A part of me died after the Riverside incident—the part that made me get out of bed in the morning, the part that put a bounce in my every step, the part that scribbled in the journal, the part that always looked for Noble when he wasn't around… the part that prayed for Tommy every morning and every night. I was a ghost. I mean, I had to be. There were no reported cases of VBIEDs going off in the East Coast. The Hexagon didn't kill like that, and at that time, I didn't believe it was done for the sake of ending whoever. It was more so a message directed toward General Vergs and Pali' Recon, and I was certain that Eyes and Ears were perched somewhere nearby when the blast had occurred. They knew everything, they saw everything. They left me no choice. I had to die. They drove my torn body back to English Street along with what was left of Lieutenant Miller's charred corpse—an arm, half a torso, and his two legs, all hanging just barely by the threads of his flesh.
Ms. Matsumoto had no reason to stick around. The O-Peck secretary kicked and screamed as they rolled the lieutenant's body into the home. When Dr. Agatha pronounced him dead, they zipped his remains into a body bag then loaded him onto a truck headed for Mercado Lane. Ms. Matsumoto followed to attend the burial and pay her respects. After that, we never heard from her again.
They pronounced me dead, too. General Vergs supplied Mr. Pie, CS Everett, and the O-Peck squad with a minivan, loaded me onto it, then drove me up to a boarding house in Catskill to recuperate two days after delivering Lieutenant Miller's body. St. Vier had to join the sortie as her mere presence in the regiment, after Lieutenant Miller's death, caused a major uproar in Mercado Lane. From then on, Elisabeth Baby-Peletier was dead. I woke up on the 28th of November. I had stitches across my swelling face, cuts on my arms, shrapnel jammed in my left knee, and a cataract developing in my right eye. I also had to shave the left side of my head completely as the burns on my face butchered the way my hair fell and grew. My body was in immense pain. Once I recovered from my injuries—just barely—I joined Mr. Pie and St. Vier on their runs in the Catskill area. They would drive around and collect banknotes from people who worked for HOR-integrated postal services, though not necessarily for Pope. They were people who worked for Congress. Pope wrote to them, reallocating their financial assistance to regiment funding. I mean, it was going to commence around November anyway, and we were still in early December, so at least those things lined up. The Montefiore Hospital was restored by outsourcing staff from all around—Cassidy's people and the people from CUIMC. Mr. Pie and St. Vier—they were working the payroll.
Catskill, December 2nd, 1992.
My God, the hearts we broke, the things we left unsaid—debilitating. I'd like to think that the ridealongs with Mr. Pie and St. Vier saved me from my own reverie. I don't believe one should stay in that kind of headspace for too long. It's the kind that ends. I didn't speak much during those rides, but I did like watching the two interact. Mr. Pie talked about how the man in the sky must've been "some god" for damning the world with its own people—His version of washing His hands "Pontius Pilate style". St. Vier talked about how she found the CS rather dashing while I sat in the back with bags of cash to my side. The infantrywoman, not liking the butterflies in her stomach, wagged her head then slapped a map of the Catskill area on the dash. We were going to meet with Congress in Elliott Park. None of us were allowed to leave Catskill, and the collectors of the banknotes were keen on that. All of us were advised by Pope to stay in our respective counties. Once we got to Catskill, which was in Greene County, we couldn't leave. Never even heard from Rockland after that. Mercado Lane became a memory.
The old man drove, which meant that St. Vier was handling the collectors. Congress had people delivering funds down to a checkpoint in Greene County. We would collect them and then bring them further down where a third team would make the pick up. Then—a final drop at Nyack. It had to be that way so that the Hexagon wouldn't catch a scent of the cash drops.
The length of time that a drop would sit in one checkpoint varied, and that was to simulate mundane traffic in an effort to remain inconspicuous. Some days, the drop at Middleburgh—the first stop—would sit for thirty minutes, then at Catskill for around one or two hours, and then after, head straight to Mercado Lane. Other days, it would sit for two hours, and then four to five hours, depending on how calm the roads were. And believe me, the roads were dangerously calm. Once it'd get down to Catskill, we'd be driving along the Hudson, so the cash drops would sit for longer periods of time because no one dared drive that road. We didn't know how much ground Eyes and Ears covered on the other side of the river. They could've been further north, further south. They could've been anywhere. I mean, they managed to plant a car bomb on our side. They could've crossed that river a long time ago.
The old man and I sat on a park bench, gazing upon the still waters of a murky lake. As we waited for St. Vier to make the drop, I asked Mr. Pie, "How's Toni?"
His delayed response made it seem like he forgot who that was or that he never even knew a "Toni" in the first place. The only other time that name came up in conversation was when he asked me the favor back at Sugar Loaf. "Toni…," he said like he hardly knew her… or perhaps there was a rift, "Well, they'll always say they're okay, but you really just hope that they are." He wagged his head gently and turned to me. "You know, before we went down to Nyack, she wrote me a letter. I never told you, did I?"
"I don't think you had the chance to," I said to him.
"Her and Bobby—the little boy—moved to Nova Scotia. She said she couldn't find work. She said they were hungry. I mean, I would've opted to go, but…" He stopped speaking. Mr. Pie looked deeper into the pond and said nothing.
I gently shook his shoulder. "Mr. Pie," I said. "Mr. Pie, are you alright?"
The old man looked up at the sky, letting the tears roll back into his eyelids. He wagged his head once more, this time, letting out a smokey chuckle as he told me, "You know, bad men change, but they can only ever change. They can't undo."
