The Devil's Alphabet (29 page)

“Come on now,” the reverend said. “A hurricane, a tree, and not one but
two
monkeys …”

“Adam and Eve,” Deke said, a smile in his voice.

“Or just one pregnant female monkey,” Rhonda said.

“And then it happens again and again?” the reverend said.

“But that chain of events only has to happen once,” the doctor
said. “Once in ten million years. We know it happened, or something equally improbable, because the monkeys weren’t there forty million years ago, and then they were.

“Now imagine what you could do with trillions of universes and millions of years. Just once, one virus has to figure out how to get to the next universe. Once that happens, the viruses ripple across many universes. The way quantum mechanics works, you’ll have a nearly infinite number of universes in which this has happened, and a nearly infinite number where this has never happened. We just happened to be in the haves.”

“I don’t believe this,” the reverend said. “That all this could happen by chance.”

The doctor bristled. “I’m not going to argue with you about whether this is an act of God.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing,” the reverend said.

Rhonda rapped the table with the underside of one of her rings. “Ladies. It doesn’t matter whether God did it, or a virus, or quantum Santa Claus.”

“Of course it matters!” the reverend exclaimed.

“Elsa, hear me out. It doesn’t matter what
we
think, it only matters what the government thinks, and what the public thinks. Because
that’s
what’s going to decide whether they quarantine us again.” She looked around the table. “You saw what I saw. Doctor, your friend Preisswerk bailed out when he was asked about the quarantine. Obviously they’ve talked about it. And if public opinion turns, then sooner or later they’ll
have
to isolate us. That’s what I’d do in their shoes.”

The reverend made a disgusted noise. “Of course you would.”

“Yes I would. Elsa, the only reason they dropped the quarantine last time is because it stopped spreading, and because
the babies hadn’t started arriving. Now it’s started again, and they know those people will start breeding too. We’re not disease victims anymore, we’re a race—three races—and from another universe, of all things.”

“That’s ridiculous,” the reverend said. “We are not aliens.”

“Of course not,” Rhonda said, and thought, Of course we are. “But think of this from the government’s point of view. Even if a quarantine won’t protect a single citizen, the public will demand that we be locked up. They’re already nervous—did you see that interview with those yahoos in Knoxville? They’ve already started talking about ‘those people’ in Switchcreek. Pretty soon they’ll be running to Wal-Mart for pitchforks and torches.”

“We’ve gone down this road before,” the reverend said. “Putting a fence around us didn’t make any difference last time, and it won’t this time. The government has to make it clear that it’s not contagious. We are not a risk.”

Dr. Fraelich shook her head. “You’re not listening to me. It may not be contagious in the usual sense, but it’s still
transmittable
. Look, imagine all the universes lined up in parallel lines.” She set out her hands, palms apart. “The virus travels from one universe to the next one. Nothing would stop the virus from crossing back into our universe from a different point. We have to assume that we are infecting nearby universes. The more of those we infect, the more likely that the infection spreads back to us.”

“If this quantum theory is true,” Deke said.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not,” Rhonda said again. “If the government thinks it’s true, or if they feel they have to act like it’s true, then they’re going to try to fence us in. Our job is to figure out how to stop that from happening.”

Neither the reverend nor Deke had an answer for that. After several moments passed in silence, Rhonda stood and addressed Dr. Fraelich. “Well, we’ve got a lot to ponder. Thank you for offering us your opinion, Doctor. If you get any more information out of those CDC folks, of course we’d want to know right away.”

The doctor seemed surprised that she was being pushed out. Surely she didn’t think she was being invited into the Executive Council? For one, she didn’t have the genes for it.

“What are you going to do?” Dr. Fraelich asked.

Take out genocide insurance, Rhonda thought. She smiled and opened the door for the doctor. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“Your problem,” Rhonda told Deke after the meeting had adjourned and the reverend had left the building, “is that you don’t believe in the future.”

They were walking through the school, shutting doors and turning out lights behind them. Rhonda had asked him to give her a ride home because Everett had the Cadillac.

Deke looked perplexed, not sure if he should laugh. “Of course I do.”

