Shock Point

by April Henry

  JJ leaned forward to get something from the floor. He put a small red cooler on his lap. Cassie didn’t know how long they had been traveling, but it seemed like it had been dark outside the windshield for hours. He reached in, pulled out a sandwich, and tore off the plastic wrapper. The smell of tuna filled the van.

  It nauseated her and made her hungry in equal measures. Her tongue felt dry and swollen, and although her mouth was watering, she couldn’t work up enough spit to swallow. Even more than truly needing to pee, even more than wanting to eat, she needed something to drink.

  “Tuna!” Marty said. “Why do you always get tuna? I hate that fish stink.”

  “Quit complaining. I got you a cheese sandwich and some of those barbecue chips you like. The kettle-cooked ones.” More rustling sounds of packaging being torn open. JJ lifted a bottle from the cooler, started to untwist the cap. He looked back at Cassie.

  “You thirsty? Want some lemonade?”

  “Yes, please.” She’d even say please to JJ if it meant she got a drink.

  “I’m not giving you the bottle. You’d probably break it and slit my throat.”

  He pushed the neck through the bars. Eagerly, Cassie scooted as close as the chain would allow. She leaned forward and opened her mouth, ignoring their ugly laughter. She managed one swallow, two, three, although it ran down her chin and neck. JJ smiled at her and twisted the cap back on. Then he and Marty looked at each other and snickered as Cassie tried to lick the last stray drops from her chin.

  A minute later, or maybe an hour, she blinked. Her eyes closed and she found it hard to open them again. She squeezed her eyes together, then tried again to open them. Her lids only fluttered up halfway. She had to lay her head down. Just for a second. Cassie tilted sideways, her thoughts beginning to blur. No wonder they had laughed. Lamb to the slaughter.

  When her eyes blinked closed again, they stayed that way. The world was nothing but darkness.

  twelve

  April 13

  Thatcher bounced up to Cassie in the cafeteria. “Come eat lunch with me. I saved you a spot.”

  Cassie followed him, carrying her tray with a bowl of minestrone soup, a roll, and a carton of milk. The only other people sitting at their table were a couple in the middle of hissed argument. They didn’t even look up as Cassie sat down. Thatcher’s lunch was spread around a crumpled brown paper bag—nacho cheese Doritos, a PayDay bar, and chocolate chip yogurt. She could just imagine what Rick would say about the way Thatcher ate.

  “I did some research about suicide last night,” he said, cramming some chips into his mouth. “In normal teens, the annual suicide rate is 1.5 for every 10,000 people. Okay, say the overall number of participants in the trial for Socom is what their site says on the Internet. Three hundred and fifty kids.”

  “And there have been three deaths out of 350,” Cassie said. “Three that we know about.”

  “Right. One out of every 117 kids on Socom has committed suicide. Or 0.85 for every 100. Extrapolating out, that’s 85 people for every 10,000. That’s nearly 57 times as many as the normal rate. Fifty-seven times!” He pulled a box of malted milk balls out of his sack and offered her a handful.

  Absently, Cassie took them, popping them between her teeth as she pictured the numbers in her head, multiplying and dividing them. “But these weren’t normal kids.”

  “You can’t tell me that the rate should be fifty-seven times higher just because they were already having trouble.”

  “But maybe it’s just because the sample size is so small. Three people—that’s not that many.”

  “What are you trying to do—argue yourself out of it? Look at the overall sample size. Three hundred and fifty is pretty big. Hell, they forecast who’s going to be elected president based on sample sizes that aren’t much bigger. And three kids killing themselves in a small town like Minor is a huge number. I’m surprised nobody looked at it before.”

  “They called them copycats.”

  “That’s because nobody knew they were taking Socom. Only now they will. Because tomorrow after school we’re going to show the files to this reporter from the Oregonian, Michelle Haynes. Have you read any of her articles? She worked on that series about the mental hospital.”

  Cassie straightened in her chair. Why had she gotten herself into this? “To—tomorrow?”