"Bad men can still redeem themselves—"
"I believe it's right that we don't."
I never saw that side of Mr. Pie before. All the man cared about were guns and butane stoves. He was all about that life. I might have forgotten that there was something before all of this. Something special. Toni—whoever that was—was his life before the war. Mine was Tommy. Things change when people like them step out of the picture. I guess I wasn't the only one who lost themself in all this mess. Mr. Pie was just as lost as me.
In a laidback manner, the old man told me, "You know, when you bury enough of the dead, you kind've get sick of it all. You see enough lockets, wallets, rings, and pendants to tell you: 'Oh, these were people who just died. People who lived for other people'. And what do we do with 'em? We burn 'em, or sink 'em, or leave 'em where they fell."
"People who lived for other people." That hit me like a ton of bricks.
Mr. Pie continued, "I ain't no man of god, but a man can only sin so much. It makes me fear the devil… Like he's right there."
We both peered into the lake. I swear, at one point, I saw his horns causing ripples in the water. Mr. Pie said it perfectly. I remembered the armed guard at Overpeck and the couple at CUIMC. They didn't want to hurt me, and they most certainly didn't want to die. When I thought of it like that, it became hard to believe that bad men could redeem themselves. I've been in that position before, thinking I didn't deserve a damn thing. When he made his point, I thought so again. He shut me up real quick. Put me in my place. Without uttering a single word, I watched each ripple clash where the lake met the sand.
"I…," I had stopped praying for quite a while after the car bomb, "I fear him, too."
I wasn't allowed to touch the cash, let alone open the bags. I didn't have a gun, a radio, or any of that. All I had was Tommy's journal and my common sense. What was more interesting was that the sedan we rode for the cash drops didn't have a radio—just an empty slot. To top it off, my room in the boarding house, and all the other rooms for that matter, didn't have TVs, VHS players, or even telephones. Nothing but beds, dressers, and whitened marks of where these things used to be. I mean, I did understand the gravity of the situation. Eyes and Ears—they practically saw things before they happened, and heard things before they were uttered. They'd tap every wire, and stripping these devices from every socket of every room was a smart choice. But then, I realized something. I didn't get to see what was on that VHS tape. I didn't get to see what was in the tickler either. In the voice recorder, I heard two men talking about M-SIAT. I heard them talk about me. Like my name was pinned on a string of yarn on a corkboard.
Technically, it was.
Dr. Harriet owned both T-SIAP and M-SIAT. He was the only one who could do anything with them—sell, keep, or "give up". "Insitute" might have been a stretch, but they were really just private-owned R&D facilites. Without a doubt, he was the one speaking in the recording. The other was Tommy. I knew his voice like the back of my hand. How it shook, how it broke—it was his for sure. He said in the recording that Major Legrand paid him a visit in our own kitchen. This was probably back in Pennsylvania. I figured that maybe the major was after Dr. Harriet. After M-SIAT. The institute housed an enormous amount of precious metals after T-SIAP had gone into liquidation. The kind that, if not used for rocket engines, would serve well in APs (armor-piercing rounds). The ISO tanks we spotted in Overpeck Creek contained those very metals. Also, the shipping permit stating that Lion-6 was more than just a 3PL was enough for me to know that M-SIAT was most likely sold to the French, and if not, stripped from Dr. Harriet behind closed doors. Dr. Harriet and my husband were very close, and if the Hexagon kept tabs on the both of them, they'd find that Pali' Recon's former ADC was married to the M-SIAT president's deputy director at T-SIAP. If Major Legrand wanted to put a good scare on both of them, coming after me would've been the most viable option. Perhaps, the car bomb was more than a message. Maybe they were after me. And on the off-chance that Dr. Harriet was dead, they would have simply been "cutting loose ends".
We returned to the boarding house along Red Apple Ln. and parked next to the minivan—O-Peck's designated vehicle. The large, red-brick building had rust cascading down its facade, and blackened moss crept up from the gutters. At the front of the property was Everett, though he didn't look happy. Mr. Pie and St. Vier routinely exited the vehicle whereas I took my sweet time, hoping that one of them would usher him inside. They'd usually do that. This time, they didn't.
"Where's Lisa?" the CS asked.
St. Vier looked back at the sedan and pointed as Mr. Pie hurryingly made his way through the front door. Once the old man was inside, the once-trusty soon followed. Everett marched down the wet driveway, all with a mildly irritated look on his face. As he approached, I adjusted myself in the backseat and looked down into the legroom.
I let out a calm exhale as he told me, "Lisa, how many more times are you going to keep this up?" He put his hands on his hips like he was tired of me. "Every time you head out, you put yourself in danger. I mean, that was already the case back then. It's not any different now. If anything, it's a whole lot worse now that you don't have a radio on you."
"I'm sorry," I said to him, "I just needed the air."
"Yeah? Well, there's plenty of air here." The CS hunched over the passenger window and rested his hand on the door. "What if something were to happen to you? Huh? Who's responsible for that? Me. Me, right?"
I said to him, "You don't have to worry about me so much, you know. I'm okay. I do fine on my own."
Everett was quick to rebut, "That's true, but we have to obey General Vergs' orders. You can't just sneak out every time you please. Look, you're not even allowed to be outside of the house for crying out loud, but I figured that'd be too cruel for you. I'm already giving you the benefit of the doubt. Just... Just throw me a bone here, alright? I won't stop you from tagging along with them, but you need to let me know whenever you do. That's all I ask."
