by Jake Burt
I make my way over to the corner with the toys. This is Chrissy’s favorite spot in the whole Center; we actually have to stop her from sneaking in. Granted, she’s six and hasn’t been in here enough to associate it with disappointment, but I’d think there would be some lingering ghost of doubt and sweaty anticipation that might spook her. I sure feel it. Grabbing the biggest teddy I can find, one about the size of Fancypaws, I turn back to watch the two uniforms.
The Guy sits next to Ms. Filemonger, who slides him a folder. When he opens it, I see that it’s got Nicolette Demeer written across the tab in red Sharpie. My nose crinkles. They’ve switched the final two letters of my last name. I whisper this to the bear and use the uniforms’ distracted paper rooting as an opportunity to check out the items in my hoodie. Courteously, the bear shields my hands, so when Guy and Filemonger do finally look up, all they see is a smiling thirteen-year-old with a scruffy grizzly.
“She’s pretty enough, don’t you think?” The Guy says, and the creepy factor shoots up to about fifteen.
“Yes, very much like the mother.”
Filemonger is holding a photograph. I can’t see the image, but they’re both squinting at it, then me, then it, nodding the entire time. I’m trying to stay still, but my foot is doing its best to grind a hole through the letter Q. Filemonger is pointing at a chair with her pen. I sit down and put the bear next to me on the table. He’s staring, unblinking, at The Guy, and I’m across from Filemonger. Teddy seems a lot cooler than me right now; my leg is bouncing so badly it’s rattling my teeth.
“Nicolette Demere,” Filemonger begins. “Age?”
It takes me a few seconds to realize she’s asking me a question. I say, “Isn’t it in my file?”
Wrong answer.
“Age?” she repeats, louder and slower, like she’s trying to translate it into whatever language she thinks children speak.
“Thirteen. My birthday was three weeks ago.”
“Happy birthday!” The Guy says, and I offer him a little smile.
“Height?”
“Huh?”
“Your height. How tall are you, Ms. Demere?”
I stare at her for a second, trying to figure out if she’s serious.
“I dunno. About five and a half feet? I’m kinda tall for my age, I guess.”
“You’re five-foot-five,” she corrects, reading it from a paper hidden behind the folder.
“If you knew it, then why did you ask?”
“Weight?”
I look at The Guy for this one. He arches an eyebrow. I have no idea what that means.
“A hundred pounds?” I venture.
“Closer to ninety.”
“My shoe size is seven and a half, if that helps.”
“Race?”
I peer up into the camera in the corner, less-than-cleverly disguised in a hanging flower basket.
“Is this a TV show or something? Do I get a prize if I figure out that I’m being pranked?”
The Guy leans forward. “It’s not a prank, Nicki. We’re making sure you are who the file says you are.”
“Yeah, but what for? You’re not taking me home to practice parenting a rebellious teenager.”
The Guy snorts. “Smart mouth on you. Why so defensive?”
“Let’s see, two scary people who didn’t identify themselves have me closed in a room. They’re asking questions about me even though they already know the answers. They’re carrying weapons. Yeah, I think I’m good with defensive.”
“You never asked who we were, Nicki.”
“You’re U.S. marshals. Your name is Edward Harkness, but I’m betting you go by Eddie. You’re thirty-nine years old, you were born on the fifth of July—tough luck there, patriot—and you’ve got blue eyes underneath those sunglasses. You have a kid already, but not with her. She’s probably your partner. You drive a Buick, drank coffee this morning, and you used to smoke. How’s that?”
“Wh-what? How did you … ?”
Filemonger has frozen mid-file-flip, and The Guy … I suppose I should call him Eddie now … is still fumbling his words.
I look over at the bear and shake my head knowingly. My leg actually slows its bounce. From my pocket I produce Eddie’s wallet, which I slide back to him.
“I’m not Sherlock Holmes or anything. Your driver’s license gave me your name, eye color, and birthday. There’s a picture of your wife and kid in there, too. He’s cute in that little football helmet! Oh, and the insignia on your shirt says you’re a U.S. marshal.”