  Thatcher didn’t seem to notice her hesitation. “I haven’t told her much, just that we might have some information about a dangerous drug in the Portland area.”

  “But I can’t let her have the files. If my stepfather sees they’re missing, he’ll know right away it was me. He’s capable of grounding me until I go to college. I just don’t know if I should chance it.”

  “Just let the reporter see them once, so she’ll know they’re real and that they haven’t been altered in any way—then she can photocopy them and you can put the files back before he’s even home from his office.”

  “But once the reporter starts asking questions, I’ll be in trouble. Rick will know it’s because of me.”

  “Not if we do it right. We can ask her to make it sound like she’s talked to a relative or friend of one of these kids who killed themselves.”

  “That could work,” Cassie said slowly. “After all, someone probably knows that Darren was on Socom, or that Carmen or Ben were. The reporter can say that she put it together—figured out all three of them were his patients and that all three of them took Socom.” She took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s do it. I’ll get the files tonight.”

  thirteen

  April 15

  By the time the van finally stopped, Cassie didn’t care. She didn’t know how long she had been knocked out by whatever had been in the lemonade, but now the misery of her own body was all-consuming. Her arms felt like blocks of wood, and it still hurt to take a deep breath. Her head ached and her mouth tasted fuzzy. Her bladder was so full that she had actually tried to wet her pants, only to find that she couldn’t.

  Marty got out of the van. It was daytime now. He pressed a button set into a cinder-block wall so high, she couldn’t see the top of it. She heard Marty’s voice, and an answering crackle. There was a metal gate set into the wall, and it rattled as it slid back. Marty got back into the van.

  The van drove forward, and the gate closed behind them. Without looking at her or saying anything, Marty and JJ got out of the van. The back doors were flung open. A Hispanic security guard stood looking at Cassie. He wore a uniform that looked like it belonged to some Third World army—wrinkled, with epaulets on the shoulders. On his feet were sandals with soles made of old tires. A gun was holstered on one hip, and looking at it, she knew she was truly not in America. The worst thing was the expression in his eyes. He looked disgusted by her, as if she had really managed to wet herself. He looked at her as if she weren’t even human.

  Marty unlocked her handcuffs, then dragged her forward and took her by one arm. The guard took the other. Wheeling her suitcase behind him, JJ brought up the rear.

  The two men’s grip was so hard, Cassie knew she would have bruises the next day. It was hot and humid, but she was trembling. As the three of them walked in lock step, she looked around. They were in a barren dirt yard surrounded on three sides by twenty-foot-high cinder-block walls, painted white. The fourth side was a wire mesh fence. The sun glinted off the blades of the concertina wire looped over the top. Past the fence was the ocean, a sharp drop of a hundred or more feet down a cliff.

  Ahead of her was a long, three-story white building, shaped like an L, with a flat roof. There were bars on the windows, and she thought she saw a face at one of them. A few palm trees that grew outside the wall shaded one corner of the yard.

  This certainly didn’t look anything like the brochure.

  Wordlessly, the two men marched her ahead. The guard opened a door, and they stepped into a corridor tiled with octagonal tiles that had once been white. Cassie looked through the open door of a small room on her left and gasped. Two b
oys lay facedown on the floor, hands to their sides. They didn’t move other than to blink. A second guard leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching them. He turned his head to look at Cassie, bored.

  The guard opened another door and they walked into a room where an older woman sat at the smaller of two desks. She stood up when they came in. She was immensely fat, dressed in shapeless slacks and a blue and white flowered top.

  “Watch out for this one, Martha. She broke JJ’s nose.”

  “What’s her name?” Martha’s tone was disinterested, as if it were a normal occurrence for two men to march in a teenager who still had handcuff marks on her wrists.

  “This is Cassie Streng,” Marty said. “From Portland, Oregon.”

  Martha took a list from a drawer, and made a checkmark. Then she pulled out a three-ring binder that held three rows of checks. She quickly wrote out a check—all Cassie saw were a lot of zeros—then handed it to Marty. “Until next time, gentlemen.”

