The Detachment

would he call off the dogs. And how would Larison know, one way or the other?
    But as he thought about it, he realized it might not even matter. Once he had the diamonds, and Hort was dead, and Rain, Treven, and Dox were all dead, too, let the government try to track him. They’d be wasting their time. Because they’d be looking for a ghost.

T he next morning, the five of us clustered around the television in the motel room. The president was making an announcement from the Rose Garden, and we assumed Horton would have something to do with it.
    We’d dragged in the futons and done the night in shifts. Kei slept on one bed; the rest of us used the futons and sleeping bags and the remaining bed, with at least one of us awake at all times. Larison seemed not to sleep much, and when he did, he moaned occasionally and once had cried out. I had my own difficult nights, and therefore my own sense of what horrors might haunt him in his dreams.
    Kei had been cooperative. In the presence of all four of us, she had been less talkative, recognizing, perhaps, that we might be easier to manipulate in ones and twos than we would be en masse. I was glad for the respite. I didn’t want her to get to Dox.
    At nine o’clock our time, noon in Washington, two men strode out of the White House—the president, in the usual dark suit; and Horton, purposeful in his Army Service Uniform, the full fruit salad resplendent on his chest. They walked toward the assembled press corps, then Horton stood back while the president took the lectern.
    “Good afternoon,” the president said. “I have two brief announcements.
    “First, given the recent series of unprecedented attacks on the American homeland and an ongoing state of emergency, I have, as Commander in Chief, ordered National Guard units to key positions in American cities. These Guard units will liaise with and reinforce local law enforcement to ensure we have the maximum possible on-the-ground ability to detect, defuse, and defend against further attacks. And, should the worst happen, to assist in providing critical care to first responders.
    “Second, I’m pleased to announce that the position of the head of the National Counterterrorism Center, opened by the tragic death of Tim Shorrock, has been filled. For security reasons, the name of Tim’s replacement will be classified.”
    I wondered about that. Shorrock’s name hadn’t been classified. Maybe it was just a reaction to current events. Or the usual governmental reflex toward more secrecy. Or both.
    “However,” the president continued, “my new counterterrorism advisor is right here beside me. I’m grateful to have the advice and assistance of Colonel Scott Horton as my administration combats the continued terrorist threat. Colonel Horton has a long and distinguished career in serving and protecting our nation, and his considerable national security experience will be an invaluable asset as he joins my cabinet. Please direct any questions you have to Colonel Horton.”
    The president stepped back. A few reporters shouted questions, but the president ignored them. Horton stepped forward and took the lectern.
    “Ladies and gentleman,” he said, surveying the crowd. “I will be brief.”
    Maybe it was the solemnity of Horton’s expression—itself, I suspected, the product of the heavy knowledge of his daughter’s predicament. Maybe it was his erect military bearing, or his baritone, or that cultured southern accent. Whatever it was, even through the television, I could sense the collective attention of the press corps focusing, cohering, anticipating.
    “As the president just told us,” Horton said, “even as we speak, National Guard units have been deployed to major American cities. The president also spoke of a state of emergency. And while I believe he is correct to use this term, I also believe his application was mistaken. You see, the emergency we currently face is far less from any terrorist threat than it is from our government’s overreaction to that threat.”
    I thought, What the fuck? And couldn’t process anything beyond that.
    There was silence among the reporters. They were staring at Horton, their bodies seemingly frozen. No one was taking notes. I looked at the president, who was standing a few paces behind Horton and to the side. His face was a mask of poorly concealed shock and rage.
    “After all,” Horton went on, “in America, what is a federal government-declared ‘state of