Page 148 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“And you stay off Facebook and Twitter.”

“Of course.”

“You get lonely?”

Paul shook his head. “Not really. For a while, I had a girlfriend. Good person. I wasn’t so lonely.” He thought about Sarah with a pang. He knew things were over between them, but he hoped against hope that she was okay.

“Leaving her behind?”

“It’s over. Not really leaving her behind.”

“Miss your old life?”

“From five years ago? Not a bit.”

The shadows had grown long, and daylight was disappearing. The Deacon seemed to trust him, too. “I suggest you spend the night here,” he told Paul. “Tomorrow we can move down to Concord.”

“Why Concord?”

“That’s the closest freight train. Get you down to Lenox, Mass. We’ve got people in that area who can help you out, you need help. You should join us.”

“Living in the woods? No, thanks. Not for me. I prefer a normal existence, sorry.”

“All you people living in what you call your ‘normal existence’ and what I call the Matrix, your lives are regimented in ways you don’t even see. Man, I mean, people wear T-shirts saying they’re nonconformists, same shirt their friends wear. Same Sysco trucks service all the restaurants they eat in. All the bankers wearing the same suits and ties, made by one of seven manufacturers, spending their days in cubicles. They’re all slaves of the state. I don’t care whether you call it New York State or Goldman Sachs.”

“You just have to obey the law and—”

“Sure,” the Deacon said, “the state demands obedience in everything that matters. Nursery school on, we’re taught compliance. Learn how to be a good pupil. Sit quietly in your chair! Do what teacher says. Fill out this spreadsheet, earn your wage. Well, that ain’t freedom. That’s slavery masquerading as emancipation. Back in the day, the tribal nations, they were invited to disappear into the dominant system of the colonizers—by which I mean America—and they said, ‘Hell no.’ Lots of them got killed rather than assimilate because they knew the price was too goddamned high.”

“You all live in the woods?”

“We’ve taken to calling ourselves the ‘woodsmen.’ You know that nearly ninety percent of the U.S.A. is uninhabited? Undeveloped wilderness. Forested like it was a thousand years ago. You throw a dart at a map of the U.S., you’re likely not hitting Sacramento or St. Louis. You’re hitting a place that other people say is nowhere. That’s our somewhere. There’s more space in this country where nobody is than where anybody is.”

“You’re survivalists.”

The Deacon shook his head. “Most survivalists build communities. Instead, we have an empire that’s always on the move. Like the tribal nations.”

“So you’re like a tribal nation of your own.”

“We recognize no management class, no rulers—”

“Except you—you seem to be the boss.”

“One of many. Just here to coordinate. We’ve got no system of hierarchy. No one gets assigned a number.”

Paul nodded and fell silent. Neither man spoke for a while. Finally, Paul said, “It’s not for me.”

“Maybe it will be,” the Deacon said. “You never know what happens. Anyway, I’ll send the word on ahead, tell them to be on the lookout for you.”

98

Paul assumed that the Deacon was right, that bus terminal employees around the country had probably been sent his photo. But he wasn’t going to hop a freight train. He had a better, simpler plan.

Stephen Lucas had offered to accompany him to Concord, New Hampshire, the nearest big city, a distance of around sixty miles. That would be a journey of several days on foot, though, and Paul didn’t want to delay any further.

He had to reach Ambassador John Robinson Gillette as soon as possible. Ambassador Gillette was the only person who could help, Paul believed. He was intricately connected to some highly placed people in government. And because of his son, J.R., he owed Paul a favor.

By midday, he and the Deacon had arrived at a “welcome center,” a rest stop on I-93 South. There Paul saw several trucks parked outside the main building, sort of a tourist information center combined with a deli and a pizza place. When one of the drivers returned to his truck bearing a tall cup of coffee and a sandwich wrapped in white paper, Paul intercepted him. He offered to pay the truck driver fifty dollars for a lift to Boston. Boston was where the driver was headed anyway, so he gladly took the fifty bucks.