Dejected, I responded, "Okay."
"Good." Everett took his hand off the door and said to me, "I know how suffocating it must be just sitting around and thinking. That's all we've been doing up here aside from the drops, but it's better than being gone."
He opened the door for me and reached out his hand.
"I guess you're right," I said as I grabbed his hand.
Everett became my personal caregiver. He'd cook for me, clean my room, and even supply me with medicine and toiletries. O-Peck became Catskill's armed guards and surveyed the town while Mr. Pie and St. Vier did Congress' payroll job. That was all that ever went on in that place. It was as peaceful as Lords Valley. The only difference was that the world didn't turn for anyone in Catskill. Everyone was stuck. No man could just get up and go. It was complete isolation from the rest of the world. That might have been the kind of peace I yearned for when I first saw that armored car in Overpeck. The kind of peace I would've died for when I was getting shot up in North Palisades. Needless to say, I didn't want it anymore. I just wanted to be alive. I wanted to see Noble.
I missed him dearly.
After that day, I didn't tag along so much. Actually, I don't think I tagged along with them at all after that. All I remember back then was me sitting in my bed, looking out the window. I'd stare for such long periods of time that I'd get really bad neck pains. The rooms of this boarding house were immensely small, so I couldn't really pace around as one would to pass the time. I'd daydream, but that's it.
Dec. 2, 1992
I saw a woman pulling a wagon across the street this morning. In it was a bedroll, a tarp, and some stakes. She had sunken eyes, dried hair, and a bad sunburn. She was a nomad, and the people of Catskill didn't want to let her in any of their homes. They were disgusted by the way she looked.
The people of Catskill, although very few, lived like normal people. They'd have walks in the park, birdwatch, and even sit out on their front porches and greet each other in the mornings. That's not good. They'll never understand what it means to be the gun. The war pig.
There was a small gap in the journal when I closed it. It was from the pages that were torn out following Tommy's entry dated September 13th, 1992—where the next page had a depression that said "my dearest". The human mind can only assume so many things from that little detail: his last words, a deathbed confession, or maybe he was addressing a mistress. Did he have to sweet-talk the major as part of his duties in Pali' Recon? Did anyone else from the regiment know that Major Legrand spoke to him personally? Who tore the pages from the journal? Was it Tommy or was it someone else? If it was Tommy, then he would've been hiding those pages from the regiment. If it was someone else—perhaps General Vergs or Dr. Agatha, given they were the ones who retrieved his journal—then they would've been hiding something from me. Did they even know that Major Legrand paid Tommy a visit? I had to find out one way or another, and I had a crippling suspicion that VHS was going to tell me everything.
* * *
On cold mornings, I'd climb out my window and watch the people of Catskill go about their merry lives from up on the roof. I'd always have a hot cup of coffee resting on the windowsill just the way I liked it—no cream and two sugars. It was the exact coffee that I salvaged back at North Palisades, and the CS only ever brewed it for me. He told me that it was the only thing that would get me up in the morning. He was not wrong. I'd get up for just that reason alone. When we had just settled in, Everett and St. Vier would usually check in on me throughout the day. They'd knock a few times before lunch and then a few more before dinner. I'd speak to the door, letting them know that I was okay. They would ask if I needed anything, and I'd always say "no". Once I started going up on the roof, they stopped knocking.
It was difficult trying to speak to the others during that time. I wasn't okay. My mind was in a bad place. Being in Catskill subjected me to solitude and long waits, and they weren't good for my head, but I waited anyway. All I ever did was wait, and for what? There I sat, thinking that maybe, one day, Noble would knock on the door and ask to drive me back to Nyack. I really hoped. I look back, and I… I don't know. I was really played for a fool. Like a dog in the rain.
December 6th, 1992.
I was up on the roof when I heard Captain Mapleman calling out to me from the driveway. I scooted over the ledge and saw him standing in front of the minivan with a letter in his hand. He asked if I could come down to discuss matters with him. Of course, I agreed. When I exited the boarding house, the O-Peck captain ushered me into the van and called 2Lt. Yemelyanova to join the ride. I asked him if we were heading back to Mercado Lane. He wagged his head and told me that we were going to take a ride to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge.
I broke the silence after the ride got quiet, "Isn't it dangerous up there? If the Hexagon moved up north, chances are, they'd spot us on that bridge. I bet they'd cross it."
The captain said to me, "Any bridge that connects this side to the east is what we call a 'node'. Although Congress abstains from sending more forces down south—the epicenter of French advances, mind you—they can still afford to send forces to guard these nodes."
2Lt. Yemelyanova then said, "The bridge collapsed a while back, but Congress still stations guards over there after they heard about the Hexagon's dinghies."
I told them, "Well, they should worry about the waters all around. I mean, you're here in the first place because of the dinghies we found in Overpeck."
"Well, she's not wrong," said the lieutenant.
Captain Mapleman was mildly vexed. He'd fidget with the rearview mirror, tap profusely on the wheel, and smack his lips every time he glanced out the window. When he banged on the dash after hitting a stray cat, I noticed that they too had no car radio. He informed me that the guards at the bridge sourced a marksman from Mercado Lane. They needed one if ever they had to intercept forces from the other side of the river.
The captain said, "I'll drop Yemelyanova off at the bridge to speak with the marksman. After that, you and I will have a word."
