Uninvited

by kindle@abovethetreeline. com

  “The one from last week?”

  He nods.

  I angle my head. “You want to write my biography?”

  “That’s the assignment,” he replies, his voice even, his gaze unflinching.

  I didn’t think he cared. He’d hardly been a willing subject when I posed the questions to him. “Okay,” I say slowly.

  “Name?”

  “Davy Hamilton.”

  “That’s not your full name.” He stares at me steadily, his eyes serious. He’s always so serious. I’ve never heard him laugh. Never seen him smile.

  “Davina Evelyn Hamilton.”

  And then I see it. The corner of his mouth lifts ever so faintly.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Just sounds like the name of someone’s great-great-aunt.”

  “They were my grandmothers’ names . . . on both sides.”

  His pencil scratches the paper. “Of course,” he murmurs softly beneath his breath.

  “Parents?”

  “Patrick and Caitlyn Hamilton.”

  “Siblings?”

  He asks the rest of the questions. All basic stuff. I rattle off answers.

  “Hobbies?

  I hesitate. He looks up at me. “Come on. You have them.” He sounds almost amused at the idea that I would try to deny this.

  “Debutante training?” he suggests. “Tennis at the country club?”

  I glare. “Funny. No. Music,” I snap.

  “Music? You like listening to music?”

  “No. I play. I sing.”

  “What do you play?”

  I sigh. “Piano. Violin. Flute, guitar. A few others . . .” My voice fades.

  He lifts his pencil from the desk and looks at me squarely. “You play all those instruments?”

  I nod, waiting for him to make a remark, to poke fun at me.

  He returns his attention to his paper. “That’s really cool.” The comment is mild enough, but from him it feels . . . I don’t know. Important somehow. I’ve impressed him. For some weird reason this warms me. I doubt much impresses him.

  “Is that why you’re always humming?”

  “I don’t always hum,” I deny.

  “Yes. You do. You’re really quiet, but you do.”

  “I don’t think so.” At least I don’t think I always do it. “No one has ever pointed that out to me before—”

  “Then they aren’t paying attention.” He just gazes at me as he says this with that serious expression of his, his smoky eyes shrewd in a way that seems older than his years.

  His words resonate in me. They aren’t paying attention. But he is.

  My face heats beneath his gaze. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

  He breaks eye contact with me and goes back to scrawling on the paper. After a moment, he asks, “Boyfriend?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” He spaces each word out as though to help me comprehend.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He looks up, his expression almost bored—like the question and my answer mean little to him. He motions to the paper. “You’re what, seventeen?” I nod. “Just figure it’s a relevant question for the biography of a teenage girl.”

  “No. I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say after some moments. I wait but he doesn’t ask any more than that. I don’t have to say anything else, but I hear myself confessing, “We broke up. The night you picked me up. That’s why I left. I got mad and stormed off.”

  He considers me. His eyes deep, absorbing. There’s no judgment there.

  “He couldn’t handle it. None of my friends can.”

  He looks down at the tip of his pencil. He starts to pick at the thin splinters surrounding the lead.

  “So he let you walk off? After curfew?”

  “I didn’t give him a choice.”

  “He had a choice.”

  “No. Really. We had a fight and then I refused to get in the car.” I wince, unable to confess the slap. Even to him. I regret that slap. Regret losing control.

  “I would have convinced you.”

  I release a short, breathy laugh, and look away, my face hot at the idea of what this boy would have done if he were my boyfriend. An unlikely scenario. I shift uncomfortably in my chair.

  “Think I have enough.” He stands abruptly and moves back to his desk. I blink and look straight ahead. For a minute there, things had felt . . . friendly. Like he wasn’t a carrier. Like he hadn’t warned me to keep my guard up around him and everyone else in my life.

  Like I wasn’t so alone.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  * * *

  Tori

  R U coming???

