The Prey (16 page)

And there lies the answer.

She lays the shawl on the floor and rolls it up tight as though sculpting a snake from clay. Trembling fingers jam the coil beneath the door, and she lights the candle, its flickering glow scattering moonlight.

Thank you, Faith. Thank you, Mom.

They start with the desk. There are dozens of files in the drawers, but just purchase orders, budget plans, and government-issued books.
Building a Strong Republic. What You Can Do For Your Territory. Action Steps to a Better Tomorrow.

“Anything?” he asks.

“Not even close.”

She retrieves the candle and makes her way to a file cabinet, her fingers skipping atop a thick nest of folders. All old correspondence, but nothing explaining the conversation . . . nothing about her father.

When Book joins her, they move to the next drawer. If someone comes in now, there is no disguising the fact that they're up to something. A lit candle. An open file cabinet. A shawl stuffed under the door. Not to mention the fact that there's a Less Than in Camp Freedom. They'd be as good as dead.

Hope's hands push the bottom drawer closed and she sits leaning against the cabinet, legs splayed, consumed by frustration.

“There's nothing here,” she says.

Book sits across from her. “Maybe we already know enough.”

Hope grunts but says nothing. She has yet to tell Book about her father's possible involvement. And why should she? Even if her father did collaborate with Dr. Gallingham in some distant past, she has no reason to believe he ever worked here in Camp Freedom. So why would there be a file on him? And why should she tell Book?

She pushes herself up from the floor and goes to the desk, collapsing in the chair. Her hands cradle her chin. Who was she kidding? What did she really expect to find?

“What do you want to do?” Book asks. “Keep looking?”

Hope gives her head a shake. “There's no point. There's no
time
.” Her eyes dart up to his. “You better get going. I'll meet you back at the barracks.”

When Book makes a move to the window, she rises from the chair. As she does, the sweat from her elbows lifts the leather blotter a fraction of an inch.

Just enough to reveal a corner of a piece of paper.

“Wait,” Hope says. She lifts the blotter and pries the paper free. It's a letter, folded in three. As though picking up a wounded butterfly, her fingers pinch one corner and unfold it. Book rushes to her side and looks over Hope's shoulder. Their gaze is drawn to the signature at the bottom.

Chancellor C. Maddox

Their eyes race across the words.

. . . no choice but to perform extreme and necessary measures . . . ensure the safety of our territory . . . finish the research begun by Dr. Uzair Samadi.

Hope has stopped breathing. Her one hand holds the letter; the other covers her mouth as though stifling a silent scream. It can't be true. It
can't
be. Her father really was involved with all of this? But how? And
why
?

“What?” Book asks.

“Nothing,” Hope lies. “I mean, I just can't believe what it's saying.”

A still bigger surprise is in the letter's final paragraph. Sentences they have to read multiple times to make sure they're reading them correctly. Words that take their breath away . . . and convince them they can't stay at Camp Freedom a moment longer.

A nervous, clammy heat rises from Hope's body and her heart beats so loudly she hears the thudding in her temples. Which is why she doesn't hear the footsteps in the hallway, just outside the door.

“H
OPE,”
I
SAID, AND
pointed to the door.

She heard them, too: the heavy tread of footsteps.

“Brown Shirts,” she said, more to herself than me. Then she whispered fiercely, “Go.”

“No. I'm staying here with—”

“If they find you, they'll kill you. They can't hurt me.” The footsteps became louder. “Hurry!”

There was no talking her out of it. “So where do we meet?” I asked.

Something passed across her face—something I couldn't read. “We don't.”

I reached out a hand but she wouldn't take it.

“Go,”
she said again.

Everything was happening too fast. The footsteps
were nearly to the door and Hope wouldn't take my hand. I didn't want to leave but I had no choice, so I launched myself through the open window, landing hard on the ground outside. Even as I pushed myself to a standing position and started to run, I saw how much distance I had to cover. The opening in the fence was a good fifty yards away. Not close, but I could make it if I hurried.

As I ran, I thought of the expression on Hope's face. What did she mean when she said
We don't
?

The searchlights flicked on with a bass-like
whoompf
. A moment later a siren blared. Gunshots peppered the ground but I was through the fence before they got me. I tore back to the barn. Four Fingers and Argos were there, waiting.

“What's going on?” he said.

“Long story. Come on, quick!”

The three of us took off for the cover of the trees. Behind us we heard the scraping groan of the metal gate. Then the growl of soldiers' vehicles.

