Storm of Lightning Page 16

  “Wait, please,” Quentin said, holding up his hand. “Do not move yet. In one minute I am going to give you the opportunity to make your decision. A life of prosperity and happiness, or one of poverty and deprivation. As we make this transition, it will be wise for you to stay tuned to your radio for further instructions. Do you all understand?”

  “Yes!” someone shouted.

  Hatch stepped back up to the microphone. “I would like to hear your acclamation for your new king. All hail King Quentin, three times.”

  The people began shouting. “All hail King Quentin. All hail King Quentin. All hail King Quentin.”

  When they had finished, Hatch said, “There is one more thing. The first fifty people in each line who swear allegiance will be given another five hundred Elgen Mark. You may line up now.”

  The scene looked like the start of a marathon race as people sprinted for the lines. Some of the older people who were closer to the lines were knocked down or trampled by others rushing from the back. Quentin looked over at Hatch, who was nodding with approval.

  “Just like you said it would be,” Quentin said.

  “Exactly as I said it would be,” Hatch said without smiling.

  Over the next week King Quentin and the other Glows moved from the Faraday into the royal palace, which, by Elgen standards, was modest and in need of renovation. Quentin, at Hatch’s instruction, began building his cabinet—a group of counselors—to help him run the nation.

  Early on the morning of the eighth day, Quentin was in his office looking over a résumé when Tara walked in. She sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk. “Are you growing a beard?”

  Quentin looked up. “Yes. What do you think?”

  Tara nodded. “It looks kingly,” she said. “So how does it feel to be a king?”

  “It’s not what I thought it would be,” he said, his voice dull. “You get these pictures in your head of what it’s supposed to be like—probably from old King Arthur movies. But the truth is, it’s mostly just interviewing people and paperwork. I mean, look at what I’m sitting on. It’s an office chair. What I need is a throne, one of those big, red velvet chairs with gold leafing and a tall back carved in the shape of a lion’s head.”

  “Yeah,” Tara said. “And a scepter.”

  “I have no idea what a scepter is for,” Quentin said, grinning. “But you’re right. I need one.”

  Tara laughed. “And a court jester. You’ve got to have one of those.”

  “I’d need a court first,” Quentin said. “And we’ve got Bryan, right?” They both laughed. “What I really need is a crown. It’s iconic. Nothing says ‘king’ like a crown.”

  “Exactly,” Tara said. “Every king needs a crown. What kind would you get—one of the pointy ones, or the more roundish kind with red velvet on top?”

  “I don’t care. As long as it’s made of pure gold and inset with a few million worth of jewels.”

  Just then Dr. Hatch walked into the room. “So it’s a crown you covet,” he said.

  Quentin flushed. “Sorry, sir. We were just being . . . stupid.”

  “If every fool wore a crown, everyone would be king,” Hatch said. He sat down, glancing over to Tara. “Would you excuse us, please?”

  “Yes, sir,” Tara said, immediately standing.

  “See you,” Quentin said.

  After she was gone, Hatch said, “Quentin, have you wondered why I would make you king of a tiny nation when I could have just as easily turned all of the Tuvaluans into slaves?”

  “Yes, sir. I have.”

  “This is not a kingdom,” he said. “It is your classroom. These backward natives are not subjects; they are practice. If you are to rule millions, you must first learn to rule thousands. Kingship is an art to be mastered—like the foil or the chessboard—and the only certainty of kingship is that someone is always standing behind the throne, waiting to take your seat. If you wish to maintain a throne, there are certain rules that must be followed.”

  “What are those, sir?”

  “The greatest threat to a dictator is not from without but from within. The first rule is, you must keep your subjects divided. A united people is a smoldering revolution. A divided people is a conquered people.”

  “How do I do that?” Quentin asked.

  “You make them hate one another. Before World War Two, Hitler was amazed and disgusted by the hate the German people exercised toward one another. He harnessed their animosity and directed it to his own ends.”

  Quentin took out a pad of paper. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “I would be disappointed if you didn’t,” Hatch said.

  Quentin set his pen to the paper. “How do I make them hate each other?”

  “You begin by teaching them that they have been wronged by one another—that they are victims of a grave injustice—and encourage them to embrace their victimhood.”

  “What if they haven’t been wronged?”

  “Everyone has been wronged,” Hatch said. “Everyone. And if you can’t find a potent enough current injustice, then borrow someone else’s. Find one that happened to someone else long ago and make your citizen a supposed crusader for justice. Imbue them with a sense of moral superiority as they trample the rights of others beneath their feet. Righteous indignation is the alibi of mobs and murderers.”

  Hatch leaned back in his seat. “Unfortunately, the Tuvaluan people are of the same race and culture, as cultural disparity is the easiest way to divide a nation. But divisions in humanity can always be found. Turn men against women and women against men. Divide the young from the old, the rich from the poor, the educated from the uneducated, the religious from the nonreligious, the privileged from the underprivileged. Teach them to shame others and to use shame as a tool to their own ends.

