Radical (27 page)

I settle against the wall in the far corner away from the door, behind the bed. Grandad’s revolver. I pop the cylinder out and load it with shaking fingers. Bullets fall around me, but I just keep loading.

I hear his steps in the hall. They stop outside the door. Too quiet. He’s listening. I force myself to breathe slowly, try to calm my shaking hands. Snap the cylinder in and ready myself.

“I was just messing with you,” he says through the door. “You hear me?”

Does he think he can pretend that was, what, good times? Kidding around?

“You hear me?”

I aim for the door. First shot has to count. If I miss, I’ll only have maybe one more shot before he’s on me, if he’s crazed. If the first doesn’t stop him.

He rattles the doorknob. It won’t hold. If he wants in, it won’t hold.

I crawl closer to the bed for more cover, up on my knees, steady my arms on the bed. Wait for my shot.

He pushes against the door, not hard, not with force, just testing. He’s testing it.

“Go away,” I shout. I can hear the tears thick in my throat. I wipe my face, clear my throat, and try again. “I have Grandad’s revolver.” I can’t hear him. Creak of the door again. “I swear to God,” I yell. “I’ll shoot you. I will.”

Creaking floorboards, but he’s still there.

I steady myself, breathe, ready.

He backs away from the door, down the hall toward the bathroom. I track him through the wall. He must realize it because he moves fast in the other direction, away from me.

“Get out!” I yell. “Go! Go away!”

I strain to hear him.

His phone rings. Too close. He’s right there!

“Yeah. No, not yet.” He’s moving away across the hall. “She won’t. She won’t! Because I’m handling it. No, my dad or uncle could be home anytime. I said I’m handling it. We don’t need Glenn. We don’t need Glenn! Just . . .”

He stops midsentence, curses, and then kicks the wall. He’s down near Mom and Dad’s room.

Cursing. He’s cursing and muttering, “Not now. Not now. Stay cool.” More cursing. Footsteps, coming back, but not like before. He’s not going to try to break the door down.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says. “But . . . keep your mouth shut. Or else Dad hears about everything.” My pulse thuds in my ears. “Bex . . .”

“Go away!”

“I’m hanging on to the Bobcat and your cash. Consider them hostages. If you keep your mouth shut, you get them back. If not, I give them to Dad. And after that, I tell them about all your lies, the skank you’ve been diddling. They’d never believe you anyway. Especially now that Dad thinks I’m making good money and being all responsible. You’re the liar, the one who likes to blow stuff up and has guns she’s not supposed to have. The defective one. So do us both a favor and keep your mouth shut.”

I try to steady my shaking hands. If he comes through that door . . .

“You hear me? Not a fucking word. You say a word to Dad, to anyone . . . you’ll wish you were never born.”

I wait until I hear his feet retreating down the stairs. Wait until I hear the truck start. Wait until it has faded away. Wait until I stop shaking. I wait with the gun in my lap.

I wait.

Maybe he was lying about having pictures of Lucy and me. Then it would be his word against mine. When the shaking stops, I dig my phone out of my pocket and delete every reference to Lucy — her number, our texts and e-mails. Anything that could give me away if Mom or Dad takes my phone.

But he’s right. They won’t believe me. They never do. They just believe everything he says. They’ll listen to me even less if he tells them about the Bobcat. And even if they listen, what can I tell them? They’ve seen us fight. They’ll think it’s like all the other times, or I’ll sound out of control. He’ll tell them I threatened to shoot him. Mom will go crazy.

He was scared. That I would tell, or something else? He was angry when I got here. Who was on the phone? Were
they
afraid I would tell something? Who’s Glenn?

He was looking for my cash. Because he needs money? Or was he looking because he wanted to shut me up? And what does he think I know? Or Riggs knows? What does
Riggs
think he knows? Is this all about who’s in charge? There’s money involved, and Zach and his dad could have been rallying people to their side. But . . . could all of this be about ousting Riggs?

My throat hurts where Mark had his arm. No, this isn’t about who leads Clearview. This has to be about more.

