The Epilogue

"KNIGHT, COME TO THE FRONT!"

The copper dressed in black is not the same transport officer who brought me to the chaplain’s office a few days ago. Or should I say, he’s not Officer Parker’s brother. Officer Parker—since our two kisses—lives somewhere in my blood now, her pulse still moving through me like its own heartbeat.

But that warmth turns to cold when it dawns on me—there’s only one reason a copper would pull me out of the section right now. Either the chaplain wants a follow-up, or there’s more bad news from home.

We walk the giant hallways, and sure enough, the transport officer leads me into the same carpeted room with the seven doors.

“Have a seat.”

Only one door is open, the far one. I wonder if each office belongs to a different chaplain—one for each day of the week?

“Are all these offices for different chaplains?”

The copper turns just enough to shoot two words at me.

“No talking.”

Sheesh. A little rude to someone about to get tragic family news.

Many minutes pass, but I have no idea how many; there’s no clock.

By the time I shift in my seat for the thirteenth time, I hear:

“We’re ready for him. Send him in.”

The copper walks me to the door and gestures for me to go inside. Oddly, he doesn’t follow.

I step in and instantly know this isn’t family news.

There’s an eight-seat conference table, four of the chairs filled with large, serious men in black-and-white suits.

One of them speaks without looking up. “Thank you, officer. Close the door, please.”

The door shuts behind me with a sharp click.

Tik. Tik. Tik. Tik.

No one speaks. No one offers me a seat. I just stand there, getting more uncomfortable by the second. Whatever they’re about to say must be important. The way they’re dressed, the demeanor of the guy right over—

“Cillian Knight, age twenty-five,” the suit says, cutting through my thoughts. He reads from a sheet of paper. “As of four days ago, that is. Six foot one, strawberry-blonde hair, one hundred fifty-five pounds. Four siblings. Parents divorced. Father recently passed of a… heart attack. No college degree. No kids. No wife. No significant other…”

He pauses to look me over.

“A close friend by the name of John Bartholomew—who has not made contact since you arrived here six months ago for…” He lifts his eyes to me, pupils cold as crossed bones.

“Murder.”

“It says here, Knight, that you were driving under the influence and ran your car into a man you claim was ‘in the middle of the freeway.’ Is that correct?”

{Uh-oh. I know these guys. Better watch your P’s and Q’s, especially if they’re asking about me.}

Leave me alone, I think to myself.

What is this? These guys aren’t holy men, and they’re definitely not here about my family.

“Yeah, that’s right. And I already went over everything with detectives six months ago. I was stupid then and didn’t exercise my right to a lawyer. This time, if you want to question me, I have the right to have an attorney present.”

He ignores me completely.

“Since hitting population, you’ve had seven cellmates, with a Mr. Jimmy Smith as your current one?”

He isn’t really asking me anything, so I just nod.

“Three months ago, you had a conversation with your cellmate at the time, a Mr. Vaughn Young, in which you discussed the workings of the Federal Reserve banking system. Correct?”

{Uh-oh. If they know about that, how long have they been listening?}

Stop saying uh-oh. You are not helping.

I nod again, slower. A creepy feeling starts crawling over my skin—this time it’s not from the new voice in my head.

Another suit leans forward, reads, and quotes me:

“‘And as far as the conspiracies you share with me each night, I’ve found them stimulating, but unlike you, I’ve taken them with a grain of salt. The world is not out to get us… Without all the extra dressing of Christianity, I do believe in living up to Christ’s standards.’”

He glances sideways. “Very inspiring stuff. Wouldn’t you say, Agent Jacobson?”

Agent Jacobson rolls his eyes. “Oh yes. Inspiring. Looks like we’ve got a saint on our hands here. Saint Knight. Has a medieval ring to it, doesn’t it, Agent Elisen?”

Agent Elisen doesn’t move. His dark eyes just stay locked on me.

{They know everything. You’re screwed. Better confess now.}

There’s something they don’t know—otherwise they wouldn’t be doing all this.

“Okay, I get it. You’re agents, and you’ve been listening to me for a while. Probably since I got here. So just cut the shit and tell me what you want.”

What happened to the timid kid whose hands shook every time a CO yelled?

Suddenly, the silent agent leaps from his chair, grabs my shirt, and lifts me two feet into the air.

“You ignorant little shit! You have no idea what you’ve done! A good man is dead because of you!”

Looking down into his eyes, I see real pain.

{Told you to watch your P’s and Q’s.}

Shut up! You’re not real!

“Set him down, Agent Bosen.”

Bosen glares a moment longer before letting my Crocs hit the carpet. He doesn’t sit; instead, he just stands close enough to feel like a threat.

“As you can see,” Agent Sanderson says, “Agent Bosen is still upset about losing a brother in the field. We all are.”

You were an agent!?

{I guess I was. Pretty badass, if I say so myself.}

What kind of agent?

{You’ll just have to find out.}

Unbelievable.

