The Book of Ivy

  T

  rying to find the right time to approach Victoria is an art I’m still mastering. She is not mean or spiteful, but she can be curt if she’s preoccupied or believes that her time is being wasted. It doesn’t generally bother me because Callie is the same way. Most of the time I manage to not take it personally.

  We’re grabbing a quick lunch in the small courthouse cafeteria, when I think I may have an opening. I’m picking at a slightly stale turkey and cheese sandwich, while Victoria speeds her way through a chicken salad. Her selection looks better than mine.

  “So,” I ask, “has David worked here long?”

  Victoria shrugs. “I don’t know exactly. He’s been here as long as I have.”

  I pinch off a tiny piece of turkey but don’t eat it. “Do you think it’s weird for him, having a gun and everything?”

  “And everything?” Victoria asks with raised eyebrows.

  “I just mean, most people aren’t comfortable with weapons, since there aren’t many around.”

  Victoria takes a bite of salad and chews it before answering. “He seems pretty comfortable to me.”

  I give what I hope sounds like a normal laugh and not some crazed cackle. “Yeah, I guess so.” My sandwich is hopeless, so I wad it up along with the paper it’s wrapped in. “Is that his gun or does he get it here?” I am sure she can see my heartbeat pulsing through my shirt.

  “He gets it here. Work issue,” Victoria says. She is answering my questions easily enough, but her eyes are sharp on mine.

  “What, do they have a stockpile hidden away somewhere?” Again with the laugh that’s not quite my own.

  “Why so curious?” Victoria asks, putting down her fork. “I didn’t know you were interested in guns.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not. Well, I mean, maybe I am a little. I’ve read about them in books, but I haven’t ever really seen one. You know…forbidden fruit and all that.”

  My answer must make sense to Victoria because she picks her fork up again and stabs at a chunk of chicken. “You’re not the only one who feels that way. Half the men who work here are constantly begging David for a chance to hold it.” She snorts. “I could make an inappropriate joke about over-compensating, but you’re too young, so I won’t.”

  I laugh, and this time it’s genuine.

  “But David’s careful with his gun. As he should be. Only a select few people are trusted with them. And Ray…I don’t think you’ve met him yet?”

  I shake my head.

  “His job, for as long as anybody can remember, has been to keep the weapons safe and in the right hands.” Ray must have been the older man I saw in the gun room with David.

  “So I’m guessing Ray and David aren’t going to be taking me out for target practice anytime soon?” I ask.

  Victoria smiles. “Doubtful. The person you should be talking to, if you’re really serious, is your father-in-law.” She points at me with her fork. “Ray’s in charge of the guns, but President Lattimer’s in charge of Ray.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I say, my heart rate picking up. “Maybe I’ll ask him.” I’m not sure exactly where to go from here. I can’t think of a way to get the code from David or Ray that won’t give everything away, and I have no idea where, or even if, they keep a record of it in the courthouse. But Victoria is probably right. The person who would undoubtedly have the information is my father-in-law. I think of his study and his big walnut desk. I’m sure it holds plenty of secrets.

  “Ready?” Victoria asks me. She is already standing, her empty salad bowl in hand.

  “Sure.” I scramble to my feet, tossing my sandwich into the trash can.

  “They’re being put out this afternoon,” Victoria tells me as we leave the cafeteria. “We need to get everything ready.”

  My footsteps slow. It reminds me of being a little girl when I didn’t want to go wherever my father was taking me and I dragged my feet until he was forced to pull me.

  “What?” Victoria asks over her shoulder. She sounds aggravated.

  I speed up. “Are we actually there when they’re put out?”

  “No,” Victoria says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I know what Mark Laird did, but I still don’t want to watch his punishment, have to listen to him beg for mercy he doesn’t deserve and definitely won’t receive.

  “How many are there?”

  “Three today,” Victoria says. “All men.”