“You don’t, not really. Without children, you’ve got nothing to pin your future to. You’re practically sleepwalking through these meetings. You’re disengaged, Deke, and we can’t afford that. All the clades have to pull together if we’re going to make this work.”

It had taken another half hour after Dr. Fraelich had left the meeting for Rhonda to lay out her plans. She didn’t mention that she’d already starting implementing them. The shell of
the website had already been created, though it wasn’t online yet; the toll-free numbers had been ordered; and her lawyer in Knoxville had set the 501(c)(3) paperwork in motion.

As she’d expected, the reverend quibbled with details, even though—no,
because
—she saw no other choices. She had the most people to consider, Elsa said, and so many of her clade were children. Deke had said very little, but when he finally said, “Okay,” it was like the strike of a gavel. The reverend gave her consent and quickly left.

Rhonda opened her purse and handed him an envelope. He frowned, opened it with his thick fingers, and frowned again at the contents. The check was drawn against the school construction fund and made out to Alpha Furniture Company, for $83,522. Rhonda thought that $22 was a nice touch—specificity made it look less like a payoff.

Deke said, “I don’t think this is the right time to be starting this, do you? The whole point of your plan—”

“Nonsense! We don’t have time
not
to do it. My only requirement is that you and Donna have to use this money too. After that, start finding other argo couples. Like that boy who works for you, him and his new wife—they have to be thinking of a baby.” They reached the front doors. Rhonda withdrew her big key ring from her purse, inserted the Allen wrench into the side of the door’s push bar. “And by the way? It’s
our
plan, hon.”

Deke rubbed his thumb across the envelope but still didn’t put it away. “I noticed a few of your people weren’t here tonight,” he said. “Everett, Clete, Travis.”

Rhonda turned the wrench, winching down the bar so that the door would lock behind them when they left. “Everett’s running some errands for me,” she said.

“Really?”

Rhonda looked up, unable to keep a wry smile from her face. “You’ve got your chief face on, Chief.”

“Marla told me what happened at the Home yesterday,” he said. “She got it from Paxton.”

“Don’t you worry, that’s all taken care of now.”

“That,” he said, “is what I’m afraid of.”

She straightened, dropped the key ring back into her purse. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about Clete and Travis. You beat up those two boys yourself just a few weeks ago.”

“Nobody’s seen them for two days. Or Doreen either.”

“Doreen
, now that girl’s a piece of work. Doesn’t have the sense that God gave a hamster, and I do believe she was the brains of the outfit.” Rhonda pushed through the door, and the big man stooped to follow.

Deke’s Jeep, parked under a streetlamp, was the only car left in the lot. Not only would she have to somehow climb up into that thing, her hair would be blown to heck. Thank goodness it was the middle of the night.

“Rhonda,”
Deke said. His voice had dropped into an Old Testament rumble. “What did you do with them?”

She breathed deep, exhaled. The night air was pleasantly cool and smelled of cut grass.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “I’ll show you on the way home.”

Rather than just telling him where they were going she directed him by rights and lefts into the bottoms west of town. The Jeep rode rough, but she had to admit it was damn handy on these deeply rutted roads; the Caddy had had a much tougher time of it.

When they were a half mile from their destination Deke looked at her. “Willie Flint’s place?”

“It was available,” she said. “And it seemed appropriate.”

“Jesus Christ, Rhonda.”

Rhonda directed Deke to pull in beside her Cadillac, and when he shut off his headlights the night seemed to swoop in to surround them. Not quite pitch-black: Faint yellow light flickered in one of the cabin’s small windows.

“Help me down,” Rhonda said. Deke came around the Jeep—and froze. Rhonda followed his stare. The cabin door was open, and a figure stood in the shadowed doorway with his hand hanging at his side.

“Don’t shoot,” Rhonda said. “It’s me.”

“I was thinking of shooting myself, actually,” Everett said. “Barron was supposed to be here a half hour ago.” He stepped back to let them inside and nodded—warily, Rhonda thought—to the argo. “How you doing, Chief?”

The living room was dimly lit by a battery-run Coleman lantern and two old-fashioned kerosene lamps Rhonda had brought from her house. The old furniture had been pushed back to the walls, leaving the middle clear for a kind of campsite: a plastic cooler, three blue nylon camp chairs, a boom box, and the junk food and cases of beer and soda from Clete’s van. A big plastic bag in the corner held the garbage.

