Mysterium

And yet here was Evelyn, a heretic by anyone’s standard, though she claimed she had never taken religion “too seriously”; she was human, spoke English, was clothed in flesh not different from his flesh. He had felt her heart beating under the bump of her ribs. She was not a criminal or a succubus; merely a bystander.

One could not offer such arguments to the IB. They were more fascinated, more frightened, by the dome of blue light in the woodlands. It partook of the miraculous and was therefore, they reasoned, their property. Give credit where due, Demarch thought: some of the IB men were brave; some of them had walked into that light and walked out sickened or insane. Some had died, of what the doctors eventually called an irradiation disease. But the metaphysical puzzle was finally too much to endure. The town and all its inhabitants were malum in se and must be erased from the earth.

And how better than with Bisonette’s nucleic bomb? Which, in any case, would need to be tested.

But Evelyn. Evelyn was human. Evelyn would have to be taken care of.

He would have to look into that.

∞

He had scheduled an interview the next day with Linneth Stone’s “Subject,” the history teacher, Dexter Graham.

The sitting room of Evelyn’s hostel made an odd reception for a lieutenant of the Bureau. Leafless tree branches tapped the high windows; the furniture was large and padded. A Persian carpet decorated the floor and a mantel clock ticked into the afternoon silence. A moat of stagnant time.

Graham arrived between two pions in blue winter vestons, escorted in from a cloudy cold day. There was frost on the schoolteacher’s shoes. He wore a gray windbreaker tattered at the seams and was more gaunt than Demarch remembered. He looked at Demarch without visible emotion.

The lieutenant waved at a chair. “Sit down.”

Graham sat. The pions left. The clock ticked.

Demarch poured coffee from a carafe. He had interviewed dozens of the town’s preeminent men in this room: the mayor, the city councillors, the police chief, clergymen. Their eyes always widened at the sight of a hot cup of coffee. Demarch was always scrupulously polite. But there was never a cup for the guest. Of such humble stones, the fortress of authority was built. He said, “I gather your work with Linneth Stone is going well?”

“It’s her work,” Dexter Graham said. “I work at the school.”

The insolence was amazing. Refreshing, in a way. The lieutenant had grown accustomed to the automatic deference of civilians, to the uniform as much as to himself. Dexter Graham, like many of the citizens of Two Rivers, had never learned the reflex.

Since the executions last June, many had acquired it. But not this one.

“Miss Stone arranged some liberties through my offices. She won’t be escorted by guards, for instance. Are you cognizant of the fact that this is a considerable generosity on my part?”

“I’m aware that it’s a little out of character.”

“I don’t want you to trespass on that generosity.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“In the course of the last several months we’ve had notable cooperation from the town’s responsible leaders, Mr. Graham—everyone from the mayor to your principal, Bob Hoskins.” Which was all true. Only the churchmen had been truly problematic, and Demarch had promised them they would be allowed to carry on their odd species of worship. Clement Delafleur had protested all the way to the capital. But it was only a temporary arrangement, after all. “You’re something of a pillar of this community yourself, Mr. Graham. I need your cooperation, too.”

“I’m not a pillar of anything.”

“Don’t be modest. Though I admit the record tends to support you there. Transferred five times in fifteen years for violations of school board protocol? Maybe you chose the wrong profession.”

“Maybe I did.”

“You admit it?”

Dexter Graham shrugged.

Demarch said, “There is an aphorism. One of our writers defined a scoundrel as a brave man without loyalty to his prince.”

“There aren’t any princes here.”

“I was speaking figuratively.”

“So was I.”

The clock rationed a few more seconds into the still air.

“We’ve done a great deal for the village,” Demarch said. “We’ve restored water. We’ve laid electrical lines all the way from Fort LeDuc fifty miles south. Those weren’t easy decisions. They were opposed. No one understands what happened in this patch of woods, Mr. Graham; it’s very strange and very frightening. Good will has been shown.”

Graham was silent.

Demarch said, “Acknowledge that.”

“The water is running. The lights are on.”

“But despite that generosity we still have reports of curfew violations. A man about your size and age was seen crossing Beacon Street after dark.”

“It’s a common size and age.”

“The curfew isn’t a joke. You’ve seen what happens to criminals.”