  “Is that typical? The number, I mean?” President Lattimer never gives us details about who is being put out. There is always gossip in the market and I’ve heard my father talking about it with neighbors, but no official accounting is ever released. Probably because while the threat of being put out serves to keep us in line, knowing actual names and numbers might cause people to question what’s happening.

  “It varies,” Victoria says. We start up the stairs, turning sideways against the flow of people heading to the cafeteria. “We do this every month, and a lot of times there’s no one. The most I can remember is five at one time, but that’s unusual. That was a bad winter.” She glances at me. “Generally, all men, but not always.”

  “Does President Lattimer come?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not,” I mutter. “That would be getting too close to the dirty work.”

  Victoria stops in her tracks, and I almost slam into her back. “Watch yourself, Ivy,” she says. She doesn’t sound angry, so much as concerned. “You’re his family now, but you can still overstep your boundaries.”

  My throat is instantly bone dry. I manage to give her a tiny nod. I don’t think President Lattimer would hurt me. It wouldn’t be good for public relations to punish his newly minted daughter-in-law, especially after the speech he gave me about valuing my opinion, and the way he always tries to come across as benevolent. He’s more the type to hurt other people in my stead—Callie, my father—people whose punishment would be even more painful to witness than my own, the same way he killed my mother as a way to hurt my father.

  Victoria pauses in her office to grab a stack of files from the edge of her desk. Then it’s back down the stairs to the basement. On days like this, I wish for the elevator, but it’s considered an unnecessary use of electricity.

  “Do we give them anything?” I ask, skipping down the steps at Victoria’s break neck pace. “Before we put them out?”

  “Like a going away present?” Victoria asks with a humorless laugh.

  “No, of course not. But water, maybe? Or a map?” Even as I ask the question, I know the answer.

  “Nope.” Victoria yanks open the basement door and holds it for me to pass through ahead of her. “Besides, a map would be only a guess on our part. We have no idea what’s out there, either.” She points toward the corridor where the gun room is located. “This way.”

  I manage to pass by the closed door without glancing at it, although the urge is strong. We take another right and, huddled at the end of the hall, are three men in shackles. David and another guard lean against the wall.

  David sees us coming and pushes himself away from the wall. “Hey, Victoria,” he says. “Mrs. Lattimer.”

  “Ivy,” I tell him. From the expression on his face, I know it will be a cold day in hell before he ever brings himself to call me anything other than Mrs. Lattimer.

  “Hello,” Victoria says. “Everything going according to procedure?” Her voice is brisk and businesslike. She doesn’t look at any of the prisoners.

  “Yes,” David says. “Just waiting for you to bring the paperwork so we can get them out of here.”

  “Sorry we’re a little late.”

  “That’s okay.” David flaps a hand behind him at the men. “They’re not going anywhere. But it’s a long walk. Sooner we get started, the better.”

  “Absolutely,” Victoria says. She flips open the first file in her hands. “You know the drill.” She hands David a pen and holds the file steady while he signs the paperwork inside. I tune them out and turn m
y attention to the prisoners.

  The oldest one is probably in his fifties, with a hard paunch of belly and downcast eyes. Sweat stains the armpits of his shirt and moistens his forehead. Next to him is a small, wiry man who reminds me of a rodent, all his features pinched toward the middle of his face and sharp front teeth resting on his bottom lip. He’s not sweating, but he’s breathing fast. I can hear his labored inhales from where I stand. The final man is Mark Laird. I glance at him and he gives me a tentative, sad smile, looking for all the world like a wronged man valiantly accepting his fate. But that cunning, calculating gleam in his blue eyes gives him away. He’s already sizing up his situation, figuring out what can be used to his advantage. He’s obviously done with begging.

  I don’t want to look at him. His eyes on mine make my skin crawl. I can hear the voice of the little girl he hurt crying inside my head. But if I look away, he’ll know he’s scared me. And that is worse than meeting his gaze.

