The Furies (25 page)

Halstead raised his eyebrows. For the first time he seemed to be taking Larson seriously. But then he shook his head. “Sorry, but I'm not convinced. Your evidence isn't solid enough. And if you can't convince me, I doubt you'll find a judge who'll grant you a search warrant. We're talking about a religious community here. We can't set foot on that farm unless we're absolutely sure.”

“Sir, I don't need a warrant yet.” Larson looked the bastard in the eye. “I just need some help with my surveillance efforts. I've positioned several agents just outside the fence, but they can't observe all the activity on the farm because it's so big. The farmhouses at the center of the property are more than half a mile from the fence, and my agents' view is obstructed by the cornfields and outbuildings.” He leaned a little farther across the desk. “What I need is an aerial view of the farm, preferably from a high-altitude surveillance aircraft. I assume the Homeland Security Department has that capability?”

The deputy secretary gave him a cagey look. “Are you referring to our drone aircraft? The MQ-9 Reaper?”

Larson nodded. “I know your department uses them to keep an eye on the Canadian border. I'd like you to divert one of the Reapers a little farther south so it can observe the Amish farm. It needs to be in position by noon tomorrow.”

“Why then?”

“My informant called me earlier this afternoon and said a significant event would occur on the farm at that time. He didn't specify the exact nature of this event, but he said we could collect evidence of criminal activity if we had aerial surveillance in place.”

Halstead furrowed his brow. He seemed confused. “What do you think he means? Is he talking about a drug transaction? Is someone coming to the farm to purchase methamphetamine?”

“Possibly. I believe he was deliberately vague because he didn't want to incriminate himself. But his tips have always proved good in the past. And I know the cameras on those Reapers can take some pretty detailed pictures. With any luck, we'll observe something that'll convince a judge to issue the search warrant. Then we can raid the farm and arrest Rogers.”

The deputy secretary lowered his head and studied the photos on his desk again. “And you're sure that Rogers will be there?”

“My agents are watching everyone that comes and goes. If he tries to leave the farm, we'll see it.”

Halstead didn't say anything for a while. He just stared at the photos, his brow still furrowed, obviously trying to come to a decision. But Larson already knew what the bureaucrat would do. His superiors had ordered him to find John Rogers. It was a hijacking case, and Homeland Security took that kind of thing very seriously. And there was political pressure too. Tourism was important to northern Michigan, and Rogers had instigated a gunfight in one of the state's most beloved tourist spots. The governor's office wouldn't be happy until the man was either dead or in jail.

“All right,” Halstead finally said. “I'll make the arrangements. You'll get your drone.”

SEVENTEEN

After a phenomenally boring tour of the recycling system, the water treatment facility, and the geothermal plant, Conroy led John to one of Haven's mess halls for dinner. It was essentially a cafeteria, located on the top floor of a glass-fronted building near the center of the cavern. But it was much larger and fancier than any cafeteria John had ever seen.

He sat at a long table of beautiful dark wood, polished to a high shine by centuries of use. The meals were served on antique china plates, probably imported from England during the colonial days, and the food was excellent: thick rare steaks, sweet warm corn bread, and fresh vegetables from the farm above the cavern. The only problem was that John had no company. Conroy sat at the same table but several feet away. Although he kept a watchful eye on John as he ate, he didn't say a word. The Master of the Guardsmen was dutiful and humorless.

While John carved up his steak he surveyed the diners at the other tables. Most were female. There were four or five women for every man. What's more, the sexes didn't mingle. The men sat alone or in small groups, eating their meals in silence. With their long beards and Amish clothes, they looked gruff and depressed. The women, in contrast, gathered in large, boisterous parties. They told jokes and laughed and flounced in their long gowns. The largest group was about twenty feet to John's left. At least two dozen women sat around an enormous oval table loaded with wine bottles and goblets. Among them was Elder Margaret Fury, who sat quietly at the edge of the party. She didn't join in the laughter or conversation. Dressed in a crimson gown, she sipped wine from her goblet, alone in the midst of the crowd. John stared at her until she caught him looking. She shot him an ugly look, and he quickly turned away.