I should already know what’s going on. Especially if they’ve been coming here.

But I’ve been distracted.

That ends tonight.

No more distractions.

No more vulnerabilities.

I can’t say anything to anyone until I have some kind of proof. Something to make whatever he tells them irrelevant.

Until I know what the hell is going on, what has him so freaked out, freaked out enough to choke me. Until I know, I can’t let my guard down again.

I won’t let my guard down.

I look at Grandad’s revolver. Feel it in my hand.

So he has the Bobcat.

I have the revolver.

“I’m not going,” I say, pretending I can’t hear Mom’s response and that we haven’t had this argument three times since yesterday. She showed up at dinnertime with grand plans for me and her to go to Hannah’s play together tonight and then stay over in the city.
We can do some shopping on Saturday. Go to brunch on Sunday, and then . . 
. Never mind that I have training Saturday and would rather poke myself with sharp objects than go to Hannah’s play or go shopping with Mom.

I haven’t seen or heard from Mark. I have no idea where Dad and Mom think he is, but I doubt he’s wherever he told them he’d be. His truck, however, is at the station. It was towed there yesterday. I have to get a look inside before he comes and cleans it out.

Thank God Uncle Skip had conscripted me into an extra-early-morning run to pick up a car or I’d probably already be in Mom’s car on the way to Aunt Lorraine’s.

“I’ll be there to pick you up at twelve thirty sharp,” Mom says louder, following me out onto the porch. “Do you hear me?”

“No. Let’s go.” Uncle Skip and Mike will get to work, and then I’ll pull Mark’s truck apart, see if there’s anything in it to point to what the hell’s going on.

“You haven’t seen your cousin in ages,” Mom says, coming across the porch so she’s right next to Uncle Skip’s truck.

“Fine with me.”

“Rebecca Ann Mullin.” Crap. I turn around and face her. “Twelve thirty sharp. End of discussion.”

“Come on, Bex,” Uncle Skip says, distant through the closed truck door.

“Fine,” I say to Mom. I yank the passenger door open, and I’m hit with a mix of coffee, aftershave, and the whiff of oil that always clings to the inside of Uncle Skip’s truck.

“I’ll bring you a change of clothes,” she says, like she’s doing me a favor. Like I plan to be there for her to collect at twelve thirty sharp. I don’t.

“Buckle up,” Uncle Skip says, already in gear as soon as my door is closed.

By Thursday midday, Mark had already talked to Dad and given Dad some cash he said he earned for his insurance and to “help out.” Dad made a big deal about telling Mom at dinner last night, as if it proved that Clearview was paying off. Except that Mark hasn’t been working for Darnell, so that was probably my cash, or he got it some other way. Some way he’s not telling Dad. There has to be something in his mess of a truck that will give me a clue. Something to explain why he was so crazed. I could have shot him. I would have, if he’d tried to break down the door. Normal Mark would never have done any of that. Something, or someone, has him out of control. I need to know what, or who. I need at that truck before he cleans it out.

“Why are we doing this again?” Uncle Skip ignores the question. “Forty-five minutes in the wrong direction, and then back, on a Friday morning, so that . . . why?”

“Courtesy for a longtime customer.”

“And why are you wearing aftershave?” As soon as I say it, I realize why we’re going to pick up a customer’s car. As I watch, Uncle Skip’s face turns red, and then redder. “Hot damn. Why didn’t you say so?”

“Shuddup.”

I fiddle with the radio to find something other than Johnny Cash.

“Is she the one with the hair?” I use my hands to map the imaginary pile of hair on my head. “Or the blonde with the kickass boots?” His jaw tightens. “Those
are
some very nice boots.”

“You could walk, you know. Could let you off any time.”

“But then who would help you pick up your lady friend’s car?” The truck starts to slow. “I was just kidding!”

Uncle Skip is looking in the mirror. I turn and see the lights, two cruisers, flashers going, coming up fast.

Uncle Skip pulls onto the shoulder to let them pass, but they slow, too, one pulling into a spin in front of the truck and the other behind. Then more cars.

