The Salvation State

by Marcus Damanda

  This yard needs a good mowing.

  She glanced behind her again. The light brightened for a moment, then dimmed again as the vehicle finished its ascent and thankfully turned away from her toward the visitors’ entrance. But when she saw it was a police cruiser, with an air-ski jack on the back and two shadows in the front seat, she kept pushing the scooter until she passed around the corner of the building.

  God, please make it so they didn’t hear me or see me, she prayed, gasping for breath even though she wasn’t tired at all. If what I did was wrong or stupid or dangerous, I’m sorry. I’ll do something good tomorrow. I promise.

  What were the cops doing here? Nothing ever happened at DTR that called for cops.

  Its top lights were off.

  Not an emergency. That’s good, Rebecca. It’s probably something dumb. Somebody thinks there’s a prowler or something.

  She looked up to the window of the dorm room she shared with Caroline, three floors up. The lights were off, just like everyone else’s. Now she added a second prayer that the lights were off simply because Caroline had given up and bailed on her. Rebecca would be mad as all get-out for that, but it beat the heck out of the alternative.

  She put the key back into the scooter’s ignition, but she had no intention of bringing the engine back to life. No, what she was going to do was foolish—crazy, even, if she got the aim wrong—but it was the only thing she could do. One way or another, with the police here, the place was about to wake up.

  The doors on either side of the police cruiser opened and shut.

  She turned the key half its rotation—not enough to awaken the engine, but enough to power its electrical features. She straddled the seat, pulled on the handlebars, and aimed the headlight up without turning it on. She then reached over with one hand and narrowed its lens, increasing its power and shrinking the radius of its eventual illumination. All guesses, but Rebecca was good at aiming things, after all. She’d been really good at shooter’s camp, back in the day.

  You were aiming a gun back then, not a freakin’ scooter.

  No choice, she argued, turning it on and hoping for the best, wondering faintly which side of this argument represented her devil’s half.

  The light found its target—her own window, dead center—even as distant voices at the intercom spoke words she could not hear. She prayed Caroline was inside the dorm room and not spilling tearfully to Queen James.

  She waited.

  The main entryway door opened and Queen James welcomed the police into the retreat.

  Caroline appeared at the window.

  Rebecca closed her eyes and exhaled. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding her breath. And she smiled. Still love me, God. I knew it. Thank You.

  Caroline shielded her eyes from the light and gestured for Rebecca to go back around the side and through the front.

  Rebecca wanted to shout, There are cops here! You said you’d help!

  Even without the police presence, going to the front would be a complete surrender. She would have to use the intercom. Was Caroline such a moron that she didn’t get it? It had been Caroline who’d had the idea of taking a load of laundry to the second floor, climbing on the washer, and leaving through the window. And since that window locked automatically from the inside upon being shut, Caroline would have to be there to help Rebecca back in—if, that is, she was unable to get to their Plan A rendezvous point inside the garage.

  I need you, she mouthed, cutting the headlight and setting the scooter down.

  Caroline shook her head and shrugged, making it clear she didn’t understand.

  Okay. Rebecca sighed even as panic steadily mounted in her. New strategy. She pointed, first toward the laundry room and then at her own chest. Afterward, she drew her finger across her throat. She pointed at Caroline, then drew her finger across her throat a second time. She thought the intended message would be crystal clear: Get me in through the laundry room. If I’m busted, you’re busted.

  It ought to have made perfect sense. There was no way Rebecca could have gotten out without Caroline’s knowledge, if not her outright complicity. At DTR, knowing about a crime and not reporting it was pretty much the same as committing it.

  The look on Caroline’s face showed a different interpretation. She looked both betrayed and shocked—and that was rich, considering how Caroline had abandoned her promised post inside the garage. Nevertheless, Caroline seemed to have interpreted Rebecca’s sign language to read: Get me in through the laundry room. If I get caught, I will kill you.

  Either way, it did the trick. Caroline held up three fingers—which Rebecca hopefully interpreted as Give me three minutes—and disappeared from the window. Rebecca saw her shadow form throw a robe over her pajamas and pass out of sight.

  The front entrance doors shut as the police were admitted.

  Once again, Rebecca focused on stealth as she lightly jogged the scooter over to the copse of bushes and small trees where she had tucked it this afternoon. If only Caroline had stayed awake—if only she could have been in the garage, as they had planned…

  You wanted an adventure. And you got it. Worth it if we get away with it. Maybe even better if it’s a close call—a story to tell and exaggerate for the rest of our lives.

  Not worth it if you get caught, though.

  And definitely not worth it if you both get caught, which is what will happen if either one of you do. Whatever happens to Caroline will be your fault. What was she supposed to do? Sit in the dark for three hours just for you? Selfish.

  She shook her head. Useless thoughts. Caroline was in play again. There was no undoing it now. All they could do was try to get it right.

  She hustled back to the windows, clambered up the green metal utility box under the second floor laundry room window, and stood. She pictured Caroline tip-toeing down the halls—furtively racing past Miss Marcy’s room…

  Rebecca tapped her foot, anxiously checking to her left and right for the next unexpected wrinkle in her break-in. She now pictured Caroline taking the stairs instead of the elevator, mumbling near-curses under her breath.

