“What about the document itself?” I ask him. I’ve still got it, it’s in the wagon somewhere, fifty pages of gobbledygook and indecipherable math. “Where did the numbers come from? The whole—the plan?”
“The Internet.” Jordan shrugs. “Public records. Someone might have pulled a file from NASA. The truth is, at a certain point it was like a game. How preposterous can we make the whole thing? How unlikely a scenario, how self-evidently unbelievable, and see if these people would still believe it. Turns out: pretty much all the way. People will believe pretty much any goddamn thing if they want to bad enough.”
The endgame played out just as they had imagined it. Kessler in his role as Jordan lets Astronaut know that Parry has been located and set free—one fake person telling a conman about the location of another fake person—and that he, Jordan, is arranging his transportation to the Ohio location. It’s Astronaut’s responsibility to gather up everyone else, get to this abandoned police station near a municipal airfield, and wait.
“And he did it.”
“Of course he did. By that time, he was sure that he really was going to save the world. He thought he was the drug-dealing robber who had turned into an action hero. But we were writing the script, and the script ended with them sitting in the middle of nowhere, not bothering anybody, waiting for someone who doesn’t exist, until lights out.”
*
We walk slowly through the woods, Kessler and I. To the small rutted field surrounded by bent trees. Patches of black-red blood are still evident in the muddy puddle where I found the body. He told me he wants to see the crime scene; take prints, do a sweep for evidence. I’ve explained that I did all of those things, but he said he’d like to do it himself.
He wants to see, so here we are, but he’s not doing anything. Agent Kessler just stands at the edge of the clearing, looking at the ground.
Everything is clear except one thing, and even that is pretty clear.
“Jordan?”
“Kessler,” he reminds me quietly, stepping into the clearing.
“Kessler. What happened? Why are you here?”
He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again.
“Kessler?”
He’s crouching down on his heels, staring at the mud where Nico died. I need to hear him say it, though. I need to know everything. I have to.
“Kessler? Why did you come out here?”
He speaks slowly. His voice is choked, low.
“DeCarlo’s a maniac. At heart. The file is spiked with bad acts. Sudden violence. He gets double-crossed or cheated, or when things go wrong … bad acts.” The smug kid that I so hated is gone; the furious FBI agent on a mission is gone. Kessler is just a kid. A young guy with a heavy heart. “We knew he was capable of anything at the end, if he figured out that it was all bullshit—or even if he didn’t figure it out. When he finally realized that the world was really going to die, that he was really going to die. The fucking narcissist. God knows what sort of horror show this thing might turn into.” He drifts off, staring. “God knows.”
I picture my sister facedown in the dirt. Of course I do. I can’t help it. Facedown in the dirt, her open wound clotting with mud. God knows.
“I couldn’t—” Kessler says, and then he breathes through his teeth, stamps his boot on the ground. He covers his face with his hand. “All the rest of ’em, fuck ’em. Stupid wild-eyed hippies, let ’em get what they deserve. Trying to steal a fucking bomb. But not—” He cries out again. He sinks slowly to his knees. “Not her.”
I knew it. I guess I’ve known it since he came limping down the hallway to the cell.
“You—had feelings for her.”
He laughs, a wet mucous weeping laugh. “Yeah. You man-child. You weirdo. I had feelings for her. I fucking loved her.”
“But you could have saved her. You could have told her not to come, told her it was all a set-up.”
“I did!” He looks at me, not angry but imploring. Desperate. Bereft. “I told her everything. That day in New Hampshire, out in Butler Field, waiting for the chopper to come and scoop her up, I told her that the whole thing was a set-up, that I was an FBI agent, that DeCarlo was a fraud and a psychopath. Capable of anything.” He chokes out the nickname. “Big Pharma. I showed her my fucking badge.” He trails off. “But …”
Damn it, Nico—damn it. “She didn’t believe you.”
Kessler nods, exhales. “It was too late. She was too deep into it. Into this fantasy world that I created my damn self. I said, you’ll believe me when Parry never shows up. I said, promise me, if he doesn’t show up in two weeks, you’ll steal this fucking helicopter and come back home. I said, promise me.” He is crying now, his face buried in his hands.
No way she promised. My sister has never promised anything.