“Where did you get this?” he demands, though by the way he’s holding up the wallet and blinking at it, he’s more wonderstruck than angry.
“Your back pocket. Pretty close to where I got these.”
I toss his car keys across the table next.
“And this, which I’m guessing is the change from a cup of the cheap coffee at the bodega across the street, since it’s ninety-three cents with tax.”
I roll a nickel and two pennies his way.
“I’ve got your badge, too, but I’m keeping that until I know what the heck is going on. The nicotine gum you can have back. I’m betting you’ll want a piece after this.”
“You realize we just caught you stealing from a U.S. marshal, young lady?” Filemonger says through gritted teeth. I glance at her, but I can’t bring myself to look for too long; she makes me twitchy. Her lips are pursed. Her eyes are narrowed. Her watch squeezes her wrist so tightly you’d think she was using it as a tourniquet. And whereas Eddie’s shirt is comfortably unbuttoned at the collar, Filemonger has hers worked up her neck like the sheath around a knife. Makes sense, I guess, what with the way she’s staring daggers at me.
“It’s not stealing,” I explain. “It’s creative ownership reassignment. Besides, you didn’t catch me. Nobody has, and nobody will. Been found with the goods a few times, but never caught in the act. Now, if you want your badge back, you’ll give me some answers.”
I let that sink in for a couple of seconds and then smile innocently. “Pretty please?”
Eddie starts laughing—little chuckly snorts at first, then a proper Brooklyn belly-bray.
“Got a deal for you, Nicki. You tell me how you did all that, we’ll tell you what you want to know. Then you can decide whether to give my badge back.”
“Harkness, that’s not why we’re—” Filemonger begins, but my main man Eddie waves her off.
“Aren’t you curious, Janice? Let her talk.”
Janice crosses her arms, but she gives me a go-ahead nod.
“Fine. Deal. I got your badge first,” I begin, handing it over to Eddie. “It was clipped to your belt, and I worked my left while you were trying to shake my right—you didn’t see because you were watching my hair. I got your wallet when my shoulder touched your chest on the way in, since your body can really only process one point of contact at a time. Then, when I twisted out of your way, I brushed my hand against my earring. It caught the light, you glanced over, and I nabbed the gum and keys from your right pocket. Took your change from the other pocket as you walked past—you didn’t hear the jingle because I said hello to Filemo … um, to Janice here. Oh, and I could’ve taken the Taser, too, but I didn’t want to risk panicking and shooting you in the leg with it. Anyways, cool Taser.”
“Oh, Janice, I really like this one,” Eddie says, nudging her with his elbow.
“Your turn,” I declare, staring at Janice.
She eyeballs me with no small amount of suspicion. I think she believes I’m going to rob her blind as soon as she looks away. That’s silly, of course. I wouldn’t do that.
But I could.
“We are United States marshals, members of the oldest and most versatile federal law enforcement agency. We protect the courts, track down fugitives, and shield witnesses from retribution. And you are Nicki Demere,” she says, reading from the file, “daughter of Christian Demere, convicted felon, sentenced to nine years’ imprisonment at FCI Otisville for class B robbery one and
possession of a weapon two. Paroled in March of 2012.”
My heart is suddenly thumping so hard I can hear it.
“Wait … wait, wait, wait,” I exclaim, my hands fluttering in the air before my face, like the info she just dumped on me is a host of sparrows all trying to dive-bomb my brain at once. “My dad is out? As in, he’s free?”
“Yes, Nicki. For two years. Now let me continue. You wanted answers, you listen.”
I grab the teddy bear again, squeezing him so tight something rips. The world is crumbling, and Janice just keeps on talking.
“Mother unknown, abandoned family shortly after daughter’s birth. Father imprisoned when child was six. Child raised by paternal grandmother, Florence Demere, until her death in 2009. Is all this correct?”
Those sparrows have decided to stick around for a while, building their little nests in my throat—my mouth feels dry and powdery, and the lump in my windpipe won’t let me talk. I’m blinking away tears as I barely manage to squeak, “Go … go back to the part about my dad being out of prison?”
