World in Tatters Ch 48

Alice becomes much more lucid as we make our way back to Rachel and Jason. By the time we passed the command tent, she was walking on her own with only slight limp from bruising on her legs. Chris was able to fill me in a little better about what transpired following the botched rescue plan in Atlanta. Apparently, Jarvis followed Richard and Kiera’s orders to the letter, despite Rachel’s many protestations. Chris says he wasn’t too happy about leaving us behind either, but he knew they would need more help if they were to be able to do anything.

I worry about Richard, Kiera and all of their mates. They went out of their way to help us. Out of the goodness of their hearts. What do they have to show for it? I feel like I owe them all so much. Especially Jarvis, after how well he took care of Rachel and Chris in my absence.

Most of all though, I worry for Aunt Nora. She goes on trial tomorrow for crimes I am certain she did not commit. A trial that, if my suspicions are correct, will lead to her execution. I don’t want to believe that my mother has malicious intent, especially not toward her closest friend, but I can’t deny the evidence of my eyes. I want to believe there’s something more at play here.

When we finally make it back to our assigned barrack tent, Chris helps Alice to lie down on one of the cots. She tries to hide it, so we don’t worry, but every now and then, I see her wince at the bruises covering her body.

As soon as we’re through the door, Rachel and Jason fling a flurry of questions our way. I try to explain the conversation I had with Mom the best I can. Rachel is the most taken aback by the news of the trial. Jason, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised at all.

My thoughts wander back to the file tucked away in my pack. Everything Charlotte said. Everything she did…might still do. I just want to scream. Could my own mother really be that much of a monster? Did Nora know? Did she just look the other way? Did Jason know? He must have, right? They’ve known each other for so long, how could he not? Just another thing he’s been keeping from me for years now. And if he knows, my dad must have too. Is everything I knew about my parents a total sham?

Once things settle down a bit, I walk over to Jason and so quietly the others can’t hear, “Hey, can we talk? In private?”

“Sure.” His tone gives him away, as though he’s been expecting and dreading this conversation. “Let’s take a walk.”

Jason and I slip out of the barrack without the others noticing. We walk through the streets, smelling the scents of meat and vegetables cooking on fires all around us. A strong smell of onion drifts through the air, causing my stomach to growl in response. When I determine that we’ve gotten far enough out of earshot, I pull Jason aside.

I grab him by either side of his collar, nearly lifting him from his feet. I keep my voice low to not draw attention to us. “Why didn’t you tell me about her?”

“About…?” He stammers, “Her who?”

“About my mother.”

“That she was alive?” He pushes against me. I release him from my grip but maintain eye contact. “I thought we talked about this. I thought we were good.”

“It’s not about that.” Forcing myself to calm down. I pull Drum’s file from my back pocket, shoving it at Jason. “This. It’s about this.”

Perplexed, Jason opens the folder. A set of photographs falls out of the file. Jason kneels down to pick them up, but as he looks at them, he blanches.

“What is this?” He barks, waving the photos in my face. “Why do you have these pictures?”

“Drum gave it to me. Trying to get in my head. It was supposed show me who my mother is as a person.”

“This?” Showing me the pictures in his hand, visibly agitated, “How does this have anything to do with Charlotte?”

I take the three photos out of his hand, examining them one by one. They seem to depict a crime scene. A pretty gory one at that. A man and a young woman lie with their backs against a wall, throats slit from ear to ear.

All the fire leaves my voice. “I don’t… I hadn’t seen these before. Who are they?”

He ignores me, crossing to a bench nearby. He straddles the backless seat, opening the folder in front of him. Something has changed in his demeanor. If he ever knew anything about my mother’s dealings, he didn’t know about this one. Whatever this one is.

Jason furiously flips through the individual reports, skimming over file names, searching for the one about this murder. Only a moment passes before he settles on one document. By this point, Jason is visibly shaken. Having found the report he was looking for, Jason reads every line intently, absorbing every word.

“Who were they, Jason? Who are they to you?”

“To me? No one.” His voice is soft, sad. “Not really. Friends of friends.”

“Oh. The way you reacted, I thought…”

“But your father knew them well.”

“What? Dad?” The mention of my father catches me off guard.

“Many years ago. You were a young child, you probably don’t remember them.”

I take a second to look closer at the faces in the photographs, but I can’t focus on anything but the blood. Biting back bile rising in my throat, “No. I don’t.”

“Read this.” He passes me the folder, opened to the relevant document.

“Lydia and Joel Sanderson.” I look up, “Sorry, the names don’t ring a bell either.”

He points to the officer’s statement at the bottom of the page. “Keep reading.”