The Rip Van Winkle Bridge
A SAM armored truck named "Gloria-08" guarded the edge of the collapsed bridge, the "08" in its name referring to the number of surface-to-air missiles it could fire from its launcher. The thing was huge—almost as long as three minivans—and was actually the very Hexagon armored truck that Captain Finer rode into Big Indian, and the same one that was stored in Main Street back at Mercado Lane. The Gloria-08 was fitted with a NASAMS (Norwegian Advanced Surface to Air Missile System) that could fire eight AIM-120 AMRAAMs (Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile) at a time, and housed eight more in its cab. That thing looked mean and was built to withstand launching air-to-air missiles from the ground. It was what folks called a "god-killer". The three of us exited the minivan and examined the SAM armored truck. Its cab was as cold as ice, implying that it had been parked there for quite a while. The side of its chassis was coarse, and the finish appeared to be peeling off. It was where that Hexagon emblem used to be. I remembered the first night I saw it. That chilling eye—it was burned into my retinas.
I asked them, "How many of these do they have?"
"Just the one," Captain Mapleman told me. "NASAMSs are not part of France's air defense inventory. This very system right here was smuggled by American spies. The unit was built here—covertly."
"It's a prototype?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he nodded grimly. "It was supposed to be unveiled at a Master Camp in Bovina. Pali' Recon intercepted when they spotted the Hexagon shipping the damn thing through Lake Delaware. That's how they found the Master Camp in the first place—enemy intel."
"That's near Big Indian," I said. "You're telling me we were that close to a Master Camp?"
"Correctamundo."
While the Rip Van Winkle checkpoint sourced a marksman from Mercado Lane, the O-Peck captain assigned 2Lt. Yemelyanova to oversee their operations.
The captain asked her as she stepped away from the Gloria-08, "Are you sure you'll be okay?"
The lieutenant, after taking a glance at the collapsed bridge, let out a deep breath and said, "We need people everywhere, Captain. Most of all, we need people on the bridges. You just do what you have to do." Then, she looked over to me, smiled, and said, "You take care now."
Giving her a friendly nod, I told her, "You, too."
I didn't know the lieutenant all that well. All I knew was that she was of Russian descent, and that a few people from the regiment suspected her to be a spy for the Soviets, but nothing much came out of that—St. Vier took all the blows for her.
"So…," when she disappeared into the crowd of checkpoint guards, Captain Mapleman said under his breath, "Everett told me you sneak out of the boarding house?"
My eyes focused on the SAM truck as I responded with, "Are you asking me or telling me?"
"Oh, don't get wise with me, Mrs. Baby." He followed as I paced around the bridge, telling me, "What were you thinking, sneaking out of the house like that?"
"Mr. Pie needed the extra hand—"
"Then we send in an O-Peck guy," he raised his voice at me. "You don't get up and go without telling anybody. I mean, we're trying to keep you safe here."
I scoffed, "Locking me up in that boarding house? That's imprisonment, Captain."
"Try 'keeping you in custody'," Captain Mapleman crossed his arms, "and it's quite tricky to do so if the person you're trying to keep in custody is being difficult."
"Well, the means define what this truly is. Don't you think so?"
He scoffed back, "What, you think you're a prisoner? Huh? Like St. Vier? Beaten, starved—you think you fall into any of those categories?"
"She gets to walk the land, and I don't."
The O-Peck captain got real close like he was sizing me up. He looked down on me and said, "Because the Hexagon just saw Elisabeth Baby-Peletier get blown to smithereens. People don't just walk away from those kinds of things."
"Yeah?" I didn't crumble under his daunting figure. "I did." I then asked him, "Is there any other reason why you brought me out here?"
The captain cooled his head by blowing air through his teeth. "Actually, there is." He handed me the letter. It didn't have an address nor was it stamped. He told me, "It's from Pope. She cares about you and wants to make sure that you're doing okay."
I was confused. "I thought we're not allowed to be in contact with Rockland County."
"Well, she let this one slide." As I was about to open it, the captain pressed his hand against the flap of the envelope. "Just hold onto it. I suggest you open it when we get back."
Could they have been leads? Did they uncover something about M-SIAT? General Vergs, Dr. Agatha, Pope—did they play the VHS? Did they examine the tickler? Was the information in that letter so confidential that I couldn't just read it then and there? That letter could've been anything. It also could've been another job offer in HOR Postal Services. Maybe they were going to relocate me back to Mercado Lane. It felt nice to have that letter in my hands even though, at the time, I had no idea the contents of it. I guess I was more content with the fact that Rockland County didn't go radio-silent on me.
Vroom.
The rundown SUV from the Vergs' residence parked further down the road. In it—Anais. I knew it was her because I could barely see who was behind the wheel. She must've been the marksman that the checkpoint sourced. I missed that old, rusty wagon. And I missed that sweet, innocent girl. I wondered if Dr. Agatha was alright with having Anais stationed at the bridge. Perhaps, she and the general had argued before coming to an agreement—an agreement that, I imagined, Dr. Agatha did not fully sign off on. I approached her, looking over my shoulder at the captain as he ambled back to the SAM truck.
"Mrs. Baby—"
"Please…," I muttered as I gave the girl a warm embrace. Her body grew tense like a guard dog's before slowly thawing in my arms. "'Lisa'... Call me 'Lisa'."
She held me just as tight. "I missed you, Lisa."
"I missed you, too." I asked her, "How's Dr. Agatha?"
"Mama's sick. She's been undergoing chemotherapy," Anais answered me. "After the hospital was repaired, I saw them assist Mama out of the house then into a car. That's how I found out, and I got scared."
