Alice Isn't Dead Read online

  This is where Cynthia had become involved. She had a lot of experience through her job of the careful and tedious task of sorting through government records and she started recording and monitoring this case, looking for any details that might be helpful for the occupants. This archive Keisha held was the result of that research, a pile of contracts and technical diagrams, zoning maps and court filings.

  Keisha had felt such momentum going into this moment and found herself fighting off the despair of the crash. She didn’t know what she had expected. A note, handwritten, perhaps, saying, “Here is what Thistle is and here is what it wants.” Or an incriminating picture of the president handing a pile of cash to a Thistle Man. But of course, they were government records. That’s what Cynthia did. She collected them and pored through them. So Keisha did her best to see them as Cynthia did. She grabbed papers at random and looked through them as slowly as she could, trying to make herself understand each page completely, or at least as closely as she was going to get, before moving on to the next.

  The sun was setting when she found her first instance of the word Thistle. It was in one of the government filings, involving a contractor named Thistle Limited working on a specific part of the power plant. Keisha felt her breathing speed up just seeing that word. There was an answer in here, she was sure of it now. She started digging through for anything related to the part of the project that Thistle was listed as working on. And sure enough, again and again, in small references, indexes, in footnotes, there was this contractor, Thistle Limited. So whatever this land grab by the government was, its real purpose was to build something for Thistle. This was proof that at least some part of the government was knowingly working with Thistle. That in itself was huge, of course, but it only confirmed suspicions she had. She wouldn’t let herself believe that this was all the archive had for her.

  Keisha heard a sound above her and looked up, feeling her body tense, ready to run. It was Mercy. “The library is closed. I’ll let you stay while I finish up a few things, but after that you’ll need to leave and come back tomorrow.” She gave a small, sad smile.

  “Could I take it with me to my motel?” asked Keisha. “I’ll bring all this back tomorrow.”

  “No,” said Mercy. “No, Cynthia’s things have to stay with me. That’s where they belong. But you’ll be able to come back tomorrow.” She patted Keisha’s arm. “I promise, it’ll be safe with me.”

  Maybe so, but Keisha felt herself getting frantic. She couldn’t leave this library tonight without an answer. She read back again through every paper with the word Thistle on it, looking for what she was missing. And, only a few minutes later, she found it.

  One of the documents referring to Thistle also referred to another name, one Keisha knew quite well. Bay and Creek. It seemed to be a mistake, because the mention of Bay and Creek was reiterating an earlier part of the document, one in which the name had been Thistle Limited. It also referenced a contract by number. She dug through, knocking papers on the ground, and found the contract. There it was. The contract was describing the work that Thistle was doing except it wasn’t with Thistle. The name used here was Bay and Creek.

  It wasn’t proof, but still Keisha knew. This was the secret that Cynthia had inadvertently found. This was why she had been killed. Because she had discovered evidence of the truth: Thistle was Bay and Creek. Bay and Creek was Thistle. There were no two sides to this war. Only two organizations pretending to fight each other. She had been part of a play. She had been made a fool.

  And then the awful moment, the sinking thought. Had Alice known? Had Alice been part of this lie?

  The lights above Keisha flicked off, and she looked up to tell Mercy that it was ok, she had found what she needed. But Keisha didn’t understand what Mercy was doing. Mercy was lying on one of the study tables, her back arched awkwardly. Keisha realized that Mercy’s shirt had been torn open, and so had her skin, and her rib cage. The entire front of her torso had been pulled apart as though by surgical equipment, and she was lying under the last lit bank of fluorescents like a patient in an operating room. Her face was turned toward Keisha, and Keisha wanted to project fear on her frozen features, but if she were honest there was only the dull glaze of death.

  “Keisha, it’s time,” said a familiar voice. The woman from Thistle sauntered toward her out of the darkness, her arms wet to the elbows with Mercy’s blood.

  38

  “They didn’t leave me alive,” Keisha said. “They didn’t let me walk away. They knew you were coming.”

  The officer stopped, the fluorescents casting hard shadows across her face. “Oh, is that what you’ve been thinking? That Bay and Creek let you live?”

  “I thought maybe I was useful to them somehow.” Keisha wondered how long she could keep this conversation going before the predator that wore the skin of a human came at her. The officer laughed and started to advance again. Not long, then. Keisha considered her options, decided she had none, and bolted into the shelves. The officer continued to move at a slow walk.

  “Keisha, I don’t believe you’ve been useful to anyone in a long time,” she shouted as she followed where Keisha had run. “Even that wife of yours decided she could do without you, didn’t she? No, the reason Bay and Creek didn’t kill you is because they already knew I was coming to do it. I get first pick, and I had claimed you. You interested me.”

  In the small room, the voice echoed off the ceiling and Keisha couldn’t tell where it was coming from. She was crouched somewhere in Reference. She pulled out one of the books and tossed it over the shelf to land with a thud in the next aisle, then took off in the other direction, hoping that the creature hadn’t been standing on the other side of the shelf, watching her throw.

