Louis Collins: A Post-American Odyssey

Louis stopped with one hand still on the door. His heart kicked hard against his ribs. For a moment he thought Vance had been waiting for him, and every answer he might give came apart before it reached his mouth.

“Let me explain,” Louis said. His voice shook.

He stepped farther in and closed the door behind him. Vance did not answer. Louis stood there, breathing through his nose. Vance had not turned toward him. He had not blinked. One elbow rested near the folder on the desk, and his head had tipped slightly to one side.

“General?”

Louis moved closer. Vance’s eyes were half open but fixed on nothing. White foam had dried at the corner of his mouth. One hand lay beside the folder, short of it. Louis leaned in, set two fingers to the side of Vance’s throat, and felt only cool skin. The general was dead. Louis stared at him. Then fear hit all at once. His hand shook against the edge of the desk, and his heart began to pound so hard that he had to breathe through his mouth. For a moment he could not think past the body in the chair. Then he blinked hard twice, dragged one hand through his hair, and gripped until his scalp hurt, forcing himself to look again at the dead man.

Think, Louis! Use your fucking brain! He told himself. If Vance was dead, then the house was no longer under the order it had held an hour earlier. Whatever had reached into this room and killed him had not done so in order to preserve the morning’s arrangements. Louis felt the truth of that with a clarity that left no room for panic. It was already too late for panic. The night had moved beyond it. Somebody else was taking the house.

He turned from the body and moved. He found the old safe beside the bookcase, set into the paneling where he had seen it on the first day. He knelt, his teeth clenching as the bad knee took the bend, and set his fingers on the dial. They shook once before he forced them steady.

Six. Two. Five. Nine. The latch released.

Inside were a stack of papers bound with black tape, a velvet case, and three familiar things. His locket lay on top of a folded sheet of stationery, the silver cleaned but still blackened at one edge. Beside it lay his M1911, wrapped in oilcloth, with a loaded magazine set beside it. Angelique’s knife rested under the pistol, its Damascus blade catching the light. He pushed the locket into his trouser pocket, picked up the M1911, and seated the magazine with the heel of his hand. Then he worked the slide once and pushed the pistol into the back of his waistband. He took Angelique’s knife in his right hand. He was reaching back into the safe for the papers when the first burst of gunfire came from outside.

It was not near. He knew that before he knew anything else. It came from afar. The window glass trembled faintly. Shouting followed, then another burst, louder this time. More voices rose outside, too far away to make out. The house had broken open. Louis froze, then moved to the desk. The papers would be useless now. Two dispatch cases sat shut near the lamp. Between them lay a buff motor envelope stamped with a black vehicle designation. A Cadillac key fob protruded from the torn flap, a leather tag hanging from its ring. The number had been scrawled across the tag in grease pencil. Pool Sedan 4.

He put the fob into his trouser pocket. A radio in the adjoining room crackled to life, static breaking around a man’s voice speaking too fast to catch. Another voice answered. Someone shouted in the hall. Boots ran past the library door. Louis kicked the safe shut with his good foot and went to the door, knife in his hand. He stopped by the door and listened through the noise. He heard no one directly outside. Then he slipped into the corridor.

Orders overlapped somewhere down the passage. Boots crossed from one hall to another. Doors stood open. Another volley cracked across the night. Louis went straight back toward the secure suite. He kept close to the wall, knife low in one hand, the other hand under his jacket near the pistol at his back. He was almost to the head of the stair when a soldier rounded the corner in front of him, running with his rifle held out, his attention fixed on something farther down the passage. He did not see Louis in the shadows and kept going. Louis held still until the footsteps faded, then moved on.

The guards stationed outside the suite were gone, but the door remained locked. Louis shifted the knife to his left hand, took the master key from his pocket, and worked it into the lock. The bolt turned. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Angelique and Gladice stood in the center of the room, speaking in low, urgent voices. They turned when he entered. Angelique looked first at his face, then at the knife in his hand, then back at him. Gladice stood very still.

“Louis,” she said. “We heard gunshots. What’s happening?”

“Someone killed Vance,” he said. “The house is under attack. We need to go. Now!” He gestured toward the door.

They did not argue. Angelique took the cane at the corner and gave it to him. Gladice glanced around the room, found nothing worth taking, and turned back to Louis.

“I found your knife in the safe.” He handed it to Angelique.

She looked at it once, then took it by the hilt.

“Who killed him?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet.” He glanced at the door. “But whoever it was, they aren’t doing it to help us.”

Gladice turned from the bed. “So what’s the plan?”

“To the garage. I got us a key for one of the cars.” He touched his pocket where the leather tag lay.

Gladice nodded. “Lead on.”

Louis gave the Colt to Gladice. “Here.”