  “All set,” David says from behind me, and the second guard straightens up from his relaxed slouch against the wall. It seems like there should be more formality, something more dramatic to mark the moment, but David simply moves past the prisoners and pushes open the door in front of them. It opens directly to the outside and the bright sunlight streaming in makes us all squint. I put up a hand to shield my eyes.

  “Come on,” David says gruffly to the first prisoner in line, the older man, “get moving.” The man hesitates for only a second before shuffling forward, following David out into daylight. The other two have no choice but to do the same, as they are all chained together. The second guard brings up the rear, the door swinging shut with a hollow bang behind him. I lower my hand, sun spots still shifting before my eyes. The hallway is eerily quiet. I think I can still hear the men’s chains jangling from outside, but I know it’s only my imagination.

  Victoria moves up next to me, her eyes on the door. “Well, that’s that,” she says. “Let’s get back to work.”

  “Okay,” I say, my voice small but steady. For all intents and purposes, I’ve just watched three men die. It was not as difficult as it should have been.

  I

  ’m passing the secluded edge of the park on my way home when Callie steps out from behind a tree and loops her arm through mine. I’m not even that surprised, but I pull away all the same.

  “What is the deal with you and Dad lately?” I say. “Always lurking.”

  “Calm down,” Callie says, rolling her eyes. “Dad doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You seemed a little off the other day,” Callie says, falling into step beside me. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  I snort. Callie has been a lot of things to me over the years—confidante, teacher, torturer, but nurturer has rarely been on the list. “What do you really want?”

  “God, you’re prickly,” Callie says, probably annoyed that I’m stepping into territory she usually occupies.

  I stop and stare at her, arms folded across my chest.

  “Okay,” Callie says, mimicking my pose. “I want to know what’s going on with you and Bishop Lattimer.”

  “What do you mean?” I ignore the way my pulse increases at her words, my palms suddenly slick with sweat.

  “You were acting weird the other day.” Callie shrugs. “Reluctant or something.”

  “You mean reluctant to kill someone?” I ask. “Pardon me if I’m not jumping for joy.” My voice has an edge to it, one Callie must hear, too, because she takes a step closer to me.

  “Oh, grow up, Ivy. Did you actually think any of this would be easy?” Her voice cracks against me like a whip. “Anything worth fighting for…worth having…is difficult. There are always going to be casualties of war.” She studies my face for a long moment. I try to keep my expression blank, but just like it’s been since we were children, she reads me in an instant.

  She points at me, her finger coming millimeters away from stabbing me in the middle of the chest. “Do you…do you like him?” She sounds horrified, disgusted, like I’ve eaten a handful of worms or slept in my own vomit.

  I look away, willing my heart to calm down. A warm breeze rustles the trees above our heads, blowing a tangle of hair into my eyes. I push it back impatiently. “I don’t have to like someone to not be okay with killing him.”

  “You know how important his death is to our success,” Callie says. “If his father dies, Bishop steps right into power. Nothing changes. They both have to go. You know that.”

  “I don’t think he’s like his father. He—”

  “I don’t care,” Callie says, voice ice cold. “I don’t care what he’s like. And you shouldn’t, either. You’re selfish if you do. You’re going to put what you feel, what you want, before what’s best for our family? Before what’s best for everyone?” She grabs my forearm, her fingers digging trenches between the tendons. “After all these years, our family is finally close to being in control. Do you not get that?”

  “Yes, I get that.” I pry her hand off my arm, bending her fingers back as I do. “I saw three men put out today,” I say through clenched teeth. “Do you even care? Isn’t that the sort of thing we’re supposed to be fighting against?”

  Callie’s eyebrows snap together. “What are you talking about?”

  I shake my head at her, all the anger draining out of me. I shrug, my whole body lifeless and so tired. “Forget it.”

