A Girl Undone

by Catherine Linka

  My chest tightened, remembering how I’d watched the agents destroy the windmills that powered Salvation. “What if they cut the electricity?”

  “We have backup generators.”

  This bare steel box with a couple of storage bins didn’t look equipped for a long stay. “And water? What if we run out?”

  “We’ve got a thousand-gallon tank.” Jessop rapped the wall behind him. “Sink and toilet behind this door.”

  “What if whoever’s out there sets the house on fire?”

  “We’ve got a sprinkler system and immediate dispatch from the fire department.”

  “How about guns?” I said, looking at the black storage boxes. “Do we have any?”

  “You wouldn’t want to shoot a gun in here. The risk of a bullet ricocheting off a steel wall is too great.”

  I nodded and pulled my hands and feet inside the blanket.

  Jessop peered at me. “Salvation left its mark on you.”

  “Yeah, you try being held captive in a church that armed government agents are firing on, and see if you don’t come out a little paranoid.”

  Hawkins switched his attention to the screen up in the corner. “You saw that Yates Sandell was released from prison today.”

  Ho must have told him how he caught Sig and me watching his press conference. “Yes. Thank you for helping him.” Hawkins looked at me expectantly. “Jessop,” I added.

  “I gave you my word I would.”

  I knew Hawkins wanted more, a gushing, teary thank you, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “He’s wrong about you.”

  I sat up straighter. Don’t. Don’t you dare talk about Yates to me.

  “You’re no one’s lapdog, and he’s a fool to call you that. He doesn’t deserve you.”

  Stop. Just stop. I know you hate that I still love him.

  Hawkins gave me a look like he knew what I was thinking. I looked away, and we sat in an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two, before I broke it, saying, “I hope Deeps is okay.”

  “He’ll be fine,” Hawkins said. “He’s trained for this.” Hawkins watched the security monitor, his arms crossed limply over his knees, occasionally clicking the remote to change the screens.

  “Why aren’t you nervous?” I said.

  Hawkins flicked his hand. “I’m a politician and that by its very nature makes me a target. The key,” he said, nodding at the locked door, “is to be prepared.”

  He looked almost average right then with his uncombed hair and rumpled pajamas. I got that he wanted to run the state, but I didn’t get the rest. “Why are you a Paternalist?”

  He smirked. “Why’d you ask that?”

  “The way you talk about Jouvert and Senator Fletcher. You don’t like them. I don’t think you even respect them very much. And you don’t agree with everything they say. Like this morning you said Amendment Twenty-eight was a suicide mission.”

  Hawkins tilted his head at me. “I became a Paternalist because that’s where the votes are. You saw how quickly the movement took over. Scarpanol left this country traumatized and the Paternalists were the first to realize that if they promised a man that they’d keep his daughter safe, he’d do whatever they asked.”

  “So you don’t really believe everything you’ve said about women staying home and obeying their husbands and not going to college or having their own money?”

  “My mother was a brilliant, supremely capable woman who could have run this state if she’d wanted to.”

  “Then I don’t get it. I don’t understand how you can play with people’s lives—with my life—like this when you don’t believe in what the Paternalists are doing.”

  “Because you can’t steer the ship until you’re the captain. Movements change. People realize what they don’t want and they vote out the people they voted in. Jouvert and people like him won’t last … Why are you shaking your head?”

  “Jouvert’s going to be the next president, and we helped put him there by promising not to release the tape of him and Sparrow.”

  “I doubt he’ll be president.”

  Hawkins was so arrogant, so sure of his own infallible brilliance, he couldn’t see the power Jouvert had. Didn’t he realize Jouvert had probably sent whoever was out there?

  “We should call the police,” I said.

  “Deeps will call for backup if he thinks it’s necessary.”

  “But what if someone kills him first?”

  “That’s unlikely. I hired Deeps because he pulled terrorist insurgents out of caves along the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. He can handle whoever’s stumbling around my backyard.”

  “Stumbling around? You think the person who’s out there isn’t dangerous?”