  “You work for Bay and Creek and for Thistle.”

  “I don’t work for anyone,” said the creature. “Ah, Bay and Creek. Thistle. Having two sides to a war is convenient, you know, but it isn’t strictly necessary.”

  Keisha turned a corner and an arm thrust out of the shelves, sending books scattering with immense force. She threw herself left to avoid the hand, slamming her shoulder painfully into the wall, but she was able to slip past. Up ahead was the main entrance. If the Thistle creature was in the next aisle, that meant the way to the door was open. Without letting herself consider the drawbacks, she sprinted toward it. At that speed, she was almost to it in seconds and looked back. The creature was leaning casually against the back wall of the library, making no move to follow.

  “You won’t make it out of this library,” shouted the officer. “But please try.”

  The door was only about fifteen feet away. Keisha lunged. In the corner of her eye she saw the creature spring up from the wall. She had never seen a living thing move so fast. The officer vaulted tables, her feet hardly seeming to touch the carpet. Keisha’s hand landed on the door. And then she was on the floor. The officer kneeled on her chest, her knees sharp and digging into Keisha’s ribs. She leaned down and again Keisha saw her face clearly. Paper skin. A paper woman with animal strength.

  “A war is so useful, Keisha,” the creature said. “Lots you can hide in a war. Money diverted. Force and weapons justified. Unhelpful people killed and what are you going to do? There’s a war on, after all.” She traced her fingernail along Keisha’s neck. “Ok, I’m going to kill you now. See if you can pinpoint it, the moment where you start to die.”

  Keisha felt the surge of survival. Fuck Thistle. The energy of anxiety exploded outward into her limbs and she hit with all the strength she had. She hit the officer in her face over and over, hard palms upward at the nose. And she stopped as she heard a noise, a noise that at first she didn’t understand, and when she parsed it, she felt complete despair. The officer was laughing. Was laughing at the blows Keisha had landed. And then it was the officer’s turn, and her hands were unimaginably powerful, and they were all over Keisha, and she knew that she had failed, that everything she had done up to this point hadn’t mattered, a
nd that Bay and Creek and Thistle would continue destroying lives across the country long after her death this evening.

  There was a pop, and she wondered what part of her body it was, where the wave of pain would come from. But instead the hands attacking her stopped. There was another pop, and then another. And the officer slid off her and fell lying next to her. There were two streams of blood going down her scalp, running from bullet holes at the top of her skull. Keisha tried to understand. She flung herself up, arms swinging wildly and someone caught her from behind.

  “Whoa, whoa. Keisha, it’s me.” The voice stopped everything in Keisha. She stepped back. It was Alice, a handgun clenched by her side. “I was wrong. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was wrong and I’m sorry.” She slowly put the gun down on the ground, and stepped forward, with both hands out.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

  Part III

  Praxis

  Why did the chicken cross the road?

  Because on one side was everything she had ever known and on the other side was a future, maybe, and even though she was afraid to leave everything she had ever known, she also wanted a future, maybe, and so hesitating, and then not, and then moving quickly, running, sprinting, even, desperate, she crossed, and found a future, maybe, leaving behind everything she had ever known.

  39

  Alice had two hundred more miles to go that day and she was tired. Her body was tired. Her mind was tired. She was tired of her job, of being away this much from Keisha. Maybe if her job had meaning, if she was working on something she believed in, she would feel differently. But instead she was essentially a traveling salesperson. Oh, there were trappings to it. She showed up in offices, did presentations; “sales” didn’t show up anywhere in her job title or description, but she wasn’t fooled. She had no illusions about what she did. There was no real difference between her and those tired men from old movies, with worn suitcases, knocking on one more unfriendly door.

  Maybe it was this exhaustion with her work that led her to stop at the Amazing Painted Rocks! A Miracle of Art! Or maybe she just had to pee, and the sign for the roadside attraction also promised clean bathrooms. At this point in her day they wouldn’t need to be clean. She’d settle for some shade to pee in. The day was hot and only getting hotter and she checked her map again. Still two hundred more miles, as it had been a minute ago.

  So she stopped and she paid the five dollars to a bored teenager who was watching a public access channel on an old portable TV. The teenager nodded toward the painted rocks, and there they were. Rocks, and they were painted. Although what had once presumably been bright color had been mellowed by the sun until it was merely a tint to their natural shade. Not what Alice would call a Miracle of Art! but actually a bit better than she had expected.

  Painted rocks dutifully viewed, she took advantage of their bathrooms, which were, as advertised, remarkably clean. She was unsure if this was because of careful diligence on the part of the owners or, more likely, a real lack of visitors that might cause any messes. Still, here really was a roadside miracle and she was happy to take advantage of it.