I asked the girl, "And now, they stationed you here on the bridge? Is… Is Mama alright with that?"
"It was tough trying to convince her," said the girl, "but she agreed. Well…" Anais' eyes were drawn to the cracks in the asphalt. "She, uhm… She…"
"Anais?" I held her on the shoulders, "What's wrong, sweetie?"
"Mama and Papa fought. Now, Papa doesn't sleep in the house anymore." She said with a blank face, "He just keeps… drinking… and drinking…"
The little huntress sounded disturbed, and the way she spoke to me resembled that of a child. It's as if she ran and told. General Vergs spiraling into alcoholism could've only meant that the Hexagon was on the upswing—maybe even since the car bomb. You know, I never got to hear about what happened at the Harlem Piers. Given that the Rip Van Winkle Checkpoint was made to fend off Hexagon dinghies, maybe the French won in that bout. Even worse: maybe the siege never happened at all.
Anais and I sat on a bench on a stone walkway which ran along the river. The walkway had a clear view of the opposite shore which you couldn't see from the bridge itself. It was obstructed by military men busily going up and down the broken link, looking like dogs running in circles. The girl and I just sat back, taking in the cold December air. If my memory serves me correctly, the temperature in New York in 1992 was recorded at –11°F in early December. It was rigid, but it didn't snow. The soot must've torn all the snow clouds apart and inadvertently blocked out the sun. It was a devious kind of cold.
"Do you want to tell me more about it?" I asked Anais.
The girl had a subtle grimace painted on her face. Something must've been going on in that little head of hers. There was a thought yet to be purged. A feeling yet to shake. "It was never the same after CUIMC," she fretted, "We've been distant since. When she came home that day—the one when she sermoned me in the driveway—she was almost ashamed to be around me. And, me, I was too scared to talk to her."
"What did General Vergs say about that?"
"He tried to vouch for me. Tried to take the blame, but Mama started lashing out on him," Anais told me. "That was the first time they fought. The house got quiet after that. The second was when…"
Her eyes twitched and her breath was cut short. The girl put her hands to her mouth and gently wagged her head.
I leaned in closer, "When…?"
"Nothing…," she uttered, "nothing… Sometimes, I feel like it's my fault. They took me in, and all I did was give them problems."
I didn't want her to have to relive those moments by telling me what had happened between them. I scooted next to her and gave her another warm embrace. I said to the girl, "Don't say that now. You did nothing wrong. You and Papa want to fight for what's right, and Mama just wants the two of you to be safe. They get angry because they care about each other. More often than not, it stems from that place—from love."
"We push each other away. Does that stem from love?"
I was firm when I told her, "Oddly enough, it does." The next words I uttered weren't mine. "It's crazy to think how far a mental construct like love can get someone. People do all sorts of things because of it—live, die, fight. And sometimes, it entails fighting with the person that you love."
"So, this… This is still love?"
"Mhm," I nodded my head, "this is still love."
"Lt. Miller and Ms. Matsumoto," Anais uttered their names with a faint breath, "They must've really loved each other then."
You know, whenever something like that happened—a bomb went off, a sortie got ambushed, a comrade was lost—it was hard to forget. More tragically, these things became lines of chalk on my walls, and I was forced to remember these horrific moments as part of a sick tally. A tally that, when it got big enough, I came to forget about entirely.
But not this.
I remember Lieutenant Miller and Ms. Matsumoto everyday.
"They did," I replied to Anais as I stared into the void, "They really did."
* * *
Dear recipient,
Please review the documents carefully. Enclosed are your identification materials: social security card, birth certificate, and union membership card.
The individual associated with these documents is a garment worker from Montgomery, New York who decided to move to Nyack after Rockland County sourced markets and laborers further north. A gas leak in her Montgomery home left her with severe burns across her face and all over her body, resulting in her living a secluded life.
Do not attempt to alter these documents so as not to raise suspicion. When asked, answer in accordance with this letter.
The name "Tessa B. Lambert" was plastered on all those documents. That was the final nail in Elisabeth Baby-Peletier's coffin, but I didn't want it to be. It meant that I was going to be out of the picture soon—that the case was going to be put on ice maybe forever. There was going to be a lot left unsaid, and if that bomb didn't kill me, the what-could-have-beens would've done the job. God, it destroyed the lieutenant and the secretary.
I wasn't going to let it destroy me.
At the boarding house.
The daylight was ebbing away as I sat on the roof, my eyes fixated on the sun as it made its slow descent. As my gaze trailed the last of daylight, I spotted St. Vier smoking by the sedan. I never knew she smoked. At that time, if you weren't a heavy smoker, a pack of cigarettes was just as good as a wallet, but smokes didn't get you smokes. Money got you smokes. She was willing to do the payroll job so that she could get military pay. With that in mind, I wanted to see if money really did talk.
I exited the boarding house with my hands nestled in my pant pockets, shivering away. As soon as I got to the French, the last ray of sun dipped and went. She was easy to speak to now that she was on the roll. She didn't tense up like a rabid dog, nor did she have to look over her shoulder every time someone from the regiment walked up to her. She presented herself to me as an equal.
"Good evening, Canadian," she always called me that. "I'm sorry, but what the captain says goes."
I stopped her there, "Good evening to you, Reneta, though I'm not looking to join the ride."
"Then what do you want?"