  “It could be anyone—a paparazzo trying to sneak a shot, a thief who saw your bracelet in People, a stalker, some nut who went off his meds—”

  “Yeah, maybe, but I’ve seen what Fletcher and Jouvert do when they feel threatened, and if one of them thinks that two perfectly aimed bullets will solve their problems, they’ll get someone to do it.”

  Hawkins clenched his hand into a fist. “Stop being dramatic,” he snapped. “We’re fine.”

  That was all it took to shut me up. Hawkins watched the screens, and I laid my head on my knees and pretended to doze. He had hit me before, and I didn’t want to risk making him angry.

  Deeps came for us at 5:50. “I found fresh deer tracks near the fence where the sensors tripped. A doe probably wandered down from the mountains, and got startled and jumped the fence. No sign of it now.”

  “See,” Hawkins said to me. “It was nothing.” He held out his hand, and I let him help me to my feet.

  Deeps walked me back upstairs, and I waited until we were far enough away from Jessop that he couldn’t hear me say, “Really? A deer tripped the alarm? I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  Deeps looked me right in the eyes. “You want me to show you the tracks? Grab a jacket. Let’s go.”

  Showing me tracks wouldn’t prove a thing. “Forget it.”

  I wasn’t being paranoid, I thought as I scuffed back to my bedroom. Jessop and I had blackmailed the vice president of the United States. We had targets on our backs even though he and, apparently, Deeps wanted to pretend we didn’t.

  It wasn’t dawn yet, but I drew the curtains so my room became a cocoon. If I hadn’t been so tired, I don’t think I would have slept.

  36

  Music went off around two. “Wake up, Hummingbird.” Deeps’ voice came over the intercom. “Time to hit the PR trail. You’re leaving for the orphan ranch in one hour.”

  It was my debut as Aveline soon-to-be-Hawkins, Defender of Orphans and complete fraud. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing there was a way out of this photo op and Q&A with three dozen reporters and celebrity bloggers. By using those tapes to save myself, I was helping keep the Paternalist orphan scam in business.

  But there wasn’t a way out, and Deeps made sure I was up, dressed, and in the car on time.

  We drove down the freeway, me in back with Hawkins, my fingers rubbing circles on the skirt of my dress. The fabric was like shaved fur, the short hairs the color of graphite mixed with black that shifted direction unexpectedly. Leather trim shaped like black daggers radiated from around my neck. Sig wanted the cameras to fix on me, but the last thing I wanted was to be seen, especially by Yates.

  “Where’s Sigmund Rath?” Hawkins asked Ho. Hawkins was wearing the smoky lavender shirt Sig had sent over.

  “With a client in San Diego. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Deeps looked at me in the rearview mirror, and I caught a flicker of something in his eyes that made me wonder if he knew Sig had lied.

  Sig was in San Antonio for Jouvert’s speech at Texas A&M. Jouvert had two more appearances outside D.C. where we thought Luke might show up in the next week, and prayed he wouldn’t.

  Ho’s phone pinged. “It’s Jouvert’s director of scheduling. The VP’s coming to you
r Signing.”

  “So Sigmund was right.” Jessop tapped his thigh. “I’d never have believed it.”

  Me, neither. Jouvert and his Secret Service agents were the last people I wanted to be anywhere near, and I had no idea why Sig had insisted he be invited. Sig had ducked the question when I’d asked.

  “We’ll need to increase security for the Signing, won’t we?” Hawkins said.

  “The Secret Service will probably send a security detail in advance to assess the compound,” Deeps said. “They’ll want full access including blueprints.”

  “Wait, Jouvert’s people are going to go through our house?” I said. “Aren’t you at all worried they might leave listening devices behind or maybe a bomb?”

  “I’ll be with the agents the entire time, and do a sweep after they leave,” Deeps said. “I’m trained in what to look for.”

  Hawkins smiled.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “You called it ‘our house.’”

  I twisted the Love bracelet on my wrist, feeling a little sick. I can’t believe this. Look at me. I’m turning into Hawkins’ wife.

