Only when the lovers had released their mutual hold upon one another and acknowledged with gratitude the father who sat happy and beaming to see his son restored to health and restored as well to his freedom, and acknowledged, in addition, the father’s friend who had had a hand in seeing this moment come to pass, did the nurse say in a burst of confession and contrition, “Now, Trimmers, let it be said, that I did lead you to your nephew. I wanted you to know that Newman was now in Bedlam, just as I did not want you to know that it was I who had put him there. Newman would have been killed in the Outland had I not rescued him. I’ll tell you everything else you should want to know about him, for there is nothing left for me to hide. I have been made ignominiously redundant by the Tiadaghton Project. No longer an asset. Now only a liability.”
“Does Timberry have your medical bag?”
“Yes, and a store of other drugs which I was able over the last few months to smuggle into the valley, thankfully without detection. He must guard these drugs with his life, for amongst them is enough isoniazid and rifampicin to cure every consumptive in Dingley Dell. That is, if there is to be any Dinglian extant after July 15. For I was able to see Chivery earlier this evening and have taken from him the two memoranda which he drew from the briefcase — rather — what is the Dinglian word? — valise, yes, of the dead woman, Mizz Martin. I knew of the woman, Trimmers, and I know now that I am marked to receive the same punishment as she for my acts of subversion against the Project. That is why Bevan and I must leave this very evening whilst we still have any hope left for escape.”
I shook my head dispiritedly. “Gunmen are already gathering in the woods, and, no doubt, upon the Northern Ridge.”
“How do you know this?”
“The Scadger brothers have seen them. I must advise against this course you wish to take, Ruth.”
Now it was Bevan’s turn to speak, to earnestly counter my attempt at dissuasion. “Ruth and I haven’t many choices here, Trimmers. All that we can do is take the path that carries the lesser risk.”
“If that be your decision, my son, then I choose to go with you.” This from Sir Dabber. “And we will not go unarmed.”
“Knives against guns, Dabber?” I interposed.
“But also strength in my own two hands.”
“And infirmity in your pursy lungs, my good friend. Reconsider.”
Sir Dabber shook his head. His look now darkened even as a smile graced his lips. “I have had my son returned to me. I do not intend to lose him again.”
Father and son beheld one another in tearful silence for the succeeding moment.
“And my chances of survival here are not so much better than they are out there,” said Dabber, handing to me the papers that he had been browsing since they had been given him by Miss Wolf upon our entering the cabriolet.
Here is what was on the papers:
Tiadaghton Project Communications Center
mKreis@tiadaghton.com
Re: Your ShoCKinG NeWS!!!!
Date: May 30, 2003
From: Patty Kreis
To: Michelena Martin
I am floored. Knocked totally on my ass, girl. You haven’t even given me enough time to get you a buh-bye card. Print this. Keep my sentiments close at hand, baby, as you go off and make your honest living in the world. (Better late than never, right?) My heart may be black as coal, but I’ll still miss you bunches.
I agree with everything you said, except that I can’t see any other way out of this. The ant farm has to be exterminated, case closed. I also disagree with you on one other minor point: I’m quite confident that if we’ve been able to keep a lid on this thing for the last 121 years, there should be no reason why things should have to fall apart NOW. I, for one, will do everything I can to keep that from happening. I’m much too young and beautiful to spend the rest of my life behind bars.
Anyway, Missy, it won’t be the same at Flatiron without you. (Can I treat you to a farewell lunch at Mesa? Please say yes. Don’t limit my goodbye to this impersonal electronic hand-wave.)
Original Message.
Tiadaghton Project Communications Center mMartin@tiadaghton.com
Re: Leaving the Project
Date: May 30, 2003
From: Michelena Martin
To: Patty Kreis
Patty-cakes:
Today is my last day at the Flatiron Building. I have no plans to come back. I know it’ll seem awfully sudden to you, because I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned how unhappy I’ve been here lately. But in truth, I’ve been thinking about getting out for some time now, and loping quietly off into the sunset. Yesterday’s executive meeting cinched it. The ant farm analogy that Lipson introduced (and which Livingston and DeFeo cleverly embroidered) was an aptly droll one, and I laughed along with everybody else, and maybe it’s because I’ve been at this job for so long that I didn’t think at the time about what it all really means.
But now that I’ve had a few hours to let it sink in — to consider everything that was said (including how truly depraved most of that gallows humor shit was), after digesting all the gruesome details of how this is to be “effected” (how clinically Medina chooses his words) — I’m not only put off by it, Pattycakes, I’m quite nauseous. We always knew there had to be an end to it — I just never thought I’d be here when that final chapter got written. And I suppose, officially I won’t be. Because this little rat is preemptively jumping ship. At least I plan to jump ship once I clean out my desk and my computer files and make that final farewell trip to Pennsylvania on Monday. It’s there that I’ll make my obligatory “cut me loose” appeal to Yelavich and Brentano. Brentano will understand. I think she’s sensed that I’ve wanted out for a while now. Yelavich, on the other hand, might make things difficult. I do, after all, know where a lot of the bodies are buried. (That statement goes from the figurative column to the literal on a very grand scale in just a few short weeks.)
Fact is, Patty-cakes, I just never acquired in totality that tough leather hide that the rest of you seem to wear with pride. Last time I looked, I still hadn’t sprouted cojones beneath these comfortable K-Mart cotton panties. I mean, Campbell had been Special Ops for Christ’s sake, and Reyes and Wilson and Weinberg would shove their own mothers down the basement stairs for the right amount of money. But I kept getting hung up on the fact that the subjects of our study are actually — all right, drum roll, wait for it, wait for it — people. (I also have a soft spot for kittens.) And there you have it: Michelena Martin’s big dark secret. A lot of lives are about to be snuffed out and I’m not altogether happy about that. Now don’t misread me here, Cakes. It could be a very good thing that one of our richest playfellow-subscribers has decided to have a go at oldfashioned brick and mortar enterprise again. That Langheart’s actually going to turn that cobweb-covered Victorian amusement park into a vehicle for Rust Belt job growth. Who’d have thunk it? And who wouldn’t commend him for it?
But it doesn’t quite pass my personal smell test — you know, the smell of dead bodies not really being one of my favorite scents. And here’s the other thing, Patty: I’m tired. I’m bored with the Dickensian freak show. And I’m ready to do something else with my life. Michelena Martin has left the building.