There was no chance of St. Vier telling me all there was to know out of the kindness of her heart. There was no point in beating around the bush either. I've come to know the French as a short-and-sweet kind of person. And hopefully, that way, my money talked best. "I want to know if I can buy your cooperation."
The woman laughed in my face, nursing her stomach as she hunched over the hood of the sedan. "That's a good one, Canadian. You come out of your shell a lot quicker nowadays."
I waited for her to finish blowing smoke in my face. Afterwards, I asked her, "You're willing to laugh away a good ₣350.00?" I still had the money I collected from North Palisades and the wad of cash that General Vergs offered to me as a gift for supplying Dr. Agatha with Xemperil. If anytime was the time to use it, it was then. Dare she forgot—she owed me.
"You know, you're not one to make a bargain. For a good cause—sure. With your life—maybe. But with cash? Oof, that's a stretch."
She was becoming avoidant, though not in the way she'd typically be. The scoffs and the titters were rubbing me the wrong way. They felt forced. She couldn't even look me in the eye as she brushed off my offer. If I were to describe St. Vier during that moment, it would be as if she was sweating bullets. Like she saw a ghost or killed a man. Come to think of it, that is how I would've described Everett as well when I caught him eyeing me back at Big Indian.
I pressed on, "Renata, I think you and I both know that the jig is up." I raised the wad of cash in her face and murmured, "The least I can do is pay you for your troubles."
Of course, I was bluffing. If anyone was kept in the darkest dark, that would've been me, but I had nothing to lose. Anything was worth a shot, and it seemed like my bluff got to her. She looked away from me for a brief moment, letting out a deep sigh while scratching the back of her head.
With a strain in her voice, she asked me, "What do you want?"
"I want to know everything you know."
"And you want to pay me?"
"I want you to talk."
She attempted to shut me out. "And what makes you think that you can just buy me?"
"Because you know I'm not buying you," I answered. "I know you think this world hates you, and maybe you've witnessed enough of it to say that it does. The truth is I think it hates me, too." I offered her the cash one last time. "Maybe a truce can be made. Maybe I can buy your struggles away."
St. Vier looked at the fat stack of cash with a gleam in her eye. "And what do you get from me?"
"What happened when I was under?"
St. Vier and I went up to my room and climbed onto the roof. There, I was given yet another letter—more discretely, too. This one was addressed to me, but to the quarters on English Street down in Fort Lee and was written by Ms. Matsumoto. My name on the envelope was shortened. It said "Lisa Baby". St. Vier tucked her lips as she handed it to me, regretting her decision.
"And what's in this," I asked her. "My organ donor ID?"
"Oh, ha-ha," said the French. "That little woman gave it to me when Mr. Pie and I stopped by the collapsed bridge. She said she wanted to give it to you, but the captain was all over the place. She said it was impossible without being spotted."
"Little woman…"
"Le enfant."
"Anais?"
I wasted no time in opening the letter. I tore that envelope apart and stuffed it into my pocket. I then shimmied further up the roof so that the light from my room would cast onto the paper. When it did, I dug my face into it.
It read:
Dear Lisa,
I will soon be riding with an OEC into Montreal in a few. It's a stopover. You won't hear from me again by the time I get there, which is why I am writing you this letter.
On behalf of my late husband and myself, I wanted to extend my deepest gratitude to you for laying down your life at the Tellers Tower. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am for your courage and selflessness. I know with all my heart and all my soul that Lieutenant Miller is smiling down on you, saying his thanks.
I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for out there. I hope you don't forget the reason why you're there in the first place, why you wanted to join the Fort Lee Regiment, and why Pali' Recon took you under their wing. Sometimes, the answer is just right under your nose or over your shoulder. And in your case, it's always been there.
Trust that gut if it ever told you otherwise. You know what I mean.
Warm regards,
Ms. Yuki Matsumoto
You know, my gut only ever told me one thing. And if I didn't say it explicitly before, then I'll say it now: General Vergs, Dr. Agatha, and Noble were not who I thought they were. I slowly lowered the paper from my face, taking in deep breaths as I did. The French asked me what was on it, but I was very much in my own head, hearing nothing but those questions being wracked in my brain like it was a mill. From then on, I had to believe in one thing and one thing only. I had to believe—condition myself—that I was right. There was nothing else to bet on other than the thoughts that kept me up at night. The thoughts that tormented me during my entire service. The thoughts that made Noble's embrace so foreign.
I asked the French, "What do you know about this?"
"All I know is that the girl wanted to give it to you badly."
"Did she say she knew what was on it?"
St. Vier told me, "No, but I remember her saying that she received it at the Vergs residence."
I was told that Anais had to sneak into General Vergs' office just to obtain that letter. She also said that his office was dimly lit ever since the car bomb and that his desk was cluttered with Hexagon evidence, which I assumed were the things I plundered from the relay base. Ms. Matsumoto was right to tell me to trust my gut, but it was going to take a lot more than just confronting the general about it if I wanted to hear the truth. If he had spun a lie just to get me off his tail if I asked him, then I would've been no smarter than one of Pope's ant-bum-for-brains militiamen.
I asked her, "Do you know how to get to Mercado Lane from here?"
"It's a straight drive south, but I'm not permitted to operate a vehicle. Mr. Pie, sure, but he's old, and he's what you guys call a 'Sunday driver'. If I were part of Eyes and Ears and I saw a slow car driving the whole stretch, I'd remember it forever…," she aimed the sedan with her finger, "until I don't."
"Would a faster car fly under the radar?"