  The orphan ranch came into view, the buildings spread out along the cement-lined L.A. River on the other side of the freeway.

  I’d passed the L.A. Orphan Ranch every Tuesday for six years when my bodyguard Roik would drive me to the cemetery to visit Mom, and I’d never really thought about the girls and boys who lived there. But that was before I met Splendor and Sirocco in Vegas. They’d both come from ORs, and gone to work for Maggie. Everyone who worked for Maggie seemed to have survived something.

  Deeps exited the freeway, and the road curved around a power plant. The huge windowless building was sun-bleached almost white. Beside it stood a giant square of twisted black steel beams studded with steel coils like the guts of an enormous machine. The empty street was stripped of trees and not even a weed sprouted along the pavement.

  Deeps steered us into a block of office and industrial buildings. Boys wearing jeans and worn tees, and who looked like they were only ten, were picking trash off the sidewalks and narrow strips of dried-out grass. “We’re here,” Hawkins said.

  “This is it?” Calling this a ranch was a complete joke.

  “What did you expect?”

  I must have been naïve to expect barns for horses and cows. “I thought there’d be fields—a place to play soccer.”

  Hawkins pointed to the top floor of the parking structure on the right. “There are basketball courts up top, and plenty of room on the other floors to ride skateboards and bikes or play indoor soccer.”

  “What was this place?”

  “A big animation studio. When they went bankrupt, the city bought the buildings quite cheaply.”

  The buildings on the left were protected by ten-foot walls and iron gates, but the ones on the right weren’t. Anyone could have walked on or off the property.

  “Is that the boys’ campus?” I said, pointing to the right.

  “Yes.”

  Of course it was. Who cared if a boy ran away or someone took him? One less orphan for the state to worry about.

  Deeps turned left toward an arch covered in dead ivy. The studio’s name had been pulled from the painted stucco, but the shadow of a few letters was still visible. “DreamWo.”

  Deeps halted at the guardhouse in front of the iron gate. Two dozen men carrying video equipment and camera bags were lined up single file along the sidewalk. One security guard was checking their IDs while another searched their bags.

  The next thing I knew, the iron gate had rolled closed behind us. The small parking lot was paved in fake cobblestones, and Deeps pulled into a visitor space between a BMW and a Porsche.

  “Do you remember your instructions?” Ho asked me.

  I wanted to slap the self-satisfied look right off his face. “Smile. Act impressed. Agree with everything Jessop says.”

  “Exactly.”

  Hawkins took my hand and helped me out of the car, then smoothly kissed my cheek. I jerked back, startled, and caught sight of a cameraman snapping away. “Smile,” Hawkins hissed, still holding on to me.

  I smiled up at him through gritted teeth. “I didn’t know you were going to kiss me.”

  “We’re in public. Expect it.”

  A white-haired man with a thick black mustache bustled past the photographer. “Mr. Hawkins, we’re so happy you came. And you must be Aveline.” He shook my hand. “Claudio Ramirez, superintendent. I’m delighted that you’ve taken an interest in our girls.”

  “Of course I’m interested,” I replied, parroting lines Ho had fed me. “Jessop has told me all about your efforts to protect and nurture young women.”

  Ramirez steered Hawkins and me toward the door. “Yes, Mr. Hawkins has been a generous benefactor and a powerful voice on our board.”

  Deeps and Ho were wrangling the photographers who’d passed security. They were lined up in the reception area, and began snapping shots of us the second we stepped inside. I tried to look everywhere but at their lenses, tried to keep my face a blank.

  I felt like Ramirez was setting up the shots, the way he invited Hawkins and me to admire a wall decorated with glossy, four-color photos of smiling girls of every color bent over pottery wheels, peering into microscopes, and waving trophies at a track meet. Then he told the media we’d meet them in the dining room, and led us through a glass door etched with the words PLACEMENT OFFICE.