  “It won’t be long,” JJ said. “We’ve got a package in Arizona to pick up.” He leaned closer to Cassie. His breath stirred the hair on her neck. “Maybe I’ll see you later.” With an effort, she kept still, only letting herself shudder when she heard the door close behind them.

  Martha picked up Cassie’s suitcase, grunting with exertion, then put it on the desk and zipped it open. She began to paw through the ziplock plastic bags that Cassie’s mom used when packing. Seeing all her stuff—her underwear and nightgown, her books and MP3 player—here in this strange place, being examined by a strange woman, looking like courtroom exhibits in their plastic bags—made Cassie feel dizzy. Her mom had even packed a mesh bag with fins and a snorkel, as if Cassie were going to a tropical vacation paradise.

  The only clothes Martha handed over were a pair of underwear and a bra. She opened Cassie’s makeup bag. Inside was a brand-new set of Clinique makeup. Martha slid the mascara, blush, and eye shadow into her pants pocket. Taking a key from her pencil drawer, Martha opened a walk-in closet that was filled with suitcases. Cassie’s was heaved on top.

  “All right,” Martha said as she opened another closet. “I’m going to issue your supplies. You keep close track of them, because if you lose them, you won’t get any more. First, your towel.” It was so old, the loops had worn smooth in spots. “Your sheet.” Limp and gray. “Your uniforms.” Two pairs of yellow gym shorts and two khaki-colored blouses. “Your pajamas.” A single set that looked more like hospital scrubs, only with shorts instead of pants. “Your water bottle—you’ll need to carry it at all times. And your toothbrush.” These last two were the only things that looked new. “Sign here, please.” It seemed ridiculous to sign for clothes that even the Goodwill back home wouldn’t want, but Cassie did as she was told.

  “Wait in the intake room while I finish your paperwork.” Martha opened another door and half pushed Cassie inside. It was a windowless room about the size of her closet at home. She guessed it might have once been a mop cupboard, but now all it held were two scratched metal folding chairs. Overhead, a bare bulb dangled. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  Cassie suddenly realized she was alone. She had to get the knife and the twenty-dollar bill out of her pockets and hide them somehow. After a struggle, she managed to shove her hand into her pocket, but she couldn’t feel anything. Nevertheless, she gave her fingers the order to grasp, then pulled her hand free. The knife clattered to the floor. A corner of the twenty-dollar bill stuck up from her pocket, but the rest was still buried.

  The door handle turned. Cassie stepped on the closed knife, covering it with her shoe.

  Martha came in. “Okay—strip and then put on your uniform.” She lowered herself heavily into the other chair.

  “Strip? You mean like naked?”

  Martha rolled her eyes upward. “Of course I mean like naked. Kids come down here with all their drug paraphernalia, their cigarettes, their cell phones—I got to make sure you don’t have anything hidden out.”

  Cassie almost jumped when the woman reached forward and pinched the jeans over her hip. Then she saw what Martha held in her hand—the twenty-dollar bill.

  “You won’t be needing this here,” she said, and tucked the bill into the U of her top. “Do you have any piercings? Because you can’t wear them here, not even in your ears. The only things you can wear here are a small cross necklace or a watch, at least until you get to Level Four.” She looked speculatively at Cassie’s wrist. “What kind of watch do you have, anyway?”

  “Timex.”

  Martha grunted, obviously uninterested in Cassie’s thirty-two-dollar watch. Crossing her arms, she settled back. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

  Cassie stepped backward out of her mules, careful to leave the right one in the same place, covering the knife. Her fingers fumbled with each button and zipper. Finally she stood naked, shivering despite the heat, while the woman went through the other pockets of her jeans. Finding nothing, she grunted, “You can put your bra and panties back on, then put on one of the uniforms.”

  Of the two shirts, she chose the one that had all its buttons. Both pairs of shorts looked worn. Just bending over to put on one pair made Cassie’s bladder throb.

  “Can I go to the bathroom, please?” After a beat she added, “Ma’am?”

