Page 50 of Go Under

But Nora had learned another lesson in the Peace Corps. Don’t try to do everything, just do what you can.

Nora couldn’t end racism. She couldn’t make people honest.

But she could punish the people who had taken her brother’s life. She could take the rest of their lives from them.

The Lawgiver had shown her how. He had given her the framework she needed. He had taught her that not only did she have the right to punish the false witnesses, but she also had an obligation to punish them. She was a chosen instrument of God, and from her suffering, God would work miracles.

Tonight, He would perform the last miracle. He would rid the world of the last person responsible for her brother’s false conviction.

The last miracle? No, not the last. Others awaited, inmates, prisoners allowed to keep more life than they deserved, allowed to grow old—imprisoned, true, but capable of the meager purpose incarceration allowed.

She would find them. She would kill them. She didn’t know how yet, but she would leave that up to God. For tonight, this was enough.

She blinked and realized she had stopped just in front of the door that would lead to the third floor. She reached for the handle when the door to the staircase on the opposite side of the hall flew open. A tall, muscular Black man rushed down the hallway, eyes wild, gun drawn. He wore a vest with the letters FBI printed in bright white letters across the chest.

Nora’s jaw went slack. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. God had granted her this revenge. He had given her this task.

But the FBI agent stopped in front of Iris Doyle’s door and knocked firmly. Nora brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream of frustration rising in her throat.

It wasn’t fair! Why would God give her this task, then take away from her the ability to complete it? Why, when she was so close?

No one answered the door. The FBI agent pounded on it again. He looked down the hallway, and Nora dropped to the ground, heart thudding. She waited to hear his footsteps approaching, his voice calling, questioning, finger sliding over the trigger of his gun.

Her hand flew back to the awl in her coat pocket, gripping the burled wood handle until her knuckles hurt. She closed her eyes and said a prayer. God, please. I’m begging you not to take this from me. Please, God, I’m begging you.

And God spoke to her in the voice of the Lawgiver. Peace, my Child. Am I not the Lord?

Slowly, her terror and frustration eased, replaced by calm assessment. This was an obstacle, yes, but obstacles could be surmounted. She didn’t need to give up just because the enemy had reared his face.

She got slowly to her feet, grateful for the regular exercise that had left her strong and limber, even into her forties. She looked through the window and saw Iris talking with the FBI agent.

Time had not been kind to Iris. She was, or had been, apparently, a chronic smoker. She spoke through a box attached to a hole drilled into her neck, holding a microphone up to it to amplify her words to a level others could understand. Her skin was parched and leathery, making her appear even older than her advanced age would suggest. How she was still alive was anyone’s guess.

She’s alive for you. Her death was ordained to come at your hands.

But how to get past the FBI agent? He was in her doorway right now, but it was clear he was trying to convince Iris to let him into her house to lie in wait for her. And where there was one FBI agent—especially one who was panicked prior to his arrival at the house—there would be others.

Iris took a step back. The FBI agent took a step forward, but not into her apartment. Not yet. Iris was still reluctant, it seemed, to allow him inside.

Nora had a chance, but it wouldn’t last long. She would have to sneak up behind him quickly and stab him with the awl. Among her Peace Corps training was a basic education on human anatomy, so she knew the brainstem could be reached through the hollow at the back of a person’s neck. The Peace Corps hadn’t taught her that an injury there would cause instant flaccid death, but she had learned it from a television show.

She reached for the door handle but stopped again. She couldn’t kill the agent. He was only doing his job. He wasn’t a sinner. He was standing in the way of God’s judgment, but he was a lost sheep, not a sinner. He didn’t know any better. Perhaps he deserved some punishment, but not death.

She switched the awl around in her hand, gripping the spike. The handle was heavy mahogany, dense and hard. If she struck him in the same spot on the back of the head, she would render him unconscious and give herself time to kill Iris.

Yes, that’s what she would do. She would incapacitate the federal agent but not kill him. Death was for Iris and Iris alone.

She looked through the window. The FBI agent was still there.

She turned the handle carefully, feeling for the moment of tension when the latch would click. Once it was there, she held it with both hands and turned slowly.

The click still seemed to echo throughout the entire staircase. She winced, expecting the FBI agent to immediately turn his head and notice her.

He remained where he was.

Nora released the breath she was holding and turned the handle the rest of the way. Slowly, she pushed it open, listening for any creaks. When it was open just enough that she could enter, she stepped through, softening her footsteps so they didn’t carry down the thin-carpeted hallway.

“I’m sure you did what you thought was right,” the FBI agent was saying. “I’m not here to judge your choices, ma’am. I’m here to ensure that you survive the night.”