  “Whatever’s going on with you,” Callie says, “you need to remember who you are. Fast. It’s us against them.” She grabs my hand, but this time her grip is gentle. Her voice is soft as she says, “We’re your family. We love you. We’re the ones who would do anything for you. Don’t forget it.”

  “I never do,” I say. It’s hard to speak around the burning knot of tears in my throat.

  Callie gives my hand one final squeeze. “You have to do this, Ivy, or everything falls apart. Think how proud Dad will be when it’s over.” She gives me a little smile and takes a few steps backward, eyes still on mine. “Don’t make Bishop Lattimer more important than he is. He wouldn’t do the same for you.”

  I stay on the sidewalk for a long time after she’s gone. Is it still manipulation if you know it’s happening, but it works anyway?

  I

  wake when it’s dark outside. I lay on my back, my eyes cloudy with sleep, and try to figure out what woke me. At first there’s nothing, only the faint sound of birds outside the window, the whir of the ceiling fan above my head. I’m about to roll over and try to get a little more sleep when I hear it again, the sound of a kitchen cabinet closing. It’s earlier than Bishop is usually up and he’s trying hard to be quiet. I can tell because the sounds coming from the kitchen are careful, the tread of his feet light.

  I startle him when I appear in the kitchen doorway, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. Belatedly, I realize I’m dressed only in a tank top and my underpants, but I guess it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, given the bikini I wore to the river. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He is wearing a T-shirt and shorts, his hair unruly from sleep. His eyes skim over my bare legs then rise to my face. I manage not to blush. “Nothing,” he says. He’s not trying to hide the open backpack on the counter, but I can tell he doesn’t want me to notice it, either. “It’s early. You can go back to bed if you want.”

  “Okay.” I turn and pad back to the bedroom but don’t crawl into bed. Instead, I throw on clothes and shoes, pull my hair up into a bun on the top of my head, and wait until I hear the front door close softly behind him. Then I sprint to the kitchen for a jug of water and slip out after him.

  I don’t really think through why I’m following him, but I want to know what he’s up to, why he’s keeping something secret from me. Which is ridiculous, given the number of secrets I have from him. But I want to discover what he’s doing and I’m not above sneaking around in order to find out.

  Following him without being seen or heard is d
ifficult. He walks the same route as we took to the river, at least at first, but he navigates fast and sure through the woods, barely slowing for downed tree limbs or branches that effortlessly reach out and find places on me to scratch. I’m hoping the sound of his footfalls drown mine out because I’m hardly quiet, practically having to run to keep sight of him in spots.

  I begin to hear the river to our right and know the pool is close, but he veers left, off the path, and straight into the tangled undergrowth. I lean against a tree trunk for a second to catch my breath before heading after him. Vines tangle around my ankles and foliage snatches at my bare arms. I manage to sidestep a large rock half buried in the ground, but my foot snags on a tree root and I go down hard, landing on my right shoulder.

  I lay there for a minute, breathing through gritted teeth. I’m not hurt so much as stunned, although a tiny rivulet of blood runs down my arm. This was such a bad idea, but it’s too late to turn back now. I have to know what he’s doing. I push myself to my knees and then to my feet and head after him. I’ve completely lost sight of him and I cock my head, hoping to hear something. Nothing but silence. Risking the noise, I run in the direction Bishop was last headed, leaping over obstacles and straining for any glimpse of his blue T-shirt.

  I stop again, listening. There’s the faint sound of voices coming from ahead and slightly to my right. They are difficult to hear over the leaves whispering in the early morning breeze. I can’t hear what the voices are saying, but I’m positive the deeper one is Bishop’s. I move slowly now, careful to set each foot down quietly as I move in the direction of the sound.

  I’m not sure exactly where I am. I can no longer hear the river, but up ahead and through the trees I see sunlight glinting off metal. The fence. What is Bishop doing at the fence? Maybe he’s talking to one of the patrol guards? My breathing is labored and not only from running. I inch closer, stopping right on the edge of the tree line and hiding myself behind a wide trunk.