  The old woman sighed heavily. “I guess I can let you use the staff bathroom. But be quick about it.”

  Cassie left her shoes where they were, hiding the knife, and followed Martha. She had never been so glad to see a toilet in her life. A minute later, Martha hustled her back into the windowless room. Cassie was slipping her feet into her shoes, planning on leaning down and palming the knife, when the other woman’s hand grabbed the back of her neck. Her heart leapt like a fish.

  “Give me those. You won’t be wearing shoes here. Only flip-flops.” Martha handed her some too-big black rubber flip-flops.

  Cassie slipped them on. How could she get the knife without the old woman seeing it? She picked up both shoes with one hand, trying to hide the knife with the other. A stinging slap made Cassie drop the knife and fall against the wall. Grunting, Martha bent over to pick up the knife.

  “That right there is a Cat. Five. Right there,” Martha said, her breath coming in huffs. “Just wait until I tell Father Gary.”

  “What about you taking my money? What would this Father Gary say if I told him that?” Cassie couldn’t believe she had been so bold. She half expected to be slapped again.

  Instead, Martha narrowed her eyes, thinking. “Neither of us says nothing, then. And you’ll be thankful once you realize what you missed.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Father Gary will be here in a while to talk to you.”

  It was only after the door clicked closed that Cassie allowed herself to cry without making any noise.

  fourteen

  April 14

  Before she went to bed, Cassie set her alarm for 3:00 A.M., then tucked it under her pillow. When it rang, she quickly fumbled for it, feeling like she hadn’t slept at all. In her dreams she had been running down dark hallways, ducking through shadowy doorways, squeezing herself into impossibly small spaces, trying to hide from pursuers she never saw.

  She rolled out of bed and grabbed a small flashlight she had taken from the kitchen junk drawer. Slowly, she turned the handle of her door. As quietly as possible, she walked down the stairs. From behind the master bedroom door, she could hear Rick’s slow, rattling breaths.

  As she carefully opened the office door, it let out a long, low creak. Cassie froze, but there was no sound overhead. When she closed the door, she did it more quickly, and this time it stayed silent. She thumbed on the flashlight, then opened the file cabinet and went straight to the C’s.

  Cartright, Darren.

  A sigh escaped her. Cassie hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath until she heard it let go. She had been afraid that Rick had hidden the files. But here was Darren’s, in the same place as before.
>
  She pulled out Darren’s file, put it down on top of the desk. But something looked different. She opened the file up and shined the flashlight over the papers. The permission slip for the Socom trial was gone. She squinted, trying to read Rick’s notes by flashlight. Even though they showed what she thought were the same dates as the ones she and Thatcher had looked at before, there was nothing, absolutely nothing about Darren being given Socom. Instead, Rick just labeled him a paranoid schizophrenic, and worried about his increasing delusions. There was even something that hadn’t been there before—a brief, anguished note about his suicide.

  With a sense of dawning horror, Cassie realized that Rick had re-created the truth. Cassie quickly flipped through Carmen’s and Ben’s files, too. Anything about Socom was gone. No study permission slips or mentions in the records.

  Her legs felt as weak as cooked spaghetti. She sat down heavily in Rick’s chair. Now she had no proof.

  Then she remembered the digital photos on the memory card, the ones she had shown Thatcher. These would have to be enough for the reporter.

  On tiptoe, Cassie ran back up the stairs, pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. In the back was the Victoria’s Secret bra, the one she had bought at the mall but hadn’t dared to wear yet. But when she lifted the bra up and probed inside with her finger, she touched only softness. No memory card.

  She picked up the other bras and shook them, then flung them on the floor. Moving more frantically, she checked under her panties, and then unballed her socks, and tossed them all on the carpet. She was left looking at the blank wooden bottom of the drawer. The memory card was gone.

  Cassie heard a noise, like the softest of chuckles. Dread froze her in place. It was all she could do to look up, but she forced herself to. Rick was standing in the open doorway, watching her.

  And he was smiling.