  “Make the ridiculous ideal of ‘equality’ their rallying cry. Let them get so caught up in their supposed moral superiority that they’d rather see all men grovel in poverty than rise in differing levels of prosperity.

  “Do not let them see that there has never been nor ever will be true equality, in property or rights. Equality is not the nature of the world or even the universe. Even if you could guarantee everyone the same wealth, humans would reject the idea. They would simply find a different standard to create castes, as there will always be differences in intelligence, physical strength, and beauty.

  “Don’t worry if your propaganda is true or false. Truth is subjective. It’s as easy to tell a big lie as it is a small one. And any lie told enough will be regarded as truth. In dividing the young from the old, do not teach the youths the error of their elders’ ways, as they may see through your propaganda. Instead, mock their elders. Mocking requires neither proof nor truth, as it feeds the fool’s ego. You will see that when it comes to the masses, the stupider the individual, the more they want to prove it to the world.

  “The second rule is to keep the people distracted from the weightier and more complex matters of liberty and justice. Keep them obsessed by their amusements—just as the Roman emperor Commodus gave the Roman people games to distract them from his poor leadership. A championship soccer team may do more to ease a public’s suffering than a dozen social programs. If your subjects can name a movie star’s dog but not the president of their country, you have no need to fear.

  “The third rule is to teach them not to trust one another. An ancient proverb says, ‘Kings have many ears and many eyes.’ You must build a web of informants from within the population. Openly reward those who report on their neighbors. If your subjects don’t know who is an informant and who isn’t, they will never risk speaking their grievances.”

  Quentin finished writing, then looked up. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You will learn,” Hatch said, “that human nature is a game. Learn to control the few, and you will someday control the masses.” Hatch stood. “Give them hate. Give them games.”

  “I will start this afternoon.”

  “Very well.”
He took a step toward the door, then turned back. “I like the beard. Work on it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As soon as Hatch walked out of his office, Quentin called his new minister of public planning. “I want to build a stadium.”

  Ada County Jail Boise, Idaho

  Julie Ridley stared back at her husband from behind the glass partition of the jail’s visiting room. Her usual meticulously styled blond hair was disheveled and slightly matted, and instead of a carefully accessorized outfit, she was wearing an orangish-red jumpsuit that hung formlessly on her frail frame. In just three days she had already lost almost five pounds, and her face looked pale and gaunt. Her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. She didn’t have to sleep to have nightmares. She was living one.

  The Boise police had arrested her as she’d walked from her car to her home. They had searched her, handcuffed her, and then driven her to jail while detectives and a forensic team combed over her car and residence. Their search bore fruit—they found a large quantity of drugs, and traces of her daughter’s blood.

  It took two days for her arraignment and the judge to set bail. Because she was considered a flight risk, and in consideration of the quantity of drugs they had found in her possession, the bail was set high, at a quarter million dollars—almost enough to guarantee that she wouldn’t get out.

  During her time in jail she had been kept mostly isolated and was interrogated repeatedly by detectives who asked the same three questions a thousand different ways: Where did you get the drugs? Where is your daughter? Why did you go to Mexico?

  Today was the first visit she’d been allowed since her incarceration, and her husband, Charles, sat on the other side of the thick, bulletproof glass window of a visitation booth, holding a telephone. He also looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Over his career he had put more people in this jail than he could remember, but he had never expected to be visiting his wife here.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m in jail, Chuck.”

  “Dumb question,” he said. “Sorry.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Julie, you’ve got to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I wish I could.”

  “What’s stopping you? You’re going to have to talk sometime. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’re in?”

  “I know exactly what kind of trouble I’m in. More than you do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She just breathed out slowly. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it matters!” Charles said. He leaned up to the glass. “Julie, you need to give me some answers, here. You owe me that.”

  Julie looked at him angrily. “I owe you?”

  “I’m sorry. Please. I want to help.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “To begin with, why were you in Mexico?”

  She slowly shook her head. “I can’t tell you.”

  Charles groaned with frustration. He looked into her eyes. “Were you there to buy drugs?”

  Julie’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been married for twenty-six years and you ask me if I’m a drug dealer? Who do you think I am?”

  “Honestly, these days, I don’t know, Julie. You tell me you’re going to Scottsdale, and then you secretly fly off to some stronghold for drug cartels in Mexico and then won’t tell me why. The police find a half million dollars of heroin in your car. . . .” His eyes welled up. “Then they find traces of Taylor’s blood. . . .” He raked a hand back through his hair. “I don’t know who you are anymore. I wish you would tell me.”

  “I wish I could,” she said. “But the less you know, the better.”

  “No, the less I know, the less I can do to help.”

  “You can’t help me, Chuck. No one can. They’re just using me. And after they get what they want, they’ll kill me.”

