“We apologized for it, Allen. It was a mistake,” said Quinn.
“It was,” he agreed, nodding his head sadly. Allen folded his arms and looked down at his sleeves, a weariness on his face that made Shane want to tell him she was sorry. “And I didn’t mean to alarm any of you. But what happened in Anacortes, that was us. We did that. An apology isn’t enough. Not nearly.” He swallowed. “It’s not just about our principles as a resistance. It’s about my conscience. I contributed to those men’s deaths. I’m not asking any of you…” He reached out and put his hand on Shane’s. It felt rough and callused and old. “Or Murdock or Kai or anyone else to take responsibility. You should keep going. But I need to make amends for what happened. You see what I’m trying to do? We have to prove we’re different. Our resistance is about peace. We believe in something because it is just and because it is right.”
SLEEP IN THE RAIN That summer in New Orleans there’d been one quiet moment when Kai wasn’t around. When he was alone with Shane and she mentioned her time in foster homes and then group residences for teenagers. Where were her parents? he’d asked. And she said, very bravely, he thought, “I had to learn fast how to make my own way. Now I know how to sleep in the rain.” He never forgot the way she put that. Now I know how to sleep in the rain.
“And you prove that by turning yourself in?” Quinn demanded.
“By turning myself in. That’s right.”
The three of them sat in silence for a moment, and they could hear how old the house was, creaks and sighs in the walls and floorboards. Allen continued to hold her hand. Finally, Shane spoke up.
“There has to be another way, Allen. We can make amends another way.”
“No. There’s no other way,” he said, almost mourning his certitude. “If I don’t do this, we’re betraying what we stand for. Those families went to funerals for people they loved. Someone has to come out of the shadows and own up to this.” He palmed the skin at the top of his scalp, pulled it tight and then released it back to wrinkles. “We have to remember why we’re doing this in the first place. If we want to start a movement that cannot die, we need to hold ourselves to a higher standard. We need to be a light that shows the way, not just another set of sociopaths murdering people indiscriminately.”
“And it’ll mean the end of us. 6Degrees.” Quinn said their full name, the one they’d agreed on in the cabin nearly twenty years ago. “Everything we worked for, everyone we’ve inspired—it’ll all be gone.”
“No, it won’t. You all can carry on. I will not give you up.”
“You don’t know that.” Quinn slammed her hand against the table again. “Have you ever dealt with the FBI? Or a federal prosecutor? I have! And they are relentless. They’ll go after your wife. They’ll go after your kids. If any of them have so much as a parking ticket—”
“My family will be fine,” he said.
“And maybe worse,” added Shane. Quinn’s anger was not getting through. She brought her other palm to Allen’s hand and squeezed it. She found his eyes. “The gloves are coming off, Allen. That’s what Vic Love and the new Congress have in common.”
“Have you ever thought of what it’s like to be kept awake for three days straight with music blaring or dogs barking?” Quinn asked. “Maybe they stick you soaking wet in a cold cell and let you nearly freeze to death over and over again.”
Shane ignored her. “Don’t you see, Allen?” She thought of walking with him along the Port of New Orleans, clouds rolling in over the Crescent City Connection. She thought of crying into his shoulder in that frigid Wisconsin winter. “We are terrorists. Never forget that. They will find a way to undo you. And you’ll tell yourself you can’t stand it anymore. And then you’ll talk. And everything we’ve worked for will be gone.”
He squeezed her hand. “You’re confusing your own fear with mine, Shane. And I don’t blame you. But I’m not asking any of you to follow my lead. Like I said, I’m doing what my conscience demands. Nothing more. So I suggest you call my wife and your friend back in here, and we eat dinner, and then you all get on your way. The only people who’ve put you in danger here is yourselves by ignoring protocol.”
“It’s too late for that, Allen.”
Quinn stood and reached behind her, fumbling with something. It caught in the loose fabric of her cashmere sweater. When she removed the gun and held it at her side, Shane felt something so familiar. It was what she felt when she was driving away from the taqueria those many years ago, the back seat empty. Some sensations you never forget. The feel of the anti-spiritual. Of a bitter abyss yawning.
“Jesus Christ,” hissed Allen, jumping back in his chair. But he gripped Shane’s hand harder. “What are you doing with that? Put that away. Christ, before Emmy comes back in here. Christ.” She’d never seen him afraid before. He was crushing the bones in her hand.
“You did this, Allen,” said Quinn, and her voice cracked. “Not us. You did this.”
“I didn’t do a goddamn thing,” he barked. Spit foamed at the corners of his mouth, his body stock-still. “Get out of my house. Get out right now.” Quinn didn’t move. “Get the hell out. Shane”—his head snapped to her—“Shane, get her out of here before she hurts someone.”
Had she known about the gun? Yes. No. Yes. Hard to say. She knew about it the way she knew when her mom began hiding bottles around the house. The way she’d known her heart would lead her to a place like this someday. As far back as distant relatives spinning romantic tales of resistances being led in the black cover of jungle, she’d been readying herself. Righteous paths always wind through darkness.
“Please,” he said, already moving from anger to bargaining. “Please, just leave. It’s over. You win. I won’t— I won’t do anything.”
Quinn glared at him, blinking, licking a pink lip gloss.
“I’m sorry, Allen. We can’t risk it.”
She stepped forward, grabbed his sleek, clean scalp with one hand and stuffed the barrel of the pistol under his chin. Shane lost her grip on his palm as he tried to fight off Quinn, but in that moment his age showed, weak arms unable to fend off this younger woman’s strength. He cried out, “No— Hold on— Wait!” And when she pulled the trigger, there was a crack—Allen’s protestations cut off by the bark of the pistol. Fragments of his skull blew outward, one still attached to that bright pink scalp. Red-gray brain bursting and blood splattering. Skull and skin whipped up and then fell against Allen’s ear and dangled, meat and fluid drizzling to the hardwood floor behind his chair. All she could think was that Quinn had almost shot her own hand off. When the woman pulled the trigger, Shane’s whole body had contracted, and there was now a before and after that moment. She stared at that piece of scalp dangling against Allen’s ear as he slumped forward, like he’d suddenly dozed off. She still had her palm cupped like she was holding his hand.
Then a scream from outside. “Allen!”
The motion light clicked on. Emmy stood just at the edge of the floodlight’s beam. In the dark, of course, she would be able to see into the kitchen. She’d likely watched the whole thing. Shane stood up, but she wasn’t sure why; her instinct was to go to Allen’s wife and tell her everything was going to be okay, that they’d clean this up and everything would be fine. Then an arm emerged from the gloom behind Emmy and put a pistol to the back of her head. Emmy Ford’s wail ceased as her face exploded in a stew of gore, and she buckled, first to her knees and then into the grass. Jansi lowered her gun. She stood bathed in the cheap white light, her eyes wide with disbelief and delight.