Chapter 37: Diogo

There's one more thing I have to do before leaving the sector. I nod to my men and get back in my jeep. The address I've been provided isn't easy to find. Buildings, houses and streets aren't as clearly labelled as they are in the higher-class sectors. Debris litters the streets and people group together in the roads, hurrying home before the curfew siren sounds. I pull up to my destination, a quiet ramshackle home in a residential neighborhood surrounded by other homes falling to disrepair. Except for this one, 58 Maple Drive, I can't tell if they're inhabited or if they've been abandoned. Light glows through the window of this home.
One of the screws on the 8 has been lost and it hangs down below the 5. Both numbers threaten to fall under the force of my fist against the door. The side of the house has been spray-painted. One of the tags is an eagle, the symbol of Authority, painted red with a cross over it. I smile grimly at the image as the door swings open.
Emery Bailer gasps her surprise, clearly not expecting the Warlord of her city to be standing on her doorstep. She gapes up at me, her eyes round, her mouth slightly open. She's wearing the same hat she was wearing earlier over long dark hair streaked with grey. Her clothes are tidy but worn, a long dress over denim pants, a jacket, and thick socks.
"May I come in?" I ask.
She nods and steps to the side. We both know she doesn't have a choice but to let me in. She stares at me as I enter her home, suspicion and fear lighting her intelligent gaze. She's gracious though, turning to me and saying, "Can I get you anything, Commander Fuentes. A glass of water or a meal?"
Her offer of a meal is extremely generous considering who I am and the scarcity of food in her sector.
"No," I say shortly, looking around for any clues to my wife. "Taran lived here."
She doesn't answer right away. It wasn't a question. My crackdown on this sector has included any and all information on Taran. And though I'd gotten very little information on my bird, I did learn that, before her capture, she lived here, with an older woman. After seeing Emery speak of Taran at the rebel meeting I realized that she must've been the one Taran lived with.
I raise a brow at her, staring down with grim intent, telling her without words that I require an answer.
She sighs and says, "Yes, Taran lives here."
Her defiant use of present tense isn't lost on me. I don't respond though. Taran won't be coming back here. She'll remain with me. This is an unassailable fact.
"Show me her room."
Emery hesitates, her features tightening, before she turns to lead the way down a dilapidated hallway. Paint is peeling on every wall, baseboards are broken or missing and the floor has warped over time. The house is cluttered but clean. Emery has chosen to surround herself with mementos and memories of the old world, before the Great Fall. I doubt many of her keepsakes work anymore. She's creating a sad museum collection inside her home while desperately hanging onto the past. A common, but ultimately useless habit.
Emery opens a door at the end of the hall revealing a small and airy room. The junk that clutters up the rest of the home is missing from this room, leaving it with an open feeling. As Emery turns away, I stop her.
"How long has Taran lived with you?"
She narrows her eyes and chews on her lip, debating whether or not to answer. I can't blame her. In her eyes, I'm the enemy, and giving me any information goes against her values. On the other hand, she can be arrested if she doesn't give me what I want. I won't hesitate to take her down to the station and have her interrogated if she proves difficult.
But something tells me that, despite Taran never mentioning the woman by name, they're close so I try a diplomatic path instead of my usual sledgehammer approach. "Ms. Bailer, I'm not here to threaten you. I'd just like to get to know my wife better."
She blinks rapidly and glances down before she finally says, "Ten years."
I do the calculation. "When she left her husband."
She glances back up. "It didn't really happen that way. She was such an independent little thing, but she was still young, and Xavier was too busy to give her the care she needed. I'd grown fond of her. Her transition to my home was an easy one that all parties agreed on."
I can't imagine letting Taran go. Even as a young woman, her feistiness and energy would've attracted me. I'd like to believe, had I been the one to marry the girl, I'd have given her the opportunity to grow up and then pursued a romantic relationship when she was ready. Xavier clearly doesn't have a way with women. Or maybe it's just Taran he doesn't understand.
"I'd like to spend some time here, in her room," I tell Emery.
She nods and waves me inside. "I'll give you a few minutes. Though there isn't much to see. Taran doesn't really hold onto things. That one has always fluttered on the wind, drifting this way and that until she has a job to do and then she flies with purpose. Never had a need to hang on to worldly possessions the way I do. She puts more stock in people than possessions." She gives me a small smile and leaves.
I enter Taran's sanctuary with Emery's words in my mind. What she says definitely fits the Taran I've come to know. She's passionate and caring, but not once did she ask for a material good. And she easily could have. As the wife of a Warlord she should be outfitted with the finest clothing and goods. I don't believe it's even occurred to her to ask. Even if it does she still won't care. Emery is right, Taran flows with the wind, settling where she lands.
I touch the hand-sewn quilt on her bed. It's a beautiful pattern of patchwork stars in different shades of grey and pink. It's faded and frayed in places. She's had it for a while. I wonder where she got it from, if someone made it for her. If they did then it would be someone that cared about the girl. This quilt was obviously made with love.
An old chest of drawers contains some ratty clothes in Taran's size. Nothing catches my eye, so I close the drawers and move my gaze around the sparse room. On the floor, next to the bed, I find a book. I pick it up and sit down on her bed. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't a dog-eared, yellowed romance novel, a bare-chested man on the cover. I check the publication date. 2003. I'm surprised that a book printed 70 years ago is in such good shape. It must've been well stored before my little bird got her hands on it.
I grin at the condition it's in now. She must've read it over and over. Books are hard to come by. Long before the Great Fall, books ceased to be mass-produced in paperback. The rise of technology usurped traditional book stores. She probably picked it up somewhere and cherished it for its uniqueness and the imaginative escape provided within its pages.
I stand and tuck the book into my pocket. I leave the bedroom, satisfied that I've gained some clues to the inner thoughts and emotions of my wife. Emery meets me by the door as I prepare to leave, a worried frown marring her features.
She hesitates, chewing on her lip, and then finally asks, "Will you bring Taran back for a visit?"
"No." My answer is immediate and unequivocal. There's no reason to bring my wife back to this sector. It can only remind her of the life she's left behind, and her job now is to look to the future at the side of her husband.
Emery blinks back tears and nods. Then she lifts her chin defiantly. "She doesn't deserve this."
I study her for a moment, seeing an optimism mirrored in Taran. A belief that all can be good and well if we work toward that ideal. They're both wrong, but I like that there are still people that think that way. I'm glad that Taran had this woman influencing her life, encouraging her.
"Life isn't about what we deserve, Ms. Bailer," I say softly. "But what we do with the things we're given."
She stares at me thoughtfully, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "Perhaps you're right, Commander. But if we do good things with the situations we're dealt then we might aspire to better."
I smile. She's a brave woman to insult me so subtly to my face, essentially accusing me of doing the opposite of good things with what I've been dealt. I like her.
"I will take your words to heart and keep my good thing close, learn from her and be better." I stare down at her. "She has become my conscience. I won't let her go, no matter what she means to you and the people here."
She inhales sharply and lifts a hand to her chest, rubbing. She stares past me, the door held open in her hand. I'm no longer welcome in her home. I've gotten what I came for. But before I leave, I tell her, "I'll treat her with respect."
Her voice follows as I stride down the path toward my jeep. "You'd better."