Emily hurried back into the room and threw the dog on the table. She set down the knife, ripped off its red-and-white kerchief. Turned it all directions, examining it.
Nance watched, muscles tense. “Anything?”
“No.”
“Cut it.”
Emily snatched up the knife and plunged it into Rawly. Drew it down the length of his belly. In a frenzy she tore out stuffing, throwing it all around. I watched the knife divide and splice, knowing she wanted the toy to be Nance.
The dog’s fluffy stomach revealed no hidden paper.
“Keep going!” Nance’s face reddened.
Emily started on the limbs, cutting them off one by one. Nothing in the right leg. Or the left.
“Come on, come on.” I muttered the words under my breath, gaze jumping from the dog to my mother. Her eyes met mine, fear-filled and spent.
“What is she doing?” Mom’s voice ebbed. “Emily.”
She’s trying to save you.
“Almost done, Mom. I promise.”
Emily moved to the toy’s arms. Off came the right one. She cut it down the middle, splayed it apart. Out came more stuffing.
Nothing.
Sweat beaded my daughter’s forehead.
She drove the knife deep into the left shoulder, separating the last arm. Pulled it to pieces. I could feel the heat coming off her, the will to
find
something. To stuff the piece of paper into Nance’s fingers and pull her grandmother into her own embrace.
The arm lay shredded. No encryption key.
A futile cry escaped Emily. She attacked the one last remaining part—the head. Off came the large bead eyes, the ears and nose. She cut up the face, pulling and yanking stuffing in a frenzy.
The head was destroyed. No piece of paper inside.
“No, it’s here!” Emily threw down the knife. “It’s got to be.” She fell to her knees, dragging both hands through the balls of stuffing, searching with all her might. I ran over and knelt beside her. We jerked up pieces and tore them to smaller bits. Tore and tore until mere strands remained together.
Nothing. We looked around us, breathing hard.
Something
had to be here.
Emily snatched up the red kerchief once more. Held it close to her sweaty face, looking,
pleading
for tiny written letters and numbers on the cloth. Nothing on the outer side. She turned it over, eyes flicking back and forth.
She stilled.
In slow motion her hand came down. Dropped the kerchief.
“It’s not here.”
No. Couldn’t be.
We stared at the mess. In my mind I heard Morton’s hitched voice:
“Rawly.”
Nance spat a curse. “You said it was there!”
“It is! It was.” My stomach heaved. What was left for us? Our country? The lights would go out here tonight. Tomorrow, in the east.
Nance cursed again. “You’re
lying.
”
Emily jumped up, determination setting her jaw. “Maybe it’s something else to do with Rawly. In the girl’s bedroom.” She yanked the knife off the floor and limp-rushed toward the hall. “I’m popping that lock.”
My heart squeezed. What would Ashley do when Emily broke through her daughter’s door, wielding a knife? “No, wait!” I hurried after her.
“Hannah!” Mom called. I swiveled back. Pointed to Nance. “Don’t hurt her! One more minute, we’ll do this.”
Nance glared at me. I pivoted to follow Emily.
She reached the bedroom door and pounded it with her fist. “Let me in!”
Silence.
Emily jabbed the point of the knife into the lock and turned. The lock gave way. She shoved the door open.
“Wait, Em—”
The room was empty. On the back wall—an open window. Curtains fluttering. I took in a bed, white furniture, toy boxes. A desk. Something there caught Emily’s eye. She rushed to it and snatched up a small collar. “Look, it says Rawly!” She turned it over, examined the inside. Her chin lifted, victorious. “It’s here!” She thrust it toward me.
There they were, a random series of numbers and letters, written with a fine tip marker. Such little things to nearly cost us our lives.
From the living room my mother wailed. Emily and I rushed toward the sound. “We found it!” Emily clutched the collar in her hand. “We found it!”
Nance let my mother go. “Give it to me.”
Mom kicked Nance in the shins. “You’re a
bad
person!” Rage puffed out her cheeks.
“Mom.” I veered toward her.
“No! Leave me
alone
!” She reared back and screamed. The sound split the air. Anyone on the block could have heard.
“Stop!” Nance grabbed Mom and shook her. “Right now.”
My mother screamed louder, her eyes squeezed shut.
