfit, which was ridiculous from the tip of her fishnet-clad toes to the sparkly, flame-shaped hat that topped her head. 

Her back ached, and her feet had gone numb. Maybe she just needed a break. A glass of water and five minutes without the heavy tray dragging at her shoulders, and she would be ready to go fake her smile again.

She set the tray on a table and carefully slipped out from under the wide leather straps. The relief was immediate. She arched her back to stretch before she remembered that she was in a corset, and liable to show the whole room her nipples if she kept that up. She turned to the wall and shimmied the top as high as it would go. 

She hated this outfit. She hated this job. She hated everything. 

She slipped over to the service well where Phil Hubbard, the bartender, was mixing cocktails with practiced ease. “How you doing, sugar pie?” he asked with a wink.

“Having a long night,” she confessed. “Could I have a glass of water?”

“You bet,” he said, already pouring the glass. “But you better be quick. Boss won’t like you taking a break on the floor.”

“It will only be a minute,” she promised.

Briar sipped at the water and wished it was a soda, wished she was out on the dance floor, wished she was laughing with a handsome man. What did it say about her life that old Mrs. McClure was having more fun than she was?

The other soldier, Sgt. Pangburn, was leaning on the bar and holding court. “Gentlemen, I’ve been on the front lines, and I’ll tell you, Senator McCarthy’s got it right. The number one mission of the Soviets is to bring down the American way of life.”

He was surrounded by a group of men in suits that included Clancy Price, the mayor’s husband, and Eldritch Warren, a city councilman. 

“It just doesn’t seem possible,” said Hugo Humbert, the school principal. “Sen. McCarthy would have us believe that Communists are everywhere, but I’ve never met one. Even the Sokolovs, a Russian family in town, swear they’re not Communists.”

“Are you sure of that?” Sgt. Pangburn asked, fixing Humbert with his dark eyes. “They’re trained to hide in the shadows. Our evidence suggests that there are thousands of deep cover agents in the United States. Not to mention the fellow travelers, who may not be Soviets but are sympathetic to their cause.”

“You ask me, one is too many,” Eldritch Warren said with a firm nod. “Communism is a weed that will strangle a healthy society. We ought to root them all out.”

Phil’s hands had frozen in the middle of stirring a martini. Carefully, he set the shaker down and started to unroll the sleeves of his white dress shirt. Before he tugged the sleeve down, Briar noticed an old faded tattoo on his forearm. It looked like a loaf of bread encircled by roses. 

Thirty years previous, before Briar was even born, the mine workers had gone on strike to protest working conditions and low wages. They had wanted to form a union for the protection of the workers, which was a revolutionary idea at the time. 

Briar remembered hearing that bread and roses were a symbol of the Socialist party. These days, she knew, that was enough to be branded as a Communist, even a traitor to the United States.

“This country deserves to be safe,” said Sgt. Pangburn. “We’ll never rest until we’ve weeded out the Soviet threat once and for all.”

Briar looked at Phil. For once, he wasn’t smiling; for once, his eyes were serious. Then his eyes flicked over something past Briar’s shoulder and he busily snatched up a highball glass. 

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Briar turned to face Mr. McPherson. 

He was red in the face, and his perpetual smile was rictus tight. “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just needed a glass of water.”

“You know the rules,” he hissed. “Where is your tray?”

“Just over here, sir,” she said, pushing through the curious crowd near the bar and slipping the heavy tray back over her shoulders. 

“You are supposed to be carrying the tray at all times,” he reminded her, still trying to smile at customers even as he upbraided her.

“I know, sir, but it was heavy, and—”

“No excuses, young lady. And what’s this? You’ve barely sold a thing! What have you been doing all night?”

“Trying to listen in on conversations,” she said before she could stop herself. It seemed like the truth just jumped to her lips when she was stressed, when she didn’t have time to craft a reply. 

She didn’t think it was possible, but Mr. McPherson’s face deepened from red to purple. “And let me ask you, am I paying you to listen in on conversations?”

She bit her lip. “No, sir.” She barely restrained herself from telling him she did it a lot anyway.

“No, I’m paying you to make sure my patrons are satisfied,” he said, struggling to keep his voice low. “Now either half this town quit smoking in the last week, or you aren’t doing your job.”

Briar looked at the haze of smoke covering the room. “Well, sir … people can light their own cigarettes, can’t they?”

“That’s it!” he shouted. People turned to stare, but Mr. McPherson had finally lost his legendary control. “You’re fired!”

“Oh,” Briar said, and let out a small laugh. “Thank goodness.”

“What did you say?”

“I hated working here,” she said, not even trying to hold back the truth. 

“Well, then you can get out,” Mr. McPherson said, nostrils flared.

Briar looked around. Half the room was staring now. Mickey Dorsey was still valiantly singing, but most of the couples had stopped to watch the unfolding drama. 

Well, let them see. She was done pretending to be someone else, lying about the way her life unfolded. 

“Gladly,” she said, shifting the tray off her shoulders. Even though she felt embarrassed and ashamed, she held her head high as she walked out.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Charlie

Charlie left Will’s house and took a wandering drive through the hills. 

It was a gorgeous late-summer day. The trees were full and the grasses were high. Despite the perfect weather, Charlie didn’t feel the urge to transform. His conversation with Will had left him mixed up, and he needed time to think.

Will’s implication had been clear. He suspected Charlie had a power, but was encouraging him not to reveal anything. Charlie had been so close to confessing everything to Will. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he wanted to talk to someone about his power.

He drove through the hills as the sun set around him. There was someone else he could talk to. Someone who already knew the truth.

He told himself, as he drove out to McPherson’s Supper Club, that he wanted to see Briar because he needed to make sure she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She’d stubbornly refused to promise secrecy on the night of the rockslide. He wasn’t sure he was going to take Will’s advice, but he needed to make sure Briar wouldn’t tell someone and make the choice for him. 

It wasn’t like he wanted to see her again.