“What the —?”

“Get out of the truck!” someone yells.

“What?” I hear myself say, and Uncle Skip has his hands up above the wheel.

The doors of the car in front are flung open, and the cops are behind them, guns drawn, pointed at us.

“Out of the vehicle, now!”

“Hands where we can see them!” a voice from the side says, movement in my peripheral vision, on my side of the car.

“What did you do?” Uncle Skip’s eyes are huge.

“Nothing! I swear. We were just . . .”

I never told Deputy Creep my name. How did they find me? Or is this . . . What’s going on?

“Do what they say,” Uncle Skip says, his hands going higher.

“Keep your hands where we can see them. Out. Now.”

“We’re coming out!” Uncle Skip yells through the open window. “Bex, stay calm. Do whatever they say.”

“Keep your hands in sight!” I can see them inching toward us, guns trained on us. “Reach through the window. Open the door from the outside!”

I start to open the door, but he yells, “From the outside!”

As soon as the door’s partway open, everything happens at once. Shouting. Hands. My backpack is tangled around my leg.

Uncle Skip shouting, “She’s a kid!”

“On the ground!”

“What?”

“On the ground! On the ground!”

I’m shoved down. My backpack is yanked away from me. Hands are pushing me down, pain in my back, arms pulled hard. Kicking my legs wide. Knee in my back. Someone’s hitting Uncle Skip. He’s still yelling, yelling about me. Then he’s not, and there are voices above me, yelling, hands everywhere. Something heavy on my back.

“Clear!”

My hands are pulled lower behind my back and secured. Tight and biting. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

“You’re hurting her,” Uncle Skip yells.

The weight leaves my back, but I’m still on the ground, hands bound. The guys I can see are not deputies. They’re in black, or dark blue. Badges and gear. Windbreakers. FBI. ATF. They’re searching the truck. I turn my head toward the truck. I can see Uncle Skip, facedown on the other side, looking at me.

“It’s okay,” he says.

“Quiet!”

“I’m gonna throw up. I’m gonna —” Puke, in the dirt, under my face, all over. Coughing.

I’m pulled up and toward one of the cars. Dark. Unmarked. Small flashing lights. Someone wipes my face with a towel. I spit to get the taste out of my mouth, and one of the guys from that side advances hard.

“Easy, easy,” the guy who wiped my face says.

“She was just spitting out the vomit.” Another voice, a woman.

Someone holds a bottle of water to my mouth. “Take a sip.” I sip slowly, then turn and spit again, careful not to spit in anyone’s direction. “Another sip?” I swallow this time. “Breathing okay?” I nod.

“What’s —?”

“Quiet,” the guy, the one who wiped my face, says.

They’ve got Uncle Skip up and they’re taking him to the other car.

“How old are you?” the woman, the one with the water, asks.

I don’t answer. Everything I’ve ever read says you don’t say anything. Not even your name. This is how it starts. Like this. I’m gonna be sick again. It’s starting and I’m caught before I could even try to get away.

“ID?” she says, and someone hands her my wallet. From my backpack.

My backpack. Fuck. They’re searching my backpack.

“Rebecca Mullin.” She looks at me. “Sixteen,” she says. She looks at me again, long and hard, then puts me in the car, her hand on the back of my head, guiding me. It’s hard to get in and upright without my hands, and she helps shift me back against the seat. “Agent Malone, sir?”

“What, Washington?” I can’t see him, but he sounds pissed.

“Juvenile,” she says, holding out the wallet.

He walks over and bends down to stare at me, at my face, at my body, and then takes the wallet she handed him and pulls my license out of the cover.

“Menendez!” he shouts. “Over here.”

The door is closed and they talk. The three of them, and then someone else. And then two of them are on cell phones, passing around my license. It still looks like I looked last year, young and stupid, with the long hair. The revolver. Shit, the revolver is in my backpack. I close my eyes. I can’t believe . . . I’m so stupid. My eyes sting. The guys were right, those crazy guys who said never register, never let them take your name. I shouldn’t have let them catalog me.