Nance clapped a hand over her mouth. “I swear I’ll kill you!” She rammed her gun back against Mom’s temple.
“No!” Emily dropped the collar and launched herself at Nance. I ran behind her, seeing Nance’s finger go for the trigger, knowing we’d never make it in time.
Mom beat both fists against Nance’s side, shrieking around her fingers.
Emily knocked into them both. Nance’s hand flew away from Mom’s head. I yanked my mother out of her grip. Nance stumbled, still holding the gun.
The front door splintered open. Heavy footsteps pounded.
Nance spun toward Emily and fired.
My daughter thudded to the ground.
A
t the sight of Emily bleeding on the floor, everything in me went white. My brain held no thought, my body could not feel.
Mom shrieked.
Blood rushed back into my veins. I lurched for Emily and dropped to my knees beside her. She clutched her thigh, blood oozing onto her hands. It was the same leg already bleeding at the knee. Her face was white, eyes rammed shut.
Sergeant Wade ran into the room, gun raised. He skidded to a stop and aimed at Nance. “Put the gun down.”
“She came at me, Sarge, I had to shoot!”
“Put the gun
down
!”
She placed it on the floor.
“Kick it over to me.”
She obeyed. He picked it up.
Was I dreaming this?
A policeman bounded in, weapon ready, followed by two men wearing FBI vests. Wade handed the cop Nance’s gun. “Take her in.”
Take her in?
Mom staggered to my side and bent over her beloved Emily, sobbing.
“I—o—kay,” Emily sputtered. Her teeth were clenched.
The policeman cuffed Nance and led her away.
The world flowed and swayed. My brain could barely process. I could only clutch my daughter’s hand, praying, pleading with Jesus.
Let her be okay let her be okay let her be okay . .
.
Wade soothed her and me, murmuring he was sorry, but I couldn’t understand and had no energy to try. He could arrest me later, I didn’t care. Just let me be with Emily now, let me hold my crying mother, and try to make sense of it all.
“Mo—” Emily tried to talk. “K-k-.”
One of the FBI men—was he for real?—picked up the collar. Examined it. His head jerked up. “This it?”
I gave a vague nod.
“The key?”
“Yes!” As if I cared anymore. I just hung on to Emily.
Both FBI men ran out. Sergeant Wade stayed.
What was happening here?
Sirens sounded in the distance. Police came, and more police. An ambulance. Paramedics loaded Emily onto a gurney, then into the vehicle. I stayed by her side, climbing in after her. Mom wanted to come too. They tried to pull her away, but she writhed and fought and wailed, her cries piercing and high. They relented.
Somewhere along the way to the ambulance I’d seen Ashley Eddington on the sidewalk, clutching her little girl. Words flowed around her, about climbing out of a bedroom window . . . telling Sergeant Wade . . .
The ambulance door closed. It was crowded. The paramedic was treating Emily for shock. She was shaking, clammy. “Her femoral artery wasn’t hit.” His words burned into me. “She’ll be okay.”
“Where are we going?” Had I said that? I couldn’t feel my mouth move. Couldn’t feel my body.
“Sequoia Hospital.”
Back to where we started.
At the hospital they unloaded Emily and whisked her through the emergency room doors. I followed with Mom, as fast as she could go.
Just inside the door, Mom collapsed.
I caught her before she hit the floor. I yelled for help. Nurses bustled to her side, lifted her onto a gurney and rolled her toward an exam room. Before I knew it, I was alone.
The walls of my mind closed in. I wobbled across the floor like a lost soul. Which one did I go to first, mother or daughter?
Sergeant Wade materialized. “You okay?”
I listed to one side. His strong arms caught me.
“Come, sit down.” He guided me to a chair. I sat heavily. “I’m so sorry this all happened to you. If I’d understood earlier . . .”
“I’m not under arrest?” My mouth moved, but the sound was so far away. Spots crowded my vision.
Wade held my arms. “No, don’t worry—”
I fought him. “Have to . . . go. See Emily. Mom.”
He hung on to me. “Emily will be headed for surgery. They have to take the bullet out.”
“I have to see—”
“You can’t.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Shire.
No
.”
This couldn’t . . . “I have to see Mom . . .”