Janice nods. “He is.”
“And he’s been out for a long time?”
“Yes,” she states flatly.
Eddie jumps in. “I know it’s a lot to take in, Nicki, but you’ve got to bear with us. We’re not here about your dad, or your grandma—”
“Grammy.”
“Or your grammy, or any of that. That’s the past. We’re here about you, now, because … well, because we need you. The U.S. marshals need you. A family needs you.”
I’m spinning, or the room is, or something. Now I know why my dad never wrote back. Pretty hard to get the mail your daughter sends to prison if you’re not in prison.
He’s had two years. To get me. To take me home.
Two years, and he never came.
About five hundred dreams I’ve had of him showing up at the Center, of him telling me about prison over pie, of me sharing my adventures with him … they all come crashing down.
And my adventures! Every crappy little thing that’s happened to me! Every family that’s ever dumped me, every friend I’ve had to say good-bye to, every last bit of trouble I’ve made for myself … they were adventures only because I was going to tell my dad about them, match him story for unbelievable story. Now they’re just … just what? Stuff, I guess. Bad things. They’re all skittering out of my brain, roaches from a bright light, black and shiny and every bit as ugly.
I hadn’t even realized that Eddie had gotten up and put his hand on my shoulder. Janice keeps on reading: “Grandmother had a rap sheet: petty larceny, pickpocketing …” She pauses, staring at me for a moment. “Taught her granddaughter the ropes, apparently. Grandmother dies, granddaughter is picked up by the foster care system. Diagnosed with an impulse-control disorder, specifically kleptomania, likely as a result of separation and abandonment issues. Weekly court-mandated therapy sessions.”
Not adventures. Just bad things.
“Nicki,” Eddie whispers. He’s squatting next to me now, looking up past the teddy bear’s ears. “We’re going over this because it’s vital that we know where you’ve been, who you are. I’m so, so sorry you have to hear this from us, but it’s for a good reason. All this, I’m thinking, has made you strong, and we’re looking for a strong girl, one with your kind of grit, smarts, and skills. We’re looking for a girl who has dealt with all that stuff and come through still spitting fire and throwing jabs. Nicki, kid—we’re looking for you.”
I sniffle, wipe my fingers across my eyes and nose, and level a red-eyed stare at him. Through clenched teeth, I growl, “For … what?”
He smiles.
“The adventure of a lifetime.”
CHAPTER THREE
An Offer I Can’t Refuse
“Look at this, Nicki.”
Eddie holds out his hand to Janice, who scowls for a second. He snaps his fingers. Shaking her head, Janice forks over the photograph they were staring at a minute ago. He flips it around and holds it up for me.
It’s a family—they look nice enough. Father a little bit bald and a little bit beardy. A boy about my age stands next to him, a soccer ball under his foot and a baseball cap shielding his eyes. A mom …
Good God, the mom! I instinctively reach up and grab a lock of my hair, pulling the strands in front of my eyes. It’s as black as the woman’s in the photo. And her eyes? They’re mine, too, down to the flecks of green in the gray. Face thin as a razor, long fingers, pixie ears. She could be my future body double. She could be my much, much older sister.
Heck, she could be my mom.
“Nicki?”
Eddie’s talking to me, but I can’t take my eyes off the picture. She’s not my real mom, of course—Grammy had a few photos of her. The lady in the photo looks ten times more like me than the one who gave birth to me and skedaddled.
“Nicki?”
“What? What do you want? Who are they?”
“Nicki, have you ever heard of WITSEC? The Witness Protection Program?”
“Who is she?” I ask, tracing my fingers along the silhouette of the woman.
“It’s not a she. It’s a what.”
I sniffle again and roll my eyes. “No, Eddie. I know what the Witness Protection Program is. I watch TV. Who is she, in the picture?”
“Nicki, meet Elena Sicurezza. There next to her is her husband, Pietro, and their son, Lucas. They’re a nice family, and they need you badly.”