  What would normally have happened is she would have left the bathroom, headed right back to the entrance, been nodded out by the same bored teenager, and then driven those two hundred miles to try to sell to another office of bored middle managers. Then the entire rest of this story wouldn’t have happened. Her and Keisha’s lives hinged on this single moment, in which she decided that she wanted to walk by the painted rocks again. It wasn’t because she liked them or felt like she needed to get her money’s worth. Honestly, the bathroom had been more than worth the money. She was looking for a delay on the rest of her day and the rocks provided an excuse.

  While she was standing there, trying to find the rocks interesting, she noticed movement over a rise behind them. She liked animals and thought there were maybe coyotes or rabbits running along the top of the hill. But she looked closer and understood that she was not seeing a rabbit or a coyote. She saw an arm rise up, and a different person’s arm pull it down. There was a muffled scream.

  Alice had also struggled with anxiety, but she handled it differently than her wife did. Keisha internalized her anxiety, stuffing it down until it buzzed around wildly in her body. Alice projected her anxiety on the world, seeing a place that was as scared as she was, and this paradoxically tended to make her protective, willing to put herself at risk to alleviate the fears that she assumed in others.

  In that moment she saw someone possibly being attacked, and she thought about how terrifying that must be, in this lonely roadside attraction, here behind these stupid painted rocks, and before she had another thought she was already running up over the rocks, over the rise in the hill, to help whoever needed help.

  There was a woman on her back. Over her was a man in dirty clothes. The woman was fighting back fiercely, but the man was clearly very strong. Alice kicked him in the head. He made a popping sound with his lips and rolled to the side. He looked up at her. She had never seen anyone like him. His skin was wrong. It sagged and cracked. His lips were crooked. His eyes and teeth were the same shade of yellow. He wore a dirty polo that said thistle on the breast. The man grinned his awful grin. The woman on the ground had already sprung up. She started punching at the man, but he pushed her aside. He came at Alice. His hands were unrelenting as they grabbed at her. She kicked him over and over. But he was pushing her. She was about to fall over the edge of the rise, crack her head on the painted rocks. The woman grabbed the man and pulled him off Alice. The man fell backward and without hesitation both women stomped at his head. Over and over. His head didn’t crack like a skull. It mushed down into a fatty yellow paste.

  Alice couldn’t believe what had happened. Had they just killed someone, her and this stranger?

  “What is . . . ?” she said. “How is . . . ?”

  “Yeah,” said the woman, who years later would rescue Keisha from a walk-in cooler outside of Victorville. “I was like that my first time too.”

  Alice took a good look at the woman. She was about Alice’s age, short hair, her clothes scuffed up but otherwise unharmed except for a single deep gash that went in a perfectly straight horizontal line down her left cheek.

  “He got you,” Alice managed.

  “Actually, I think that might have been you, honey,” the woman said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. “I think you got me good with your nails while we were struggling with him. I’ll forgive you on account of you saved my life and I have no real need for unblemished cheeks anyway.”

  The woman sat down with a tired sigh, started tying her shoelaces, which had become undone in the struggle. She tilted her head at the dead man, or creature, or whatever it was.

  “Don’t worry. I have some friends that will clean this up.”

  Alice looked down at the body and could only nod, as though what the woman had said was normal.

  “What was that? He didn’t seem human.”

  “He didn’t, no,” said the woman. She inspected the blood smear on the back of her hand. “Shit. Listen.” She got back up, dusted herself off, and considered Alice thoughtfully. “You came in there brave, and you fought well. I would have been dead for sure without you. Thank you for that.”

  Alice didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “The organization I work for,” the woman continued, “we could use people like you. People who rush in. People who can handle themselves. What’s your name?”

  “Alice.”

  The woman held out her hand.

  “I’m Lucy. Alice, how would you like a job?”

  40

  “Hand me that.”

  “Here.”

  “No, not that. That.”

  “You don’t have to take that tone of voice.”

  “Don’t tell me what I have and don’t have to do.”

  The space in the back of the cab was cramped. Their things were ev
erywhere. Clothes. Toiletries. Food and food wrappers. The debris of life. But that was only part of the mess.

  “Careful.”

  “Alice, you tell me to be careful one more time.”

  “Excuse me for not wanting you to get hurt.”

  “You do not get to. Oh, you do not get to go there, not at all.”

  The first thing Keisha had done, of course, was embrace her. Right over the body of that awful creature, still flowing what looked like human blood onto the carpet. She pulled Alice tight and didn’t say anything. Alice couldn’t say much, either, because she was being hugged too tight to breathe. She tapped out of the hug. Keisha held her at arm’s length and glared at her, and then the glare fell, and Keisha said, “Fuck.” She said it over and over, filling in for anything she might have thought to say if she were given a lifetime of quiet contemplation, like none of us ever are.

  This out of her system, she asked the most obvious question. “How did you find me?”

  And Alice gave a truthful answer: “Keisha, I never lost you.”

  The work their hands were doing was delicate, and so despite their frequent disagreements, they pushed forward, putting every part in place. Pouring in the exact measurements. If one element was off, neither of them knew what would happen. They were not experts on this or most other subjects.