  “What are you talking about? No one’s going to kill you. Who do you think is using you?”

  “The people trying to get Taylor.”

  “Taylor is gone, honey.”

  Julie didn’t speak.

  “You need to tell me something. Do you know where Taylor is?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Did you do something to her?”

  Julie slammed her hand against the glass. “How dare you!”

  The police officer standing against the wall behind her yelled, “Control yourself, Ridley. Or I’ll terminate your visit.”

  “Sorry,” she said. She turned back and took a deep breath, then looked up at her husband. “How dare you ask me that?”

  “They found traces of her blood in your car. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You’re supposed to think that I love my daughter, because you know I do. You know her blood was planted.”

  “Planted by whom? Who would do this? Why would they do this?”

  “Bad people,” she said. “It’s a conspiracy.”

  Charles sighed. “Julie, when you say that, you sound . . .”

  “Crazy? Paranoid?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you almost did.” She breathed out. “Chuck, you know me. I’m not crazy. And I’m not lying to you. Have I ever lied to you before?”

  Charles was quiet for a moment, then said, “Not until now.”

  “You know I’ve been framed.”

  “By whom? The same person who’s leaving drugs in your car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me who they are. Give me something to go on here.”

  Julie just put her head against the glass. “I can’t. You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

  “You’re telling me that someone just randomly picked some woman in Meridian, Idaho, to frame? Why would they willingly lose a half million dollars to frame you? It makes no sense.”

  Julie breathed out slowly in resignation, covering her eyes with her hands. “You’re right. It makes no sense. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

  Charles just stared at her for a moment, then said, “You need to start giving them some answers, or things aren’t going to go well for you. You could be in real trouble. We both could.”

  Julie slowly looked up at her husband. Her eyes were strong and cold. “My dear Charles, you have no idea what kind of trouble we’re really in.”

  Chief Davis looked over as Officer Ridley opened the door to the chief’s car. He waited until Charles was seated to talk. “How’d it go?”

  Charles looked over at him. “Not well. She’s suffering. She’s afraid.”

  “I’m sorry,” Davis said. “Did she tell you anything?”

  “Nothing worth anything. She just kept saying that someone planted everything, and that someone is going to kill her.”

  Davis’s brow furrowed. “Who’s going to kill her?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “Does she need a psychiatric evaluation?”

  “I don’t know. She seemed . . . normal.”

  “Normal, huh? We just found blood spatters and a half million dollars of heroin in her car. Hardly normal.”

  “No, I meant, she didn’t sound crazy.”

  “Paranoid schizophrenics can be very convincing.”

  “I just don’t get it. Julie’s always been solid. She’s as levelheaded a person as you’ll ever meet.”

  “What other explanation could there be?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, the woman’s a Girl Scout. She yells at me if I go a mile over the speed limit. She once drove a mile back to the grocery store because the guy at the register gave her a quarter too much in change.” Charles shook his head. “It makes no sense. No sense at all. I don’t even think she would know what to do with the drugs they found.”

  “That could work in her favor, you know. If we could show that she was forced into this, the judge could show leniency. As long as she cooperates. She could lead us to some major dealers.”

  “She’s sticking to her claim that she knows nothing about where the
drugs came from.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “Same thing. She says she knows nothing.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”

  The chief was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, this has got to be really tough on you.”

  “Nothing compared to how tough it is on her,” Charles said. “I just wish I could get her out of there. She’s a mother, not a convict.”

  “A lot of convicts are mothers,” Davis said. “I heard about the bail.”

  “A quarter million dollars,” Charles said, shaking his head. “That’s more than the equity we have in our home. I don’t know how I can get my hands on that much.”

  Davis anxiously eyed Charles. “You’re not going to try to raise it, are you?”

  “She’s my wife. I can’t let her just sit in jail.”

  “Until we figure out what’s going on, jail might be the best place for her. If she gets out, she may just run off to Mexico again.”

  Charles exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what’s happened to her, but I do know that I still love her. She’s my life. I just don’t know what to do.” He looked into the chief’s eyes. “If it was your wife, what would you do?”

  Davis shook his head. “I don’t know. We married for better or worse, right? Bottom line, it’s a man’s job to protect his wife. The real challenge is knowing how best to do that. You’ve been on the force for fifteen years; you know as well as anyone that sometimes we need to protect people from themselves.”

  Charles just sat quietly thinking. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Every now and then I’m right.” He smiled sadly. “Even a broken clock is right twice a day, huh?” He leaned forward and started the car. “Let me buy you some pie.”

  “Thanks, but it’s been a long day. I just want to go home.”

  “I understand,” Davis said. He pulled the car out of the jail’s parking lot and into traffic. Twenty minutes later they drove up into Charles’s driveway.

  “Home sweet home,” Davis said.

  “Not anymore. Not without her.” He looked at the chief. “I can’t help but feel guilty. I just feel like I should try to post bail.”