  Portraits of smiling couples, some holding babies, hung on the wall. There wasn’t one picture of a girl wearing a college tee or waving a pennant.

  Ramirez waved a hand at the display. “These are only some of our success stories. We’ve broken new ground by placing girls in homes instead of releasing them when they age out of the ranch. We learned from the foster care system that releasing kids without a safety net results in high rates of homelessness, drug abuse, prostitution, and welfare dependence.”

  “That’s great,” I forced myself to say. I’d heard all this crap in Vegas from Paternalist senators and congressmen slapping themselves on the back for saving the unfortunates.

  Ramirez led us down a short hall. “Our counselors interview prospective matches for the girls, because our goal is to get the right ‘fit.’”

  “I’m sure the girls appreciate how much you care.”

  Ramirez puffed up. “I hope you are right,” he said, “because I see myself as a father with a thousand daughters to care for.”

  Hawkins shot me a look to let me know he’d picked up on my sarcasm even if Ramirez hadn’t.

  Ramirez stopped outside a counselor’s office. The door was closed, but the window to the hall showed three people inside. “Look here,” he said, “and you can observe a counselor conducting a ‘first meet’ between one of our girls and a placement prospect.”

  We peered through the glass, and my body tensed, seeing the prospect and the way he sat, his arms spread wide on the chair, his suit jacket open, as he eyed a slender black girl in a tan jumpsuit standing beside the counselor’s desk.

  Her hair was in a bun, and her face was scrubbed clean, but she was distractingly pretty with high cheekbones and intense black eyes. She stared at the ceiling until the visitor spoke. Then he twirled his finger, and I realized he was telling her to turn around. The jerk wanted to see how she looked from behind.

  “How do you know he’ll treat her well?” I said.

  “Darling,” Jessop warned.

  Ramirez bent toward me. “Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said, Miss Reveare.”

  “How do you know that man will be kind to her? That he won’t abuse her?”

  “A very good question. Let me reassure you that all the candidates are carefully vetted with criminal, credit, and employment checks.”

  Hawkins must have sensed I wasn’t satisfied with the answer, because he eased between me and Ramirez. “LAOR uses the same psychological assessments that the top private schools do, correct?”

  “Yes, we ma
ke every effort to get a complete profile, but I must admit that many candidates are unwilling to submit to psychological assessments, and even if they do, we’ve found the results so subjective as to be worthless.”

  The men started walking again, and I glanced at Hawkins, remembering the fury in his face when he shook me. My school prided itself on exhaustively evaluating prospects before recommending a match, but clearly he’d refused their psychological tests, probably along with a big fat No Thank You gift to the Masterson Academy endowment fund.

  Ramirez put a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder. “I need to thank you for your recommendations regarding our profit model. Profitability is up thirty percent after we implemented a fifty percent deposit, and bad debt expense has dropped to seven.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but Jessop was smiling at his own brilliance.

  “And that analyst you sent us?” Ramirez continued. “He refined our candidate-assessment algorithm so it weighs factors like expected career earnings, employment industry, educational level, and residential zip code more heavily. Now, we’re scoring candidates in each category and the highest-scoring candidate is selected for that specific placement.”

  Heat filled my chest. This I got. The guy who scored the best, got the girl. It didn’t matter if she and he had anything in common, or she had even the least little interest in him.

  I struggled to keep silent and not let my face reveal how I felt. Ramirez was another operator. No, not an operator, a pimp. I knew it and Jessop knew it. I couldn’t stop it, and Jessop wouldn’t.

  “When can I meet the girls?” I asked.

  “We’re going right now.” Ramirez led us through a back door down a long hallway into a huge open room where at least a hundred girls were bent over sewing machines. Stacks of orange cloth were piled next to each girl, and the grrring noise of the machines was deafening.

  Girls across the room were sneaking looks at me, and I was suddenly conscious of how privileged and superior I appeared in my seven-hundred-dollar heels and Love bracelet coated with diamonds. I tucked my arms behind my back and gave them a nervous smile, hoping they’d see that I didn’t think I was any better than they were.