They do look like a nice family. Happy. Close. She’s got one of those powder-blue sweaters draped over her shoulders. He’s got a Mets shirt on. The kid is wearing cleats and white kneesocks.
“Here’s the thing, Nicki. Elena is brave. Very brave. Because of her bravery, many evil men and women are in prison. However, there are other evil people out there who are looking for her, who want to punish her.”
“You mean she ratted on someone,” I murmur.
Eddie scratches the back of his neck but then nods. “There are those who would see it that way, yes. Mostly, those are the people we’re trying to protect Elena from.”
“How do I factor into this again?”
“Times have changed, Nicki,” Janice says somberly. “Twitter. Instagram. Facebook. Digital everything. It’s much harder to hide a family now. We’ve had to take drastic steps recently. One of these steps is Project Family.”
“Project Family? Is that, like, one of your cool acronyms? What does it stand for?”
“It’s not an acronym. It’s just the name of our initiative.”
I twist my mouth to the side, unimpressed. “I thought everything was an acronym for you guys.”
Janice ignores me, which I suppose is fair.
“It used to be we’d change people’s identities, give them new cities, new names, new jobs, new schools, even new appearances. But that’s not enough anymore. Bad people have caught on to how to look, where to look, and what to look for. We have to evolve, and Project Family is one of our strategies.”
Eddie jumps in. “That’s right, Nicki. We’re evolving, and we’re hoping you can help us with that process. Help the Sicurezzas, too. We don’t just want to change their names. We want to change their family. That’s where you come in. With you, their dynamic is different. A credible daughter of your age completely changes their past, beefs up their back-story, and gives their lives an entirely new trajectory. Not only do you look the part—which, I’ll grant you, is a huge reason we’re here—but you’re street-smart and book-smart, you know what to look for if danger does show up on their front porch, and you can handle yourself. Combine all that with your own unique background, and you’re our girl.”
“You want me to join this family?”
“To help hide them, yes.”
And here it is, the final stage of wigging out. I’ve pretty much covered them all. Started with nervous, jumped to thiefy, moved to sarcastic, moseyed on into weeping, and now that beautiful numbness. I’m actually able to think again.
And now t
hat I can, this all sounds totally ridiculous.
“You want me to become a U.S. marshal?”
Janice shakes her head emphatically. “You will report to us, but there are age and field test requirements for marshals. You’re far too young. You could consider yourself a consulting asset, but there really isn’t a name for someone in your position.”
“I’m not in a ‘position’ yet. You’re trying to get me adopted by a family that isn’t looking for a new kid, that is about to move to who-knows-where, and that’s being chased by, as you describe them, evil people?”
“We’re arranging your placement with this family. It’s not a foster situation. Not an adoption. Those leave paper trails. No, you will become one of them, after a brief but intense training session. And they’ve already agreed to it.”
“You mean, like, they can’t get rid of me if they don’t want me?”
“No. If your performance is unsatisfactory, if you endanger the family, WITSEC would reevaluate your placement, but absent that, you’ll be the permanent contact person for the Sicurezzas.”
“But if I screw up, I just come back to the Center again?”
“No, Nicki …” Janice pauses, glancing at Eddie. Clearly this next message is one that needs a bit more sugar to deliver.
Eddie clears his throat. “Nicki, to do this, to have this opportunity, some things are going to need to change. The biggest of these is who you’ve been. We can’t allow any evidence that you aren’t a member of the Sicurezza family. In essence, Nicki Demere has to disappear.”
I whistle softly; it’s a good thing I’m not still in the weeping phase. Sure, there have been dozens of times I’ve wished I could just disappear: the day Grammy got picked up by the cops and I had to sit in the police station for four hours, the time in fourth grade when Ms. Dresker found out I’d been swiping clothes from the school store, and after that one thing in sixth-grade gym class. Now, though?
“How would I … disappear?”
Eddie tries to take my hand, and I pull back sharply.
“Don’t touch my hands,” I warn.
He backs off, his own hands in the air. “Easy, Nicki. Sorry about that. I should’ve known. Bet you rely a lot on your hands.”