  Zac

  Don’t do this

  Tori

  Fine. Will go w/o u. Carlton agreed 2 come. Others 2. There were plenty witnesses

  Zac

  She used 2 be ur friend

  Tori

  She slapped u. She’s dangerous. It’s the right thing 2 do. Meet us at Agency

  Zac

  I provoked her

  Tori

  Listen 2 urself. U still luv her

  Zac

  . . .

  Tori

  U don’t even deny it.

  Zac

  What time r u meeting there?

  THIRTEEN

  THEY COME FOR ME THE FOLLOWING DAY.

  I’m writing an essay, using this week’s assigned vocabulary words—determined by some anonymous teacher I will never meet. I turn at the sound of voices and spot Pollock instantly. I haven’t seen him since the meeting in his office and my reaction is almost visceral. My body tenses and panic claws up my chest, closing my throat.

  He’s with Mr. Tucci and another man I’ve never seen before. Brockman rises instantly, his expression alert, his eyes blinking awake. He’s such a phony, pretending to look attentive when anyone can glance at his desk and count the dozen magazines and candy bar wrappers littered there.

  I spin around, clutching the edge of my desk. My gaze lands on Gil. He’s rotated in his chair and stares at me, eyes wide, unblinking, questioning. My heart skips a beat and I know somehow. This is because of me.

  Or maybe I’m just paranoid. I haven’t done anything. I glance around the room and catch Coco looking at me. She quickly turns away, goes back to working on her desk. Nathan sits up, his eyes worried. No doubt he’s done any number of things that could have brought them here.

  A quick read of the clock confirms that Sean won’t be here for another forty-five minutes. For some reason, I wish he was here. Not that he could do anything.

  I slide my gaze back to the men at the front of the Cage. Their voices rumble low and deep. Mr. Tucci talks to Brockman, but it’s Pollock who holds all my attention. He moves in front of the Cage door, squares himself directly center with it, arms crossed, expression set, determined. A man on a mission. And I know. I’m the mission.

  His small, dark eyes settle on me and he crooks a finger, motioning me forward.

  Mr. Tucci avoids my gaze as he leads us to the front door of the building. Pollock walks to my left and the other man to my right, flanking me. Like they’re afraid I might bolt.

  “Where are we going?”

  Pollock stares straight ahead, not replying.

  My breathing falls fast. I take several swallows and try to slow my racing pulse.

  Tucci doesn’t step outside with us. I glance back at him through the glass doors, but he’s already walking away.

  “Does my mother—”

  “We don’t need to contact your parents.” Pollock opens the passenger door of a white, nondescript van. “You’re under the supervision of the Wainwright Agency.”

  I hesitate, staring at the dark blue interior. It’s just another cage. Wire mesh separates the front of the v
an from the back. I inch away.

  “Get in.” The other man shoves me, and I stumble forward. My hands catch on the floorboard.

  “Now, Webber.” Pollock clicks his tongue. “I’m sure Ms. Hamilton isn’t going to give us any trouble.”

  I look over my shoulder. Pollock cocks his head at me. “Are you?”

  Webber rests a hand on his belt, and I’m sure he means to look imposing . . . threatening.

  “No.” I climb up inside and settle my backpack on my lap, hugging it close like a pillow. The door slides shut behind me with a reverberating slam. Pollock and Webber get in the front. They don’t speak as we pull out of the parking lot. We’re soon on the highway. It only takes me a few moments to realize we’re not headed toward the Agency office. We’re heading even farther away from the city. North toward Fredericksburg. The highway winds through hill country. We pass an occasional gas station and rest stop. A few houses dot the sloping, mesquite-covered hills, isolated and safe from the city.

  “Where are we going?”

  They exchange looks.

  Pollock glances back through the wire. “We’ll explain when we get there.”

  A sinking sensation starts in my stomach. I ease my hand inside my bag, searching for my phone. Pretty certain they’re not going to approve of me using it, I peek inside and start to compose a message for my mother.

