Chapter One

Hanson

 

The room was ominous, the kitchen cabinets dark shadows on the wall. The only light was the neon green glow of the microwave clock. The coffee in front of him was cold, but he didn't care. It was probably the twentieth cup he'd had already. There was the strange stillness that comes only before dawn when no one else is awake, when the world stops for a moment. Except it didn't really stop, did it? Everything kept revolving; everything kept spiraling outside of his control. On and on.

Then there was the sound of her key in the door. She slumped tiredly into a chair opposite him, rubbing her face with her hands. Hanson got up and poured a new cup of coffee, sliding it across the table to his wife.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

“Silva and Reynolds both dead. Hammersmith as president.”

Kishanna nodded, numbly.

“What the hell is going on, Kish?”

She took a long drink of her coffee before she responded.

“They're saying it was a terrorist attack. A targeted terrorist attack. Muslims. Mexicans maybe. An attempt to punish the US for its recent foreign policies. Though why a Mexican terrorist would assassinate a Mexican-American president, I have no idea.”

“So the same old, same old,” Hanson said. “There any truth in it?”

She shrugged. “Too soon to say. Could be, I suppose. At this point I'd be willing to believe anything if I saw proof.”

He realized she hadn't yet looked at him. Couldn't look in his eyes.

“Kish . . .”

“Why?” she asked. “You said it wasn't you. You said you tried but failed. I believe you—I do. But why, Kel? Why would you do it? Why would you do this to us, to me, to the kids? What would we be without you?”

He could explain it to her. And she'd understand. He could tell her that he'd have done it for freedom, for democracy, because Silva was a tyrant, because he was shitting on the very country that loved him. But he didn't, because he knew she knew all that. He knew that once she gave it thought, she would understand, and he didn't need to explain to her. So instead, he simply apologized.

“I'm sorry.”

She gave a small smile, looking up at him now. “Sorry? For failing to assassinate a tyrant? I bet you are. But only because you failed, am I right?”

Now he too smiled a little, the first time he'd smiled for a long time, all night probably. “Maybe,” he allowed.

“We all do things because we think they're right,” she said eventually, after minutes of silence had lain over them. “All of us. Even whoever did this to Silva thought he was right. It's the nature of people.”

She looked heavy somehow, he thought. A weight lay on her. It took him a moment or so to understand what she was trying to get at. Then he understood and wanted to take her in his arms, but knew that wouldn't make things better, so he stayed in his seat.

“You wrote your story because it was the right thing to do,” he said. “The truth is always right. No matter the consequences. You're the one who taught me that. The truth is unassailable.”

“But if I hadn't, if I'd waited, if I'd toned things down as the editors told me again and again to do . . .”

“Then maybe all this wouldn't have happened,” he said. “But then again, maybe it would. Maybe all this had nothing to do with you at all and was going to happen anyway. Who knows? There seems to be little point blaming yourself. It would be, dare I say it, arrogant even, to blame yourself. You're a fantastic reporter, a great journalist, but world affairs are bigger than all that, and I think you know that.”

She didn't say anything to this, but the lines on her face faded somewhat.

“What now?” she said, again after a long silence.

“We should go to bed,” he said. “I'm guessing you're not going to be here for long. We can grab an hour or so of sleep before you need to go back.”

“That's not what I meant.”

He knew it wasn't, but he didn't have the answers she was looking for.

“Hammersmith isn't a bad guy,” he said slowly. “He's military. . . .”

“And therefore shouldn't be in control of the government,” Kish said immediately. “This isn't a military junta.”

“Is it not?”

She gave her small smile again. “Damned if I know.”

“Then perhaps it is, or perhaps it's not. Perhaps Hammersmith is taking control to avoid panic and chaos, and within a few days all will become apparent and all will be explained and we'll all go vote next week and get a new demagogue to lead us,” he said.

She nodded but didn't look convinced. Hanson couldn't blame her—he wasn't convinced himself.

“And in the meantime, we wait,” he said. “There's no point doing anything until we understand what's going on. Perhaps, after all, this is what we were working toward. Silva is gone, and something new is, or will be, in his place.”

“Did he deserve this, though?” she asked, and her eyes were childlike.

“Does anyone deserve anything? Who am I to say?”

In the cold gray light of the early, early morning, he pulled out his wife's chair and helped her tired body out of it. Then he steered her toward the bedroom, stopping himself to clear away the coffee cups. A faint yellow was staining the gray sky when he finally turned to make sure the kitchen was clean. A new day. The first day. God knew what it was going to bring. But he had a feeling in his gut that it wasn't going to be anything good.