There were couples sitting at smaller tables here and there, but most were pairs of women. John saw only three mixed couples, and in each case the man appeared to be much older than the woman. They looked like fathers and daughters rather than husbands and wives. He watched one of the women cut a steak into small pieces for a man who seemed to be in his nineties. She looked like she was twenty-two, like all the other women in the room. John wondered how old she really was.

As he gazed at them, someone yelled, “How now, John!” behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Gower, one of the guards who'd escorted him through the woods yesterday. The young man's face was sweaty and cheerful behind his ragged red beard. He strode toward John's table, holding in each hand a pewter tankard topped with foam. “I've brought a peace offering!” he shouted. He set one of the tankards on the table beside John's plate. “You need some drink to quaff with your meat!”

It was beer. Some of the foam slid down the side of the tankard. “Uh, thank you,” John said.

Several feet to his right, Conroy frowned mightily at Gower, but the younger guardsman didn't seem to notice. He'd clearly had a few beers already. He pointed at the chair beside John's. “May I join you, sir? I've had my supper but I'm not ready for bed yet.”

John shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

With a huge smile, Gower pulled out the chair and sat down. Then he lifted his own tankard high in the air. “To your health, John Rogers! May the Council of Elders rule in your favor and welcome you into the bosom of our family!”

“I'll drink to that.” John picked up his tankard and clanked it against Gower's. “Cheers.”

Gower needed no encouragement. He tilted his tankard and drank greedily. John followed suit but stopped at once. The beer was different. It was rich and smoky and bittersweet. He took a big gulp, smiling as he swallowed. It was the best beer he'd ever tasted. “Wow. This is great.”

“You like our ale?” Gower wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his white shirt.

“Yeah, it's fantastic.”

“I will convey your compliments to Clarissa, our brewer. She's brewed our ale the same way for three hundred years, but we never seem to tire of it.”

John took another gulp. “It sure beats Budweiser.”

Gower nodded vigorously. “Aye, I know that name! One of our Rangers brought back a can of Budweiser from his last assignment, and we all took a sip. It was horrid swill! How can you bear to drink it?”

John laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed since coming to Haven. “You get used to it, I guess.”

Gower laughed too, very loudly. John glanced at Conroy, who'd turned away from them, scowling at the food on his plate. The guy had a seriously big stick up his ass. At least Gower had a sense of humor.

“Let me ask you a question,” John said. He pointed at Gower's shirt and suspenders. “Why do you dress like that even when you're not outside? I mean, you don't have to pretend to be Amish when you're down here, do you?”

Gower thought it over for a moment, taking another drink before answering. “It's a habit, I suppose. And it would be a nuisance to change clothes every time we went outside, don't you agree?”

“The women wear different clothes when they're down here.”

“Well, you know how it is.” Gower gestured with his tankard at the party of women seated around the oval table. “They like to dress up. Our older women wear dour black dresses, because those were popular in the Puritan times. The women born in the nineteenth century prefer the hoop skirts and such.” He leaned closer to John and lowered his voice. “And the youngest ones wear pants or teeny-tiny skirts. I like those the best, don't you?”

John nodded, taking another sip of beer. “But Ariel's one of the older ones, right? And she wears modern clothes.”

“Lily is different because she's a Ranger. She's often on assignment in the outside world, so she takes note of the fashions there.” His voice grew reverent as he talked about Ariel. “Some of the other women ask her to bring back clothes for them. When she returns to Haven, her bags are full of skirts and shoes.”

He laughed again, but John didn't join in this time. He saw Margaret Fury drink the last of her wine and leave the dining room, wobbling and limping. The women who remained at the table started singing a drinking song. It sounded old-fashioned, like something Shakespeare would've sung.

“But it's obvious they're not dressing up to attract men,” John noted. “The men and women here, they hardly pay attention to each other.”