  Pollock has me don’t know where he is tak

  “Hey! What are you doing?” Pollock’s voice cuts through the silence. “Damn it! Pull over, Webber!”

  The van jerks to the side of the road. I gasp and send the message, hoping it’s enough.

  Pollock hops out and yanks open the back door. He grabs my bag off my lap. The phone is still clutched in my fingers.

  “Stupid,” he mutters, ripping it from my hand. I don’t bother resisting. He scans the message I just sent.

  His body relaxes and he glances to Webber. “She just texted her mother. We’re good.”

  Who else did he think I texted that might not have been good? I wish I knew. Wish I had their number.

  “I want to call my parents,” I say hotly. “I have rights! You can’t just take me from school—”

  “We can. We did.” The vein in Pollock’s forehead bulges. “When are you going to get it? You don’t have rights. You’re lucky you even get to walk the streets. You and every other carrier.” He’s panting, each word like a bullet fired. A semi roars past us, shaking the van. I dig my fingers into the upholstery. “As far as I’m concerned, you all should be wiped from the face of the earth.”

  I flinch. This is me he’s talking about. My life. And this guy with hate glowing in his eyes is my caseworker. He decides my fate.

  He slams the door and gets in the front again. Webber pulls off the side of the road, showering gravel into the air.

  I blink burning eyes and stare out the window. What will Mom think when she gets my message? As the hill country rushes past, I start to wonder if I should have messaged my father. Mitchell. Anyone else. Mom clearly hasn’t been able to stop any of this from happening to me so far. What could she do now?

  As we drive along, I notice a trio of vultures circling high above a hilltop. They’re tiny and black in the distance, but I stare at their fluttering and dipping shapes in the sky.

  It dawns on me that no one can do anything. No one can help me. Just like Sean said.

  I’m as alone and lost as whatever prey lies dead below those vultures.

  The building is nondescript. Pale rock. Single story with an aluminum roof. The double doors gleam darkly with the letters PIF etched on the glass. There are more words beneath the abbreviation, but I don’t have time to read them before Webber ushers me inside, one hand firmly gripping my arm.

  “So I guess you’re the muscle,” I mutter. “You like roughing up girls? What about you? Have you been tested for HTS?” I don’t know where the attitude comes from. Anger . . . fear.

  He smiles. “You bet. And I’m clean.”

  I snort. “Yeah. That makes sense.” He’s clean. This guy with his hard hands that squeeze like a gorilla’s fists.

  A receptionist wearing floral scrubs smiles from behind a counter. “Ah. Mr. Pollock. We haven’t seen you in a few weeks.”

  “Miss me, Brenda?”

  “Always.” She hands him a clipboard. “But no worry. We’ve been busy just the same.”

  “Good to hear.” He quickly fills out the form, his pen scratching the surface. He hands her back the clipboard and then reaches inside his jacket, pulling out a small packet of papers.

  Brenda’s gaze finds me, widening a little as she takes the paperwork from him. “Oh. A girl. We don’t see too many of them.”

  “Don’t let her gender fool you into thinking she’s not dangerous.”

  Brenda blinks. “Of course. We will take all the usual precautions.” She quickly looks over the information on the clipboard and then moves on to the additional paperwork, skimming each page. “Okay. This looks in order.” Rising, she motions to the door. “Follow me, please.”

  We follow her through the door and into a brightly lit hall, passing two doors before we reach another room. It reminds me of a dentist’s office. There is a long, lounge-type chair with straps and buckles hanging from the sides. Behind it lie several pieces of unidentifiable equipment.

  Instantly, I understand. And really, the suspicions have been there all along, nipping at the edge of my awareness, begging to be acknowledged.

  A strange calm comes over me. “What did I do?”

  Because I did something. Unwittingly. I must have for them to bring me here.

  Pollock flips open a file and reads: “On Friday evening, March twenty-second, several witnesses signed statements alleging that you assaulted a young man.”