Doreen Stillwater sat on the floor on a rolled-out sleeping bag looking as miserable as a wet dog, an image aided by the six feet of heavy-gauge chain that connected her left ankle to the frame of the old couch. The girl perked up when she saw Deke. “Chief! Thank God! You wouldn’t believe what they’re doing to us!”

“Give it a rest, Doreen,” Everett said.

Deke squatted on his haunches to get a closer look at Doreen’s face. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, but the girl was unbruised.

“Fortunately for her,” Rhonda said, “she gave up without a fight.”

Doreen gripped Deke’s hand. “They’re keeping us prisoner, Chief, and they won’t let me see Clete!” Her voice had risen into a whine. “He’s right down the hallway, and they won’t even let me talk to him! This is illegal, Chief.”

“I swear,” Everett said quietly. “I’m just gonna shoot myself.”

Deke extracted his hand. He looked at Rhonda. “And Travis?”

“He’s dead!” Doreen said. “Everett shot him!”

Deke grimaced. “Jesus, Rhonda—”

“It happened during the robbery,” Rhonda said.

Deke turned to Everett. “Is this true? You shot him?”

Everett moved his fingers in a suggestion of an apology: What can you do?

“Pure self-defense,” Rhonda said. “It was Travis’ own gun.”

For half a minute or more Deke didn’t seem to know where to look. Then he said, “Show me Clete.”

“Take me with you!” Doreen cried.

Rhonda led him back to the bedroom where they’d found Willie Flint. The room smelled dank and animal-like, though it was the merest echo of the stink of ten years ago.

Clete was laid out on one of the double beds, both wrists chained to the bed frame. The boy’s head, which had always been large, seemed twice its normal size. Purple bruises had inflated his cheeks so that his eyes were almost shut. His bloody T-shirt was pasted to his chest. His mouth hung open, issuing a gargled wheeze with each breath.

“Most of that blood was from his nose and mouth,” Rhonda explained.

Deke stared at her. “Oh, that’s okay then,” he said.

“And don’t worry, he’s not sleeping all the time. He can walk, when he’s motivated. Everett wakes him to pee and drink. He’s not too good with solids, right now, but he’ll get there.”

Deke was silent for a long moment. He was bent under the ceiling like an adult in a child’s playhouse. Rhonda thought, for perhaps the thousandth time, that that had to be mighty tiring.

“Damn it, Rhonda, you should have just called the police.” Deke had dropped his voice, but in this tiny house it would be impossible not to hear that low rumble. “Even with Travis, it’s an open-and-shut case. They broke in, Everett defended you.”

“I wasn’t worried about winning a trial, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t want what a trial would bring—all the attention on our clade, what we were trying to do at the Home, and Clete talking about his wild theories. We can’t have the whole world thinking our seniors are manufacturing some kind of supernarcotic. Harlan and the others would be marked men, Deke. Marked.”

“But it’s not a narcotic,” Deke said, a question in his voice.

“Not for skips—except maybe for Paxton Martin. Who knows what’s going on with that boy.”

“Either way, you can’t just—” His head bumped the ceiling. “Let’s talk outside,” he said.

As they passed through the front room Doreen got to her feet. “Chief? Chief?” She stepped around Everett and tried to grab the argo’s arm; the chain drew taut and the couch scraped against the floor. “You’re not going to leave us here? Is Clete all right? What are they doing to him?”

Rhonda shut the door behind them. Deke straightened slowly, like a bear rising up on its hind legs. Law, Rhonda
thought, an argo would be a scary thing to meet in the dark. And for good reason. She considered herself lucky to have seen early on what one of them—even the most conscientious of them—could do when he lost control. She never forgot it for a second.

After that night at Willie Flint’s, Deke had made self-control his religion, but he was struggling against the design of his own body, and he could never win every battle. Chub boys like Clete and Travis juiced themselves up and went barking after trouble. But for argos, violence was the natural result of their existence in the world. They were shaped for it, like an axe blade, or a jagged slope. Throw yourself against one and you could no more blame the argo for hurting you than blame a mountain.