It’s a private courtyard, for staff, not open to the public. Through a locked barred gate I see mayhem in the main square. One small group of staff sees Mary May with her gun and screams and runs in the opposite direction. This isn’t the help I need. Where are the authorities? I realize that no one will come to my aid. Despite the fact Mary May is holding a gun, which is not an authorized Whistleblower weapon, I am Flawed and she is a Whistleblower and nothing can be done to stop this. If anyone tried, they may be seen as aiding me. The only people who could come to my aid are the police, and my last run-in with one at the supermarket didn’t end well.
“After her bath, Mommy said she was tired,” Mary May continues as though we haven’t scared away a bunch of suits and are now surrounded by mayhem as the Flawed and the public protest in the public courtyard next to us. She’s in a world of her own. “She sometimes has a morning nap. So I put her to bed. That’s when she told me about you. She called you her angel, but I realized it was you. She said that you visited her last night, that you helped her get water from the lake. I thought she was making it up. Then she said she forgave me. That she will speak for me when her time comes…” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but a single tear runs down her cheek and her hand starts to tremor. “You killed her,” she says.
“Hey, stop it,” Art says, stepping in front of me. “Put the gun down, Mary May, this is crazy!”
“You killed my mommy,” she says, ignoring Art.
The gate into the courtyard opens and I quickly glance in its direction to see people flooding in. Flawed and public, escaping the main courtyard. I think I see Carrick’s brother, Rogan, leading the pack, but I’m not sure, I’m afraid to take my eyes off Mary May and that gun.
“There she is!” someone yells, and I assume it’s Whistleblowers coming to get me, and for a moment I feel relief, I don’t care who the rescue comes from as long as I’m not shot, but it’s confusing as everyone is wearing red now, so it’s difficult to distinguish the difference. It’s as though we’re all the same.
“Don’t you tell me how to do my job,” Mary May finally addresses Art. “Your father instructed me to look after this girl and I will follow his instructions. My job is my life. I gave up everything for this, to answer to your father. I gave him everything. And I have never not finished the job I started,” she yells, clearly uncomfortable with the growing presence of others in the square. She’s attracting attention, too. People are moving close. Calling out to her to put the gun down.
“Here! I told you she’d be here.” I hear a familiar voice and I look to the left and see Rogan. It is him. He’s with a small group and he’s pointing at Mary May. “You should have taken me in when you had the chance,” Rogan shouts at her. “Look who I brought to see you.”
Mary May finally hears them and turns to her right. She looks at them and her face changes, mouth open, skin pale in utter shock and terror.
“You can’t ignore your family now,” a man yells.
“Remember us, sis?” the woman says, and I look at them in surprise. It’s her sister, Alice, and her three brothers.
“We want to see Mommy,” Alice says.
“What did you do to her?” a brother asks.
“Nothing. Nothing. It was her,” she says weakly, the power all gone from her as the family she was responsible for branding Flawed gangs up on her. Her father is dead, and now her mother is, too.
Her power has disappeared and it’s as though she suddenly realizes it. She glances at the madness around her. Flawed, Whistleblowers, and members of the public all running wild. The Whistleblowers are now the hunted; the Flawed and unflawed are together, the hunters.
She lowers her gun; I see the panic start to show in her eyes. She backs away and starts to run. But she doesn’t get far, because a hand appears from inside the door that we came through. A hand that pulled its body along the cold, hard floor of the holding cell floors, and up the winding staircase.
Carrick appears, sweating, panting, exhausted, just in time, to wrap his hand around her ankle, stopping her from getting away.
She starts to fall to the ground, and as she does her hands instinctively go out to break her fall. Forgetting the gun is still in her hand, she squeezes the trigger.
The gun fires. The sound echoes around the courtyard.
Everybody, everybody drops to the ground.
SEVENTY-SIX
WITH EVERYONE DOWN on the ground I don’t know if anyone has been shot. There’s a shocked silence, as everybody stays down.
But the screaming that begins is a hint. It’s high, hysterical, and out of control. It’s panicked. It tells me somebody has been hit.
And when I try to focus on where it’s coming from, I realize it’s coming from me.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
ART IS ON top of me, guarding me like a shield. He’s not moving.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
“ART!” I SCREECH.
“Celestine!” Carrick calls out.
“Carrick!” Rogan yells, and runs to his brother.
“Art!” I try to get up from the ground but he’s so heavy and I don’t want to hurt him further.
“It was an accident,” Mary May says from the ground. “It was an … I didn’t mean to.…”
Her family gets to their feet and surrounds her. Her brother takes the gun away from her.
Her sister leaves her brothers and runs toward us. “I’m a vet. Or I was.” She feels his pulse.
“Is he alive?” I cry.
“Celestine!” Carrick calls. “Are you okay?”
I can’t answer him—my focus is completely on Art.
Alice nods and moves Art. He groans, and I’m so relieved to hear his voice.
“Get your hands off him!” Judge Crevan booms. I look up and see him running across the courtyard toward us. “He’s my son.”
Alice looks at Crevan and down at Art, making a connection. For an awful moment I think she won’t want to help him because of who his dad is. But she makes a decision. “Last I heard, there was no rule against a Flawed aiding a Whistleblower,” she says.
“He’s not a Whistleblower,” I say. “He was helping me escape.” I need as many people to hear this as possible for Art’s sake. He wouldn’t want to be thought of like his dad: That was his greatest fear.
“Celestine,” Carrick calls again, and I look up. He’s desperately trying to make his way toward me. Rogan is trying to help him to his feet. I’m torn. I don’t want to ignore Carrick, but I can see that he has help now, and I need to concentrate on Art.
Art, Art, Art.
SEVENTY-NINE
ALICE TAKES OFF her cardigan and wraps it around the wound on Art’s stomach, and she presses down.
He acted as a shield for me; he took the bullet square on. He saved my life.
“Ambulance is on its way,” a Whistleblower calls.
Crevan falls to his knees. Art’s head is in my lap. I cradle it, run my fingers through his curls with my trembling fingers. They’re covered in blood.
Crevan sits on the other side, leaning over his son, showering his face in kisses. The two of us are crouched over, crying.
“He’ll be okay?” He weeps. “Tell me he’ll be okay. I can’t lose him. He’s all I have.”
Art’s eyes flicker open and closed again.
“Who did this?” Crevan asks angrily, looking at me.
“Her,” I say, venom in my voice.