standing about five feet from her and felt as though she ought to come closer. Maybe the right thing to do was to put her arms around Alice and comfort her, but she didn't do that. When she searched herself for a reason, she had to admit that it was because she was scared. She was terrified. Something unknown or unknowable was going on and it was all connect to whomever was holding her son hostage. There were a lot of ifs and buts and it all made her interior scream and crawl at the same time.
“Alice?”
“You wouldn't understand.”
“Your brother and Jason are trapped in a dangerous place. You want to help them, don't you?”
Alice said, “George sent me the last chapter of his book. Sometimes, his book says things.”
“Like what, Alice?”
“He might die.” said Alice. “And where to find my dad.”
“Well I'd like to see that book.” said Ruth.
Then she noticed how Alice's skirt clung together at places near the hem. It was darker there too. Without a word, Ruth bent down and rubbed a bit of the fabric between her fingers and Alice let her. Pasty bits of dried blood came off in Ruth's hands. She noticed blood on the floor, soaked into the carpet. It had seeped under the door and it was coming from George's apartment. Alice had been sitting in it.
Ruth said, “Could you stand over there?”
Alice stood a feet away from the door and Ruth pounded on the door.
“Hollow core.” she said. “Cheap building.”
Ruth kicked the door under the knob, planting the entire underside of her foot against the surface of the door. She did this three more times and the latch splintered. The door burst inward. The room was dark, with unfolded brown paper shopping bags taped over the window. They were in the kitchen. There was a chair in the middle of the floor and tied to that chair was a woman's body. She was cut open at the wrist of one hand and a long serrated bread knife lay near the feet of the chair. Her head was bald.
It was Sophie Lane. Someone had removed the purple and gold kerchief from her head and blind folded her with it. In the unmangled hand she held the edge of a typed page. Ruth pulled it away from Dr. Lane's hardened fingers.
From the hall, Alice said, “Can I come in now?”
“I wouldn't recommend that.” Ruth carried the page into the hall. She held it up to Alice. “This letter is signed by your brother. Do you know what this is about?”
Alice took it. Her face lit up with a smile, but she didn't say anything.
Ruth said, “What is it?”
“Not my brother.” said Alice. “Big John. It's from Big John, Ms. Holland.”
“Your father?”
“I said that George's book tells me things about my dad.”
“Alice.” said Ruth. “What's going on?”
“Puritan Lawn. I have to find Puritan Lawn. That's where he is.” Alice looked up from the page. “Do you know how to get to Puritan Lawn?”
“I don't know, Alice. What is this about? And how do you know George?”
Alice turned and rumbled down the hall.
Ruth shouted after her, “Come back here, Alice.”
“I have to find my dad. He's alive after all and he's been trying to reach me.”
Ruth thought for a moment that she might chase the other woman. But then she heard a buzzing noise. She turned back to the body of Dr. Lane. There was a light shining through her blazer pocket. Ignoring all caution, Ruth reached in and pulled out a phone. There was the Sorter icon, and the words
COMMENCE PROGRAM ASSET ZERO
THIRTY FOUR
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
Ruth was sitting in her car, still parked outside George's apartment building. She was still trying to make sense of the things she'd seen in the apartment. Sophie Lane's body had been only the beginning. There was the matter of her final recorded words. And then there was the book. George's book, which Alice had believed was some kind of prophecy. It was all too much. And now she was speaking to John and it didn't look like things were going to get any better.
“Are you the only one who doesn't feel the Sorter is trying to control you?”
I can't get it out and I can't let it stay.
It had happened to Yancy and Norman Shaw. Perhaps it had happened to Sophie Lane and George Simon, she couldn't say. Now it appeared as though the same thing was happening to John. The strange thing was, Ruth didn't feel it herself. What John had said was true. Perhaps she was the only one who didn't feel the Sorter trying to control her. Despite how it had set them all up, despite how it continued to predict their movements, Ruth didn't sense the presence of angels or demons on her shoulders or whispering in her ears. What she felt instead was an overwhelming sadness. And anger. There was plenty of anger.
She said, “I don't have time for a philosophical discussion. Let Jason go, right now.”
“Philosophy isn't for alone time, Detective Holland.” said John, his dilated eyes filling the screen of Ruth's phone. “It matters for each and every decision you make.”
She doubted that. Her mind took her back to her husband's death. She had many regrets, but one in particular stuck with her. She had always believed that she could have prevented it. She'd been so preoccupied with her fear of infidelity that she hadn't noticed that Frank wanted to be a hero more than he'd wanted to be a good cop or a father or a husband. If Ruth had ever held out any hope for the Sorter, it would've been that maybe she could understand better why people did what they did.
Now she realized that was fool's gold. What difference would it make to have complete knowledge of herself or others if it meant that she could no longer ignore how everyone was a monster, an animal, a coward or any number of other unwholesome things. And then to face the reality that they were doing nothing but following their programming? The Sorter wasn't controlling anyone. It was decoding them.
This lead Ruth to a final conclusion, which is that Yancy, Shaw and now John all believed that they were possessed because it was the last defense they could muster. It wasn't a deep revelation of any kind, but yet another layer of self-deception. If you believe that someone or something is controlling your mind, then you believe that in its absence you could choose your actions for yourself. To give up that belief in the Sorter's control was to give up the very myth of free will.
After some more arguing, John turned the camera away from his own face. Though the image was poor, Ruth could make out a typical office space. The camera passed over some people she didn't recognize standing near a group of cubicles and looking stunned and in pain. One of them stared off to the left, at something outside the field of view. As the camera panned, however, it became clear what had put them in that state of distress.
Reginald Binder was sitting in what looked like a conference room. There was a table with chairs, but the walls were gone. Ruth supposed that they must have been made of glass, because the floor was covered with shards of it. Reggie was seated, with his arms hanging loose over the sides of the chair. He was staring at the ceiling. His neck was a mess. It looked as though someone had wounded both of his jugular veins with multiple tiny, tiny cuts. Binder's motionless body made Ruth feel cold.
John moved the camera away, but it hardly out of mercy. The next image was worse than the first. There was another body laying on the floor. Its shirt was open at the chest and some tattooed words were visible on its skin. They looked to Ruth like Latin, maybe. Its hair was long and red and its face simply wasn't there at all. It looked like a close range weapon had removed it, leaving a pulpy mess in its place.
Then came the last icon in this infernal little triptych. She saw Jason. He was not dead. Rather, a pistol hung by his side as he looked over the destruction.
Ruth decided that it was no longer time to skull in the darkness, avoiding Keller and kicking down doors in shabby apartments. She started the car and headed to Atlantic Avenue. Ruth Holland was going to go in there and get her son back.
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