She took it without comment, checked the safety, and kept it low at her side. Then she looked at Angelique. “Stay close.”

Louis opened the door and stepped into the corridor again. Angelique and Gladice followed. They moved down the hall, keeping close to the walls. At the west stair, Louis heard boots coming up from below and held them back against the wall. A pair of soldiers came up fast, rifles low, one of them shouting into a field radio. They turned into the upper passage without looking back. Louis waited until their footsteps faded, then took the stairs down, one hand braced on the rail, the other holding the cane. The pain in his knee had spread up the thigh and around the joint.

They reached the first floor and turned toward the rear of the house. He had counted on the servants’ hall being less guarded than the main corridors. He was right. No one stood at the entry, and the passage was empty. At the far end, light showed under the kitchen door. He tried the handle. Locked. He shifted the cane under his arm, took the master key from his pocket, and opened it.

He looked back once. Angelique stood close to Gladice, one hand in the coat pocket around the knife. She met his eyes and nodded once. Louis entered the kitchen. It was deserted. Breakfast trays sat unfinished on the long counter, and a pot had been left on the stove. Angelique took a stale baguette from beside the breadboard and weighed it once in her hand. Gladice glanced at her.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Gladice shook her head. They moved quickly through the kitchen, around the counter and past the stove, and went out into the open air. They were halfway across the yard when a figure came out from another service door and stopped dead. It was Jennifer. She wore the same wrapper he had seen in her room, with a coat over it now, buttoned badly in haste. In one hand she carried a small valise. She looked from Louis to Angelique to Gladice, then tightened her grip on the handle.

“Louis,” she said.

Louis stopped. Behind them, another shot cracked inside the house. Someone on the first floor shouted for men at the south entrance. Another voice yelled back that it had already been taken. Jennifer flinched but did not move.

“Come with us,” Louis said.

She stared at him, then at Gladice and Angelique, and then at the open yard beyond the kitchen door. “My family—”

“Is under new management,” Gladice said. “And unless you want to see what that looks like when it settles, you need to leave. Now.”

Jennifer’s grip tightened on the valise. Louis put one hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the garage.

“Through there,” he said. “Sedan Pool Four.”

She looked at him, then ran. Louis followed as quickly as he could, the others behind him. They entered the garage and found Pool Sedan 4 in the marked bay, a black Cadillac sedan with government plates. Louis unlocked it and stepped aside.

“You drive,” he said to Gladice.

She nodded and took the keys from his hand. Angelique slipped into the rear seat without hesitation. Jennifer stopped beside the front passenger door and looked at Louis.

“Get in,” Louis said.

She did. He got into the back with Angelique, pulling the door shut after him. Gladice started the engine. It started cleanly. The headlights came on. She killed them again and backed out of the space. The tires scraped over the stone. They crossed the yard and left through the service gate. The gravel lane ran between the south lawn and the tree line, away from the house. No one tried to stop them. The property was too big and the night too confused. Gladice kept her speed steady, the engine low, the lights off. The oaks passed on their left. The lane curved once, ran straight, and joined the public road at the edge of the property. Gladice turned onto it and pressed her foot down. The engine rose, and the car picked up speed. Louis looked back through the rear window. The manor stood behind them, some windows lit and others dark. He thought he saw men running along the upper gallery, and then the trees hid the view and they were gone.

“Where are we going?” Gladice asked without looking off the road.

“South. To Florida,” Louis said. “We need to cross the border to the Collective.”

“Are they chasing us?”

“I don’t think so.”

Gladice said nothing to that. She turned the headlights back on. The car picked up speed. Angelique leaned forward and rested a hand on the back of the seat. Jennifer sat with her hands in her lap, staring through the windshield.

After several miles, she said, “They won’t forgive me for leaving.”

Louis looked at her in the rearview mirror. Her face was drawn, and her hands were tight in her lap. He said, “They won’t be in a position to.”

She turned her head sharply toward him. “What does that mean?”

Gladice answered without looking back. “It means this country is going to split apart around that house. And when it does, being a Hargrove will not save anyone from the results.”

Jennifer stared at her. “The Council—”

“Will be very busy. General Vance is dead.” Gladice glanced at her briefly. “That tends to upset things.”

Jennifer swallowed hard. “And my mother?”

Her voice caught on the last word. Louis looked at her in the mirror again and said, “I don’t know.”

Angelique said, “You did the right thing, Jennifer.”

Jennifer turned to look at her. She said, “I was a coward.”

“No,” Angelique said. “You were the first person to walk out of that house on your own. That is not cowardice.”

Jennifer looked back to the road. “I will be an enemy of my country.”

“Yes,” Angelique said.

No one answered that. They passed a road sign pointing toward Greenville. Gladice slowed slightly to check the number and then sped up again. For miles, the engine was the only sound inside the car.

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