  I stare, unblinking, uncomprehending.

  “Who did I assault?”

  He glances down again. “A Zachary Clemens.”

  I suck in a breath. Zac . . . my friends . . . They reported me?

  My gaze swings back to the straps and buckles dangling off the side of the lounger. The equipment suddenly looks especially menacing.

  I whirl around and step as close to Brenda as possible with Webber still holding my arm. “Please, help me. I’m here against my will. I didn’t hurt anyone! This is a mistake!”

  “Shut up.” Webber forces me toward the lounger. I dig in my heels, but he’s too strong.

  Brenda laughs. “Against my will,” she echoes, shaking her head. “That’s a good one.”

  “Please. Do I look dangerous to you?” I struggle wildly against Webber, trying to break loose as he presses me back onto the leather upholstery, his hands crushing my shoulders.

  The leather squeaks beneath my wild movements. He grunts as he wiggles one hand free to buckle a restraint around my wrist. “Hold still. You’re just going to make it harder on yourself. This is going to happen. Might as well stop fighting.”

  “Oh, honey,” Brenda answers me, “you never can tell these days. My grandmother was assaulted a month ago by two boys that couldn’t have been a day over ten.” She clicks her tongue and nods with freakish cheerfulness at Pollock and Webber. “These men are doing God’s work. This is a dangerous world we live in, and they’re making it safer.”

  “So are you, Brenda, so are you,” Pollock intones from where he sinks into a single chair. “We all do our part.”

  “Kind of you to say, Mr. Pollock.” She smiles broadly as she moves to the door. “Richard will be with you in a moment. He’s just finishing up in another room.”

  “Thank you.” As the door clicks shut, Pollock slides his phone out of his pocket and begins studying it. Typing occasionally.

  Webber finishes the second strap on my wrist and moves on to my ankle. Sean flashes across my mind. Did Webber restrain him like this? Or had Pollock brought more helpers for Sean? It’s hard for me to imagine Webber alone overpowering Sean.

  I kick with my leg, thrashing. Even though my wrists are
pinned at my sides, I don’t give up. At this point, getting one good kick at this gorilla would at least make me feel better.

  He slams one ham-sized hand down over my knee, forcing my leg flat so he can tighten the strap around my ankle. I cry out, arching off the lounger against the pain.

  Pollock murmurs without looking up from his phone, “I’d advise you not to resist. You don’t want him to break your leg.”

  “You can’t do this . . . to me,” I pant, my head falling back on the cushioned headrest.

  He shakes his head. “Apparently, we can.” He looks up from his phone, his expression annoyed. “Haven’t you followed the news lately? The Wainwright Agency is about to go federal. We’ll be in every state and not merely to identify and monitor. We’re going to be bigger than the CIA. The police will be under us, following our command. Mark my words, there will be carrier prisons in every state.”

  I sag against my seat. “I haven’t done anything,” I grit between my teeth.

  “No? You viciously assaulted a young man. I have eyewitness testimonies. I would say that behavior has all the markings of a carrier lacking control. I’m not going to have you walk into school with a gun one day. Not on my watch—”

  “I wouldn’t do that!”

  “The Indianapolis Shooter had HTS. Looked as normal as can be. Played the cello, I believe.”

  The door opens and a man in blue scrubs steps inside. His arms are decorated in various tattoos. His neck, however, is unmarred, the skin tan and smooth, pristine. Bare of ink.

  “Gentlemen,” he greets with a nod. He gives me the barest glance before moving to the sink and quickly washing his hands, his movements brisk and efficient. Without looking at me, he comments, “I don’t get too many females in here.”

  As though I’m not even human. Just a female. An animal before him.

  “Trust me, she’s a carrier.”

  He turns, wiping his hands with a paper towel. “Oh, I have no doubt. Just commenting on the rarity. She doesn’t look very dangerous.”