  Cripes, Rebecca, she’d be muttering. How the heck did I let you talk me into this?

  She never actually swore. Usually Rebecca didn’t either.

  “Caroline,” she whispered, “move your ass.”

  Lights. Not in the laundry room—from around the corner. The offices. By now, whatever was going on, security would be meeting with Queen James and the police. If any of it involved the residents, there would be more lights any second. All of the lights, probably.

  But the next light was at the laundry room window. The pane whisked open, and Caroline’s face emerged again, her brown hair frazzled and eyes puffy. “I should have my head examined,” she hissed downward. “You said midnight, Rebecca. Twelve thirty, latest. I waited for you.”

  “I did?” Rebecca whispered, in spite of the urgency. “You did?” Looking back, she remembered she had.

  Crap. I’m the jerk, not her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, holding her arms up within Caroline’s reach. “No excuse. Just help me. Please.”

  Caroline’s lip curled in a hopeful way as she reached down for Rebecca. “I thought we’d had it for sure. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

  Fingernails dug into Rebecca’s triceps rather unmercifully as she allowed herself to be hauled up. Gritting her teeth, feeling fresh scratches lengthen across her arms, Rebecca grabbed the window frame as soon as she could and helped herself through.

  Caroline slid off the washer and guided Rebecca by hand the rest of the way. “Cops are here,” Caroline said. “Heard it over the all-call. Said we’re supposed to keep our doors shut and lights out until they leave. They’re supposed to let us know what it’s all about in the morning. That’s how I got down here so fast. Halls were totally empty.”

  Rebecca stared, dumbfounded.

  “You must have seen ’em,” Caroline said reasonably. “I could hear the en
gine even through the window, like one of the big cruisers you only ever see on TV.”

  And that’s why you were pointing around the building. You were warning me.

  The guilt Rebecca felt was transcendent. “I’m going to make this up to you,” she said, and thought, If I ever have a chance.

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “You definitely are.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Collectors

  It was Paula who had first taken the call. And even though Mrs. James had finished that conversation and later met them out front, it was Paula who admitted them to the office. She had been told specifically to not bring in extra chairs.

  “I know why you’re here,” Mrs. James said from behind her desk, her old voice stiff and disapproving. “You could have at least given me the name over the phone. But I don’t suppose simple courtesy, not even to the child in question, would occur to the likes of you.”

  “Nor to you,” said the cop, his tone unruffled. “Let’s not get into it.” He placed a plain manila folder on the desk.

  Paula shared Mrs. James’s disapproval. On this matter, however, she had her own reasons, none of which had to do with the competition between DTR and the other reeducation services.

  Somewhere in this building there slept a teenage girl who had no way of knowing she was about to be taken by surprise in the middle of the night. In the back of a police cruiser, she would learn how her parents had decided to farm her out to Second Salvations, where she would be detained until she turned eighteen.

  Paula, herself, had never seen this happen before. She’d only been an intern here for a year, but like everyone else, she had heard about it. She’d even known someone who had gone to Second Salvations—to the facility represented in this office right now, in fact.

  Paula and Mrs. James had been up and ready to receive their guests for more than half an hour. Only one of them, however, was a police officer. The other was Ruth Black. And though Paula had never met the woman, she knew Mrs. Black was married to the Reverend Matthew Black, pastor of the facility on Angel Island. Which was where her friend had gone.

  Her friend had not come back the same.

  “We’re here for Rebecca Riggs,” Mrs. Black said. She was young for a pastor’s wife—thirty at a guess. She wore a business suit, with her hair in a tight bun. Her voice was dark silk, the voice of a woman who might be tired or bored.

  Rebecca? Paula thought. That can’t be right.

  The look on Mrs. James’s face also showed surprise. “Rebecca’s done very well here. She doesn’t need Second Salvations.”

  “Not your decision,” the cop said. “As you know. We’ve done this before.”

  “There’s been a mistake,” Mrs. James said. “Her parents settled on DTR—where, I must insist, she’s been a model resident. This was her parents’ choice, and it was the right choice.”

  “Our Lord,” Mrs. Black said, “has called her parents home.”

  Paula gasped, but she forced herself not to say anything. Even now, it wasn’t her place to speak. In fact, she didn’t actually know why she was here.

  Mrs. James left the folder unopened, but her eyes widened. She crossed her chest with her fingers, and all present followed her example. A moment of silence ensued.

  “You will find the documents in order,” Mrs. Black said.

  “I’m … sure I will,” Mrs. James replied, recovering. “Surely she won’t leave until after the funeral? For decency’s sake.”

  “Honor thy father and thy mother,” Mrs. Black recited, then shook her head. “No. She’ll leave now.”

  What could have happened to Pastor and Mrs. Riggs? Paula had seen them both on Rebecca’s first day. They had been so … well, real. It was hard to think of them as suddenly dead.

  Mrs. James’s thin lips thinned to near invisibility. She pointed to the officer but spoke to Mrs. Black. “Under no circumstances is this man to set foot in any of the girls’ bedrooms. I’ll be arrested before permitting that. I won’t even have him in my residence halls.”