Gower's face turned serious. “Aye, 'tis troubling. I was discussing this very subject with Archibald this morning. He blames our women, but it's not easy for them, either. Look over there.” He pointed at the woman who was feeding small pieces of steak to the ninety-year-old man. “That's my half sister Viola and her husband Oliver. They grew up together and were married when they were both twenty. And now she has to watch him die.”

John took a closer look at them. Viola was stunning and Oliver was a wreck. He could barely keep his eyes open while she fed him. “Well, what's the alternative? Would your women rather spend their lives alone?”

“Nay, you have to understand: no one is ever truly alone in Haven. We're a tightly bound family. We do everything together.” Gower gestured at the pairs of women scattered across the dining room. “And some women are content to find partners of their own gender. They usually choose someone born close to their own time. It feels more comfortable that way, I suppose.”

“What about the men? They partner with each other, too?”

“Aye, certainly. But not all of us.” He took another swig of beer and pointed at himself. “Consider me, for example. I am a tragic figure. I pine hopelessly for a woman I've never spoken to.”

John could see where this was going. Gower wanted to talk about Ariel. Maybe he wanted some advice on how to approach her. John had no interest in that kind of conversation, so he decided to change the subject. “Would things change if the men didn't age, either? Would that make your situation better?”

Gower hesitated, his eyes darting from side to side. He moved still closer to John and lowered his voice. “Are you speaking of the Fountain remedy that Sullivan is seeking?”

John nodded. “Ariel told me about it. And about all the problems with it.” He lowered his own voice. “But what if there was an easier way to make the medicine? If the men could stop aging, wouldn't they be on more equal terms with the women?”

“That's a difficult question.” Gower frowned. “We've lived in this manner for so long, it's hard to imagine different circumstances. And even if the medicine were freely available, I don't know how many men would take advantage of it.”

“Wouldn't all of them? Who wouldn't want eternal youth?”

“It's not an unmixed blessing, John.” He pointed again at his half sister, who was dabbing her husband's lips with a napkin. “In fact, some of our women detest their longevity. They find the endless prospect so unbearable that they cut their lives short in only their tenth or eleventh decade.”

“They commit suicide?”

“Indeed. But that's not the worst of it.” Gower tipped back his tankard and finished off his beer. But his intoxication had ebbed. Now he looked grim and sober. “Our oldest women are able to shoulder the burden of the centuries because they dedicate their lives to a higher purpose. Lily is a perfect example of this. She works tirelessly to benefit Haven and to steer the outside world toward a better future. But some women fail to muster that dedication. And then terrible things can happen.”

“What do you mean?”

Gower looked down at the table for several seconds, grimacing. Then he turned to Conroy, who was joylessly devouring a lemon tart. “Sir, may I escort the paramour to the privy? Both of us need to relieve ourselves.”

Conroy seemed annoyed at the interruption. He scowled and gave a dismissive wave. “Aye, go ahead.”

Gower stood up and gripped John's elbow. “Come. I wish to show you something.”

 

 

He took John to Haven's deepest corner. After leaving the mess hall, they followed a path to the far end of the cavern, where a sulfurous spring flowed out of the rocky ground near the geothermal plant. Warm, greenish water swirled in a bubbling pool and flowed into crevices in the cavern's jagged wall. Carved into the wall near the crevices was an entrance to a tunnel, about ten feet wide and eight feet high. Gower pointed at it. “We're just in time,” he said. “The visiting hours are almost over.”

John peered into the tunnel. The entrance was dimly lit and the corridor beyond looked deserted. “Visiting hours? Is this a hospital?”

“Aye, it's a hospital. But it's not our primary medical facility.” Gower furrowed his brow, searching for the right words. “This hospital is for special cases only.”

They stepped into the tunnel. Its floor was paved with big granite blocks, their surfaces worn smooth and glossy, and the walls were decorated with intricate stone carvings of bears and wolves and deer. John was amazed by their beauty. “This place looks old,” he noted. “Older than the rest of Haven.”