"Most likely. Harder to get a clear view of who's in the car."
There was no way I could get the captain to drive me back to Mercado Lane. If anything, he probably would've been the one to chase me down if I were to leave. 2Lt. Yemelyanova was occupying the Rip Van Winkle Checkpoint, and although it seemed that Anais wanted me to know something and was on my side, she couldn't just leave the checkpoint either. If she were to bring me to Nyack or even just head back down herself, General Vergs probably would've been notified about it. I needed someone and fast. Someone who was permitted to drive and maybe someone who could tell the captain that "Lisa's locked up in her room" as they'd bring me down to Mercado Lane—someone they'd trust if they said that.
"Does anyone from Catskill still go to Mercado Lane? Aside from Congress?"
St. Vier's eyes lit up as she told me, "Everett."
"Everett?"
Apparently, the CS had a hand in the cash drops. A cash drop was done every last day of the month, carrying a load that covered both halves of the next, and these were a mass sum of funds delivered in one go because Congress had to fund both Mercado Lane and Catskill. But on paper, the funds were allocated to just Mercado Lane. We still had forces stationed in Fort Lee, but it was for more informal operations—patrols and damage control. In short, we lost Fort Lee. Mercado Lane had been our main operation hub since then. St. Vier told me that, every two months or so, the CS would hitch a ride with Congress down to Mercado Lane to obtain my medicine—this was when I was still bedridden. But other than that, he'd be hand-delivering an expense sheet to General Vergs. The expense sheet covered the amount of funds allotted to the soldiers in Catskill, the necessities for the boarding house, my medications, and O-Peck's expenses on the checkpoint for repairs and/or outsourcing such as what they did with Anais. He did it every two months or so—not monthly. That would've been too routinely of a fashion. So he'd have to wait two months, and then after that, two-and-a-half or three months. Almost similar to how the hours between cash drops weren't uniform, and it was done that way for the same reasons.
"We lost Fort Lee?"
"I'm afraid so."
I paused for a moment. What if Noble was dead the entire time? What if he was KIA'd? What if I was waiting on nothing? What if he wasn't who I thought he was and he went without telling me the truth? What if he was holding onto something that whole time, and he never got the chance to tell me?
"How?"
St. Vier said to me that Hexagon fleets were seen flying over Rockland County, and that they flew far west from the river. General Vergs had pulled his forces from the Barren Buffer Zone and situated them in Mercado Lane, preparing to fend off what they thought was going to be an airstrike, but the French never dropped the bomb, and instead, left the regiment restless for the next few days until the fleet was seen a second time flying back across the river. By that time, the Hexagon began occupying Fort Lee, closing up the entire gap of the buffer zone. There was no more—just a fine line between them and Mercado Lane. The regiment soldiers and French guards encountered each other every day as they did their respective patrols, but no firefights were ever met. The regiment's remaining guards along with the Hexagon's cautious presence in Fort Lee brought the conflict to a stalemate.
"This was when you were still confined in Mercado Lane, and that was when the general ordered me to join the sortie. If I didn't, I'd be dead."
"Dear God…" I had to press on. I couldn't be shaken for too long or it would've thrown me off my course. "Well… Everett—when's the next time he's heading down to Nyack?" I asked.
"Mmm, we'll see," St. Vier stood from the roof and dusted her rump. "In the meantime, we curry his favor."
Her suggestion made me chuckle. Even though it was rather scornful, that might have been the first time someone's ever put a smile on my face after I woke up from that coma. I said to her, "And how's that gonna work?"
Everett and St. Vier had gotten very close. Back when St. Vier was chained in that ditch in Haven Ct., Everett would be the one grooming and feeding her. Her condition back then was awful. After being starved and left out in the sun, she grew too weak to do simple tasks such as lift a spoon up to her mouth. When the CS started doing these things for her, she regained a bit of her strength leading up to the day I had gotten her out of there, but the CS continued to groom and feed her regardless. When she was fit to walk the streets and capable of feeding herself, she'd wander around Mercado Lane until she'd find Everett who was usually at the market, asking him why he didn't feed her that specific day. It made sense why the former trusty took a liking to him. The young man was sweet on her.
When we got to Catskill, the two of them ran the boarding house. Everett cooked and St. Vier cleaned. When St. Vier was away for a cash drop, Everett would do both, and then when she'd return, she would get up early the next day to do both as well. They spotted each other like it was clockwork.
The next day.
As I sat in the dining room, I heard the voices of St. Vier and Everett slowly fill the halls, accompanied by the sounds of boots pounding against the floorboards. In my hand was the letter which rattled in my shaky grip. I felt like I was doing one of those under-the-table negotiations. Technically, I was. My proposal—I didn't know at the time—entailed a court martial of some sort, but I'll get into that part later. The CS marched into the dining room along with St. Vier. I sat at the head of the table—Everett sat to my left. He was told beforehand what I was asking of him. I was there to tell him my reasons.
"Lisa," Everett greeted me.
"Everett," I greeted him back.
Without uttering another word, I gently placed the letter on the table and slid it over to him. Leaning against the door frame, St. Vier kept watch, making sure no one was going to walk in on us. If anyone were to, with that letter on the table, it would've been over for us. I was pretty sure everyone knew about that letter Ms. Matsumoto had written. The CS took the letter and read it.