  Darn straight, Paula thought. This guy’s a creep.

  “What are you afraid of?” Mrs. Black asked, smirking. “We are here on God’s business.”

  The officer said, “There really is no need for concern. I have daughters of my own.”

  “Good. Then you’ll understand.”

  Mrs. Black gestured, as though waving off the entire conversation. “Really, Mrs. James, we would not dream of such an indiscretion.” She looked back to Paula. “And that’s why,” she continued, “I asked that your most trusted prefect be present. Which, I assume, is what this young lady is.”

  Paula supposed she should be proud to have been summoned based on that criteria, but at present her mind and heart were awhirl with shock—and with dread on Rebecca’s behalf. It was a testament to Mrs. James’s confidence in her when she reflexively curtsied for Mrs. Black. What was more, as any young lady was taught to do in the presence of authority, she managed to keep her mouth dutifully shut.

  “Name?” Mrs. Black asked, her tone never changing.

  Paula gave it.

  “As you are held in such high regard, Paula,” said Mrs. Black, “I take it that a ‘model resident’ such as Rebecca Riggs will do whatever you say.”

  Paula nodded. When Rebecca had arrived last week, Paula had expected her to be a little hellion, from all she had heard. Her father had said she couldn’t keep still, she spoke and acted without thinking—she’d even been caught ditching school once. But no, Rebecca was as compliant as they ever came and had only gotten her first demerits tonight because Marcy had wanted her to. Paula felt so bad for her.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said evenly, but her heart was breaking. “She won’t be any trouble.”

  Mrs. Black nodded. “Fetch her, then,” she said, reaching across the desk and opening the folder in front of Mrs. James. “And tell her nothing. Just bring her. We’ll take it from there.”

  ****

  Caroline opened the door a crack, and together they peered down the hall.

  Still dark, still clear. That much was good.

  Getting the scooter back inside, however, was going to be impossible, at least until tomorrow. Rebecca could only pray it would neither be discovered nor reported missing by then. And that prayer, her fourth supplication in the last fifteen minutes, was probably asking more of God than was strictly reasonable under the circumstances.

  Rebecca and Caroline fled the laundry room as silently as they could, as quickly as they dared. They made it to the stairwell door without incident. There, their luck ran out.

  Opening the door was like uncorking a vertical echo chamber. Any noise made from the inside of the stairwell bounced all through it. Stepping in from the second floor, there was no way of even knowing if the noise came from above or from below.

  And now, at this moment, someone was in that stairwell. That someone could be maintenance or security. It could be the hall monitor. It might even be Miss Marcy. If they were caught by her…

  Best not to think about that.

  They shared an identical look, a thought as clear as if it had been spoken aloud: Stairs, no-go.

  And that left only the elevator.

  Rebecca eased the stairwell door to the gentlest close she could manage in short seconds, and then they fairly sprinted down the hall, just in case even that small disruption had been heard. Planning ahead, Rebecca told herself that if they got to the room, she’d throw herself under the covers before even getting undressed, just in case they were pursued.

  They punched both buttons for the elevator, frantic and yet close to giggling.

  And they waited.

  Waited.

  Finally it opened. Without hesitation, they plunged inside. Caroline punched the Three button, and the door whisked shut.

  The elevator jerked. And descended.

  In the thirty seconds or so it took for the elevator to complete its journey to the first floor—where it would open in the entry l
obby, in full view of Queen James’s office—they could hear voices. Those voices were not coming from right in front of the elevator, but they were more than close enough for the girls to know their little adventure had come to an end.

  Before the door even started to open, Caroline was crying, fairly smashing her finger against the Close button.

  Rebecca leaned against the back wall of the elevator and stared up. Up, the direction the elevator was supposed to have taken.

  The door shuddered, confused. But the Close command would not trigger until it had given whoever had summoned it on the first floor at least a few seconds’ chance of climbing aboard.

  “I’m sorry, Caroline,” Rebecca said, no longer whispering.

  On the other side of the door, Miss Paula stood, understandably stunned to find them there.

  Rebecca gave her a finger wave, smiling wryly, as though to greet her with, What can I say? Totally busted.

  The look of stupefaction on Miss Paula’s face might have been almost satisfying, if only it didn’t look like she, too, had been crying. Weird.

  For the briefest moment, Rebecca saw past her into Queen James’s office. There, she also saw Mrs. James herself, along with two other people. One was a cop. The other, a woman in a black business suit.

  Queen James’s eyes found her, which caused her to start in confusion.

  Which caused the others to turn.

  Miss Paula bounded inside as the door closed again.

  Voices called for both Miss Paula and for her, Rebecca—but not for Caroline. Footsteps, racing in their direction, even as the elevator now belatedly started going up, as it should have done the first time.

  Caroline looked around, bug-eyed, tears streaming down, sucking in her breath, crying.

  Miss Paula’s face was suddenly grim. She took Caroline by the shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said, her voice more stern than Rebecca had ever heard it. “Caroline, shut up. Right now. I mean it. They might not have even seen you.”