“I swear it was an accident. I didn’t know—”

“Shut the fuck up. We know it was an accident. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

I look around. He’s not bluffing.

{Better not talk unless they ask a question.}

Don’t you think I know that now?

Agent Sanderson continues. “The man you killed was indeed an agent from our organization. He was deep undercover, gathering intel that could lead to a nationwide breakthrough with the cartel, including the location of their tunnel networks.”

All I can do is blink.

“Good to see you can keep your mouth shut,” Agent Jacobson mutters.

Sanderson presses on. “You have a chance to make amends by helping us finish Agent Wright’s mission.”

I think he’s talking about going undercover and working for his “organization,” which means letting me out of jail! But the thought of working as a snitch full time is not just repulsive; it goes against my very code.

{Yeah, but you gotta do what you gotta do to survive.}

It’s not just about survival, Agent Voice; it’s about who I’ll become after the fact. Can I really say I’m living if I can’t even look myself in the eye due to shame?

{Rethink that last part. I didn’t quite understand it.}

Gah! Go away. I’ll talk to you later!

“Help you guys and risk my own life if I’m caught? What happens if I say no?”

Sanderson gives me a flat look. “After so many chess games with Mr. Daniel Lionsden, we thought you had more sense.”

{They’ve been us watching closely.}

Me. They’ve been watching me closely. There is no we or us.

“Whatever you say, hahahaha,” the voice cackles.

“There is no saying no,” Agent Bosen barks. “You don’t have a choice.”

{He’s pretty much right, you know.}

You are the one who said I always have a choice!

{Well, what are you doing listening to me for? Like you said, I’m not even real.}

Infuriating.

“Up until a week ago, I thought I had no choices,” I say. “But that’s not true. I always have a choice.”

Bosen steps toward me, but Sanderson lifts a hand.

“I have choices, I have rights, waaa waaa waaa,” he mocks. “Want to know why you don’t have a fucking choice?” Sanderson asks. “Because we own your future.

Our boss is close with Judge Shwannasee and went to Cornell with the district attorney handling your case. If you try to say ‘no,’ here’s what will happen: no plea deal.”

His smile twists toward hell.

“When you go to trial, we will make sure you lose. That means when you turn forty-five, you will finally have a chance to see the board of pardons. And you know what? We will still be watching, and we will ensure that chance never comes to fruition. You will rot alone, forgotten by all. Or maybe you’ll get stabbed. But most likely, you’ll be made to be someone’s bitch the rest of your life. Any way you slice it, your life is forfeit to us from here on out. Got it?”

{Ouch.}

...

“NOD YOUR HEAD IF YOU UNDERSTAND!”

I nod.

“Good,” Sanderson says. “Here’s what you need to know: We have one of the cartel’s captains in custody—the same one Agent Wright was investigating. We're transferring him here, where he will be placed in your section. Your job is to befriend him and get the intel we need.”

Wait, no no no. They’re keeping me in jail?

“So I won’t be out on the streets for undercover work?”

Sanderson and Jacobson laugh. The other two don’t.

“Of course not. You’re not leaving this place. Oh, he’s a special one.”

“That’s what we should call him,” Jacobson says. “Assistant Special.”

{Has a ring to it, no?}

…

{Hellooo? Cillian?}

…

“From now on, you will be referred to as Assistant Special,” Sanderson says. “Once a week, you’ll report here for updates. To avoid suspicion, the jail will start a weekly one-on-one counseling program for mental health, withdrawal, and grief. Attendance for you is mandatory. Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“Good. The fastest way to gain trust will involve getting hard drugs into the section for you to work with, which is why we will be—”

I can’t focus. This can’t be real. This has to be a nightmare.

{It’s not bad dream. This is real. Actions have consequences. I would still be alive if it weren’t for you.}

You’re right. I truly am sorry. I’d trade places with you if I could, I swear.

“—Nod if you understand.”

I nod.

“Good. Any questions before we send you back?”

I do have one thing I feel like I should know. “What was his name? His full name.”

A soft sorrow falls over the room, shifting the hatred from me into the remembrance of a friend.

Agent Elisen—the one who hasn’t spoken—breaks the silence.

“In honor of the fallen.”

The others echo, low and unified.

“In honor of the fallen.”

Elisen continues the rhythm:

“We speak the name.”

Again, the others follow.

“We speak the name.”

Then, all four together:

“Bryan Wright. You are not forgotten.”

End of Epilogue

The Fool

Eye am the Chef for the Knight,

Eating the recipe for melancholy.

The day was long and ended in Y,

It’s how I found the end of Pi.

I mix a glass of whine with rhythms from my past, and I’m transported to the edge of a cliff,

I’m looking down into the clouds, but my body won't take another step,

Is it possible to fall into heaven?

The vision swallows me like Adams apple,

Behind me, I feel the change of winds blowing,

Above me, I hear a god playing dice with himself,

Below me, I smell my soul burning.

The ground below me gives way, yet I do not fall,

It’s clear to see as I close my eyes,

I’m not going to Heaven,

Hell, came to me.