Daryl Gregory - The Devil's Alphabet

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.