Chapter 8 - The Truth of the Soil
We spent the rest of the night in a state of hyper-vigilance,
every creak of the farmhouse boards sounding like an intruder.
The Architect stayed on the line,
guiding us through the process of securing the data.
He told Daniel to take the satellite phone and the ledger to a specific location in the city.
He told me to pack a single bag and get ready to move.
"But this is my home,"
I argued,
looking at the walls Richard had painted.
"I raised my son here."
"I buried my husband here."
"The farm is no longer your home,
Sarah,"
The Architect said,
his voice firm.
"It’s a target."
"The two-year clock was the time it took for his enemies to believe he was truly gone."
"Now that the box is open,
signals are being sent."
"The node is being deactivated."
I walked to the window,
looking out at the fields Richard had loved so much.
In the moonlight,
the rows of corn looked like soldiers standing at attention.
I realized then that he wasn't just planting crops;
he was planting a perimeter.
The soil wasn't just for nourishment;
it was for secrecy.
I remembered the way he used to walk the property line every single night,
even in the dead of winter.
He wasn't checking for coyotes;
he was checking for sensors.
He wasn't looking at the stars;
he was watching the horizon for movement.
My life had been a beautiful,
pastoral dream,
while his had been a constant,
waking nightmare of vigilance.
"I don't want the money,"
I said suddenly,
turning back to the table.
"I want my husband back."
"I want the man who didn't know how to use a satellite phone."
"I want the man who thought rosemary belonged on potatoes,
not on a ledger."
"That man existed,
Sarah,"
Emily said,
coming over to hug me.
"He just had to be two people at once so you could be one."
Daniel was already loading the passports and the gold back into the box.
"We have to go,
Mom."
"The Architect says the local authorities won't be able to protect us once the grid goes dark."
I looked at the fourth plate one last time.
The rosemary had wilted,
May you like
and the cider was flat.
The ghost of Richard Vance was finally ready to leave the table.