I watched as he let out a delicate exhale, and then, I told him, "This letter was confiscated. It was found in General Vergs' office even though it was addressed to English Street. It wouldn't have reached me since we weren't even there, but the letter never made it to me at all. No one even bothered to tell me that Ms. Matsumoto wrote to me before she left for Montreal."
"I see."
For ₣350.00, St. Vier told me about the failed pier job and Ms. Matsumoto's letter. That was all she knew and all she could tell me. When Everett and I sat at the table, she had no clue what we were talking about. She didn't know what I was truly after nor did she even know about Tommy. That was as far as my ₣350.00 was gonna get me. That and a ride if I was fortunate enough to persuade the CS.
"Ms. Matsumoto knew what I was after," I told him, "She knew exactly what I was after, and I am positive that it isn't whatever General Vergs and Captain Finer told me."
I had no other reason to doubt my gut. I mean, why would General Vergs not have known about Tommy's death if Captain Finer told me that he was shot and killed in the DMZ? The general never even discussed it to me a single time after he told me: "we're getting to the bottom of it". The fact that it flew over my head completely—I was definitely a fool.
"Lisa," Everett sounded exhausted.
"What?"
"I think…"
"What do you think?"
"I think there's nothing I can do for you." He told me that he understood why I was in my own head. That anyone would go crazy after a day or two of no TV, no phones, and no radios let alone a month. "I really do understand your struggles, Lisa, but this… Not everyone gets this. Not everyone gets to sleep even just a night at a place like Catskill."
"If you stay in a place like Catskill long enough, you get soupy in the brain."
"Don't forget about Pope's guards. I think we'll manage."
I asked him, "Why? Why can't you just take me there?"
"Because if we disobey direct orders, someone gets in trouble. Also, mind you, Renata's part of this little discussion of ours. You say Anais handed her that letter to hand it to you, right?"
"Right," I said.
He sat back in his chair, acting like he won the debate, but he didn't look too happy about it. If anything, the CS looked rather concerned. For the French, mostly. "Well, there you go." He explained to me that, "It doesn't matter if Anais swiped it from General Vergs. If word goes out that Renata handed you that letter, they'll throw her back in that ditch. They could even kill her, Lisa. And as much as I wouldn't want to see her go, they'll have every right to do so."
"Then we leave her out of it," me and my quick mouth thought it was as simple as that.
Of course, it wasn't. Call me selfish, but I didn't realize that, from the moment Anais swiped that letter from the desk to the moment Everett and I sat down, I had three roads coming back to me. The thing was, out of the four of us, I would've been the least in trouble. Anais would've been scolded by both the general and the doctor, the CS would've been deranked or sanctioned, and St. Vier would've been starved and killed. Me—with the knowledge that I have now—I would have probably been boarded on an OEC and brought away from the AO for good.
I looked over at St. Vier. She didn't appear spooked nor did she feel betrayed by me after hearing what Everett had to say. I take it she still felt pretty dispensable after everything, but I had no intentions of throwing her under the bus all for my personal gain. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, especially after the regiment raking her through the mud for the badge she wore.
I was no monster.
Everett stood from the dinner table. It appeared he was done having that talk with me. "You know, I wouldn't mind a sanction for this. I'd still be wary, but I'd do it. But I won't do it in exchange for a life, and I know, of all people, you wouldn't let that slide either."
"Everett…"
When the CS left the dining room, St. Vier stopped leaning against the door frame. It appeared that she was going to follow him, but after seeing me in my dejected state, she walked past the frame and into the dining room. She sat in the chair that the CS sat in just moments ago, scraping the gunk from the table using her nails.
She asked me, "How willing are you to get back?"
"Very willing."
"Okay then."
December 9th, 1992.
It would've been easier to leave Catskill if the CS was already making his way down to Mercado Lane. He wouldn't be at the boarding house observing me, and Congress wouldn't be in the region to stop us. St. Vier and I did just that. I was dressed in a long cotton skirt, a velvet coat, and a floral shawl wrapped around my scorched head to conceal my face. On foot, the French led me past the town's entrance, through the woods, and onto the side of the road where meat trucks were heading down. It was normal for people to hitch a ride on those service trucks. Most of the people who hitched rides to Mercado Lane were seeking work and had no other means of heading down.
"Ms. Lambert," the French addressed me by my alias as she flagged down a meat truck.
She herself was dressed in an old duster with a tacky, red blazer on top of it. She and I looked absolutely ridiculous, like two women from the sixties had wandered out of their time and straight into the nineties.
I joked to her, "I fear this skirt's going to give me a bad rash."
"You're a nomad," said the French, "You'd wear anything."
"No, I'm not. I'm Tessa," I said under my breath.
Finally, a meat truck parked on the roadside. The driver assisted me up to the passenger seat and slammed the door shut without any question. Once I was in, St. Vier gave me a wave. I asked her if that was all she knew—the fleets and the letter. She said yes. I then asked her why she was willing to help me other than the fact that I bribed her. I figured she wanted to cause a little stir. Something to take the heat off of her. The French placed her hand on the step and told me that she was never grateful for me getting her out of that ditch. She wasn't grateful for the work either. St. Vier told me that she would've rather died. But when she met Everett—the only other person who had shown her mercy and compassion… and maybe even more—she learned to be grateful to be alive. To be given a chance. She asked me as a joke if it was too late to give back the ₣350.00. St. Vier quipped that she owed me "350 and more".
"Live and be happy," was all I said.
When I waved back, the truck began rolling. I stared into the rear view mirror and I didn't stop until St. Vier was no longer in sight.
That money talked good.