“She’ll be fine. You can see her in a little while. She just needs rest. And hydration.”
Me too. “She needs me.”
“Mrs. Shire,
you
need you.”
Weakness overtook me. I couldn’t get up.
A nurse appeared. “She all right?”
“Bring her some water.”
Footsteps hurried away. Came back. My fingers closed around a bottle. I drank.
My mother would need her medication tonight. It was in her suitcase. In Aunt Margie’s car. Which was . . . ?
A different memory pulsed. Stuffing spread across the floor.
“It wasn’t in Rawly. In his collar.”
“I saw that.”
“Those men—they took it?”
“Yes.”
“Can they stop it in time?”
I didn’t even know what time it was. Had no energy to look.
“You can bet they’re trying.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“They don’t need me now. You do.”
Air bubbles skidded around my lungs. My thoughts ebbed and flowed, chaotic tide churning sand. “Nance Bolliver is one of them. Three men in the house. Dead.”
“Where?”
“San Mateo.”
“Who are they?”
“Tex. Mack. Stone.”
“I mean their organization.”
Full realization finally hit me. Wade had broken into Ashley Eddington’s house. Arrested Nance. Saved us.
I reared back and looked him in the eye. “You’re not one of them?”
“No.”
My brain couldn’t comprehend it. “Yes, you are.”
“
Why
did you think that? Why did you run instead of calling me when that man broke into your house?”
“You told them I kept a copy of that video. They came to kill me.”
A slow light dawned on his face. He shook his head. “No. Nance must have told them.”
Oh.
Oh.
All the thoughts I’d had, the preconceived notions, rushed me. What had I done? I’d put my family in danger. “Is Harcroft with them?”
“No.”
“But he never trusted me.”
“Harcroft doesn’t trust anybody.”
“Only Nance, then?”
Wade pulled in a breath. “That we know of.”
We fell silent. I couldn’t form words. My insides jumbled and tore. I drank more water, exhaustion rolling over me. Tears fell from my eyes. I leaned over, and they plopped on my pants. “This is my fault. I
failed
.”
That’s when the lights went out.
I
n the emergency waiting room the dark seemed endless. People called out to one another. Things bumped and rattled. I could hear my own breathing.
I couldn’t believe it had happened. It had really
happened.
Was this what our world would be like from now on?
What about Emily’s surgery? What about Mom?
“Will you be all right?” Wade’s voice, grim. “Generators should come on soon here. I need to go.”
“Sure.”
The lights flickered on.
Thank You, God.
I rose, demanding information about Emily. She’d gone to surgery, they said.
“But how do they do surgery when the lights are out?”
“The docs just wait for the generators. Now that power’s back on, everything should be proceeding fine.”
Not good enough. I wanted to tear down walls until I found my daughter.
“Mrs. Shire, would you like to see your mother?”
Smart nurse knew how to divert me. “Yes.”
She pointed the way. I wound through the emergency area and slipped into Mom’s room. She was lying in bed, an IV in her arm. Tugging on a nurse’s sleeve. “I have to go. We have to get to Raleigh . . .”
Mom saw me—and her face lit up. “Hannah. Can we go to Raleigh now?”
A sob burst from me. Had she forgotten Emily had been shot?
Leaning over the bed, I smoothed white hair off Mom’s forehead. “We don’t need to go anymore.”
“We don’t?”
“No. We just need to get you well and home.”
“What about the Bad People?”
“I don’t think they’ll be after us anymore.” They’d gotten what they wanted. I thought of the millions of homes without power. The businesses and stores. Government buildings.
How
could anyone do this to their own country?
How long would the hospital generators stay on?
Some time later, Emily’s surgery was over. “She’ll fully recover,” the doctor told me. “We got the bullet out. She’ll have a scar, but she’ll be fine. Once she’s awake and in her room, you can see her. We’ll keep her overnight.”
The bullet, he said, had been given to police. It was evidence.
I nodded. “Tell me. How long will the generators last?”
The doctor didn’t know.
Mom was admitted also—a different room. The generators held up that night, and I spent the time moving from one room to another, checking on both my mother and my daughter. At about 2 a.m., I collapsed in a chair in Emily’s room.
When I awoke, a beautiful sun was shining. But the heaviness would not leave my heart.