Page 109 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“Not letting go.” She pressed against him and then did just that, walking into the corridor. “Okay, everyone, follow me.”
They processed down the dim hallway single file. Behind her, a mother was whispering they were playing a game of sneaky spies, and they had to be really, really quiet. The elevator, when they reached it, was unmarked except for the universal wheelchair sign. Kevin and Hadley were leaning against the wall.
“Did it work?”
He pressed the button. Thankfully, there was no bright “ding!” to announce its arrival. The doors opened smoothly, revealing the tablecloth-turned-curtain, which did, as she had hoped, block the light.
“Great job, you two.” She turned to the civilians. “When we come out at the top, we need to go one adult at a time, and try to open this curtain as little as possible.” The mothers nodded.
Hadley swept the fabric to one side, and they all crowded in. Kevin said something to his former partner, too low for Clare to hear, then let the doors close. He turned around and held up a finger to his lips. The children copied him. He pushed the button markedSTREET LEVELand then eased his gun out of its holster, keeping it down and to the front where the children couldn’t see.
The doors opened. Clare sidled through the curtain.
Dark ahead, where the underside of the museum’s gigantic stairs hovered over the avenue. Cold wind, tinged with the nose-wrinkling smell of urine. A single car raced past them, its headlights blinding in the dark.
She looked toward the wide, double flight of stairs rising to the plaza. She could clearly see the outline of the crane, but the lights that had made it hard for Hadley to see any details would now work in their favor, doubling the darkness at street level.
Clare beckoned the others. It was only two short steps to the corner, then around it, and then above her there was nothing but the stone-faced wall holding up the plaza. Mr. Schlesinger’s daughter had been right. None of the militia members would be able to see them unless they were standing on the sidewalk.
The other passengers slipped around the corner, one and two at a time. Kevin followed in the rear. Clare motioned to stay close to the wall, and they proceeded to walk briskly down the sidewalk, toward the promise of streetlights and buildings and safety. It was a long city block to the intersection, where everyone stopped.
Kevin looked around. A lot, a garage, a small park, and the Catholic cathedral, all dark. “Um…”
“It’s okay.” One of the women pointed farther down the avenue. “There are a bunch of restaurants starting after the next street. We’ll be okay.” She pressed Clare’s hand. “Please, bring out the rest of them.” They crossed the street, waved on the other side, and continued down the next block.
Kevin fished his phone from his pocket and powered it up. “The chief asked me to call Vince Patten and update him.” He entered the number and waited a few seconds for the answer. He identified himself, and Clare could hear Patten yell, “It’s about damn time!” despite standing two feet away. Kevin calmed the Albany commander down, then sketched out the situation clearly and economically, ending by stressing any response should be as low-key as humanly possible. Clare was impressed; she had dealt with army majors who couldn’t brief as competently.
“Yes, sir,” he finished. “Yes, sir. I will. Bye.” Kevin grinned at Clare. “He says the chief’s gonna owe him a steak dinner at 677 Prime if he gets us out of this.”
“Fair enough. Let’s—”
“Oh my God.” Kevin sounded incredulous rather than alarmed. “My phone downloaded all my stuff when I turned it on. I’m still on the militia email list.” He blew out a laugh.
“So much for OPSEC,” Clare observed. She took four steps up the sidewalk before realizing Kevin wasn’t at her side. “What?”
He was staring at his phone, all amusement wiped from his face. He tapped at something, then did it again.
“Kevin, what is it?”
He held out the phone. It showed a picture of the plaza from a height, the glass doors they had first used centered on the screen, the lights glowing in the darkness. It took her a second to realize the smear she could see in front of the entrance was blood.
Paul Terrance’s blood.
12.
The picture tilted to a clumsy close-up of a man hidden behind a black balaclava. Clare jerked back in surprise. The man’s lips started moving.
“Hang on, hang on.” Kevin thumbed his controls.
“—the documents on our site. Look at ’em. Read ’em. Brothers, we’re trying to cut through the bloated sewage stream of lies and disinformation. Just like the patriots in 1776, we’re risking our lives to create a new, better, cleaner version of this country we love. We want you—weneedyou—to join us.”
Clare tried to pull a single question out of her jumbled thoughts. All she could come up with was “Why? Are they trying to get people to gather here at the plaza?”
Kevin swiped the live feed off, revealing a well-designed page that could have been part of a conservative news network except for the blatant Nazi symbolism and the slurs featured in the headlines. There was a large number “584” at the top right, titledSUPPORTING PATRIOTS. As she watched, the number went to 585, then 586, then 587.
“I think…” Kevin shook his head. “I think they’re asking viewers to donate.”
“Is this a… apledge drive?” She looked up at Kevin, disbelieving. “Like… evil NPR?”
