“Show me a hero,” Fitzgerald said, “and I’ll write you a tragedy.”
I now think I know what he meant.
Jackson from Jackson is going to be fine so I’ve heard. I rang the hospital and said I was a reporter from the local paper. They told me he came through the surgery and will regain good health, although he will walk with a limp for the rest of his life. I did that to him. I was responsible.
The funny thing is, if I asked him to do it over again, I think he would. He’s just that kind of guy. He was the one person, other than Cam, who seemed to truly care about me. So naturally I did my best to get him killed.
Katz will be fine too, I hope. Nan and Pops have moved back into the family home. (It was theirs before it was ours, after all.) So they are looking after her for now. I hope she’ll get over the trauma of losing both her parents and her only sister. She’s strong. I think she’ll make it.
I hope she starts writing again.
I like to imagine that one day I’ll make contact with her. Let her know that I am alive. Tell her the story of what happened. Maybe. If I am lucky.
One day.
They tracked my movements all the way to Camp David, but found no trace of me afterwards. The assumption was that I perished in the fire, although no trace of my body was every found.
Debate raged in the media and in the Senate over whether I was part of the plot, or trying to stop it. President Reinhardt declared in favour of the latter, and offered me an amnesty on all charges if I gave myself up.
When I did not, the only reasonable assumption was that I was dead.
I could have handed myself in. I should have handed myself in. The prospect of the amnesty was appealing. I could go back to the life I once had, or something approaching it. A life of ease, and luxury.
But I chose not to.
Handing myself in would mean letting them know that I was still alive, and I doubted that I would ever be safe if that happened. Sooner or later they would find me. Everywhere I went I would sense the crosshairs on the back of my neck.
But it’s more than that.
They, like everyone else, think I am dead. So I am dead. I am happy to be dead.
Cassie Clark was worried about the cold hard reality of the world outside of home and school. Well it turned out to be a lot harder and colder than she could have imagined.
But I am not that girl any more.
I have a new appearance. My hair is cut way short in what they call a high and tight recon. I call it a jarhawk.
I have a new identity and, for now, thanks to Mr Abel, unlimited funding.
And for the first time in my life I have a purpose.
James Singleton Boak was released from jail on the same night he was locked up. At least that is what it seems. When the FBI investigation team went to interview him in the jail the next day he wasn’t there. In fact, no record of a prisoner by that name ever existed.
The law can’t touch him. That is clear. The Puppetmasters are above the law. Way above. They make the laws.
But guess what Mr Boak. I am not the law.
I am outside the law. I guess you could say I’m an outlaw.
And I’m coming for you.