“Father and daughter Joel Sanderson (55y/o) and Lydia Sanderson (22y/o) found slain in their home just before dark. Suspect apprehended. Victor Sousa (34y/o) arrested on suspicion of murder after he was spotted fleeing the scene covered in blood, still holding the suspected murder weapon. Two blood types discovered on Sousa’s discarded clothing. Blood tested and found to match the blood types of both victims.

“I don’t understand. It sounds like the police caught the murderer. Why would Drum include this?”

“Probably because of what’s on the next page.”

I turn the sheet over, and continue reading, “When interrogated, Sousa claimed that he was hired by the government to carry out a contract killing. Sousa described an ‘old man with green eyes, white hair, a cane, and a scar below his left eye’ who allegedly paid Sousa a substantial sum. No money has been recovered, and no substantial evidence has come to light supporting his claim.

“Well, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? This doesn’t have anything to do with my mom.”

“Except that I know who the old man is. I recognized the description immediately. It’s…he was a clerk at the Capitol. Crotchety geezer, but always friendly with Charlotte. He died a few years after the murders.”

“Okay, but that’s not proof. Just because he was friends with my mom, doesn’t mean she’s the one who paid them. I mean…What would have been her motive?”

“No. It’s not. You’re right. All I know is that Joel worked with your father in the library and archives, and that he was openly critical of the Alliance government.”

“So were a lot of other people who didn’t end up dead.”

“True, but, Steven, you must understand. I am not saying Charlotte did this. You’ve said it yourself, Drum gave this to you to get into your head. He wants you not to trust her. He wants us to turn on Charlotte. That way, he doesn’t have to lift a finger to get rid of her.”

“I know.” Shaking my head, “I know. But she admitted to it. At least some of it. She took one look in there and knew it’s incriminating.”

“Wouldn’t be effective otherwise, would it. Her involvement is probably wildly exaggerated.” Despite his words, a look of doubt lingers on his brow. He’s known my mother for a long time, so he’s likely seen many facets to her. “Besides,” Deflecting, reaching for some levity. “Your father was the kindest hearted man I knew. Do you think he would have married that kind of monster?”

I know he’s just trying to lighten the mood, but him bringing up my father sets my teeth on edge. I drop my eyes from his, trying to push the memories down. When Jason notices my discomfort, he flashes me an apologetic smile.

“Maybe you’re right. But I can’t just forget about it. Not with everything she’s doing now.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. But just… what was it your dad used to say? ‘Consider the source.’ Drum’s trying to play you. Getting in your head so you turn on Charlotte. As for our friends, everything will work out. We both know they’re innocent. The jury will see it too. It’ll work out.”

With the matter seemingly settled, Jason and I part ways. After a final pat to my shoulder, he follows his nose toward one of the cookfires. I, on the other hand, drop myself onto the bench, cradling the file in my lap, niggling doubt lingering.

I stare at it for a long time. Not reading it, just staring, trying desperately to figure out what I should believe. I mean, Jason’s right. Everything I know about my father’s past suggests that he would never be party to something so morally bankrupt.

Which leaves me three options: Either everything I thought I knew about my parents is a lie, my mother is a monster, and my father was complicit if not an active participant; my mother was so good at deception that she fooled even my father their whole lives; Or I’ve let Elias Drum get in my head and am blowing this all out of proportion.

I know which option I want to believe, but recent events suggest otherwise.

My mind drifts back to my meeting with Drum. Even if this file he gave me is total crap, there’s something else that still bothers me. The way he reacted when I brought up the Birmingham attack.

Drum was genuinely surprised by the accusation. Almost offended, even. He claimed that sort of thing wasn’t his style, that he is more about precision and targeted attacks. I guess it’s possible that one of his underlings ordered it, but I doubt Drum would let something like that slide.

On top of that, I think of the man I watched Charlotte execute. The so called “terrorists” that she had dragged out onto the stage. He had been about to say something when she shot him.

“Why don’t you tell them the tr—” I recall. That whole situation never added up. Charlotte making a unilateral decision for summary executions. None of the high-ranking militia or council members having a voice in the matter, or even knowing of it ahead of time. But most strangely, the publicity of it.

Doing that in public, in front of a such a large crowd…And look at the results. Look how many people joined the militia in the aftermath.

When the thought…the accusation…fully forms in my mind, the idea is almost too much. Am I just projecting? I feel like I’m losing my mind, but I can’t shake the feeling.

For now, I’ll choose to believe the best of Charlotte, despite the nagging in the back of my head.

She’s my mother after all. I can’t just condemn her without confirmation.

For now, I’ll choose to trust that my mother’s intentions are pure.

For now.