The ground was covered in soggy leaves and twice I fell. It didn't help that we were running up a hill in pitch black. On pure mud. It was like one of those dreams where a killer's coming and you're stuck in slow motion. He's getting closer and closer and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it.

We heard a Humvee emerge from the trees and threw
ourselves to the ground, our breath ballooning in front of us. But while Argos and I were able to tuck ourselves behind a boulder, Four Fingers wasn't so lucky. Two jostling beams of light landed right on him.

The Humvee skidded to a stop and out jumped two soldiers. One of the Brown Shirts took the butt of his rifle and smashed it against Four's cheek. Blood and teeth rainbowed through the air, and Four crumpled to the ground.

I fired off a pebble from my slingshot. The projectile missiled through the air, hitting the heavier of the two soldiers just below the eye. He cried out and dropped to the ground, hands covering his face.

The other Brown Shirt, a wiry guy with a severe military crew cut, swung his rifle in my direction and let loose a volley of bullets. They ricocheted off granite. I cowered and pulled Argos into me behind the boulder.

I was loading up my slingshot again when Crew Cut yanked Four to his feet. Blood squirted through a gash on the side of his face. He seemed woozy and limp. The Brown Shirt lifted his rifle and placed the barrel against Four's temple.

“You come out now,” he shouted, “or your friend here gets it.”

I stared through the Y of my weapon. I could still fire. I could release the elastic and hope my rock would down the Brown Shirt before he had a chance to pull
the trigger. I could give it a try.

But one look at Four's cringing face told me how improbable that was.

I lowered my slingshot, pushed myself to a standing position, and began marching to my surrender. I refused to be the cause of another LT's death.

As I eased my way down the slippery hill, another thought hit me: barring some miracle, Hope was completely on her own. There was no way I'd be coming back now.

I
T'S TOO LATE WHEN
Hope sees the round figure of Dr. Gallingham filling the doorway. Guttering candlelight flickers on his piggish face. She fumbles with the letter, sliding it back beneath the blotter.

“It's always nice to see the girls taking initiative and cleaning rooms that don't need cleaning,” Dr. Gallingham says in a snide voice. He wipes his eyes, moisture racing up his handkerchief. He takes in the open window, the swinging blinds.

“I don't suppose someone was here with you?”

Hope doesn't respond. Fear slackens her muscles.

“Okay. Then maybe you'll tell me what you were looking at.”

Again, she doesn't respond. She's half afraid she's
going to empty her bladder right there in Colonel Thorason's chair.

Dr. Gallingham sighs and waddles forward. His sausage fingers pry beneath the blotter for the letter and he examines its contents.

“Ah, this,” he says, as much to himself as Hope.

He returns the letter to its hiding place, studying Hope with rheumy eyes.

“Which aspect of this interests you?” he asks. “The part about your father? Or the final paragraph?”

Hope doesn't speak.

“Or do you think there's something you can do about it?”

When Hope remains silent, Dr. Gallingham lets out a long breath and rests a plump hand on Hope's shoulder. She stiffens.

“Not talking, huh? Well, I'm afraid there's nothing to be done about that letter. Our work here is finished. Or nearly so.”

Heavy footsteps sound in the hall, stopping only when Jutting Chin and Lummox swing themselves into the room, M16s held alert.

“No need for all that,” Dr. Gallingham says in a soothing tone, motioning for the Brown Shirts to lower their weapons.

“We told her not to come in here,” Lummox pants, badly out of breath.

“I'm sure you did. But this one, well, she's rather simple.” He winks a watery eye in their direction.

“That don't excuse her from disobeying an order.”

“Agreed, and I'll see to it she's reprimanded.”

“No disrespect, Doc, but we're under strict orders to report all infractions directly to the colonel.”

For Hope, the silence that follows is nearly unbearable.

“Take a look around,” Dr. Gallingham says. “Does anything look disturbed?”

The two guards sweep the room with their eyes. “No,” Lummox concedes.

“Well then?”

Hope can't believe it. Dr. Gallingham has lied on her behalf. Has saved her from certain punishment.

“We still gotta report it.”

“It's up to you, of course,” Gallingham says, “but as we know, the girl is somewhat simple. It's possible she didn't understand your orders. In which case, you're more at fault than she.”

Lummox and Jutting Chin look as though someone just threw a dead fish at their feet.

“But we didn't—”

“Exactly. You didn't do your job.”

By now the guards have lowered their weapons. “Come along,” Dr. Gallingham says to Hope. “Time you finished your chores and returned to barracks.”

Hope picks up her shawl and shuffles out the door. She returns to her mopping, swiping the floor with wild, frenetic strokes, hands shaking violently. She can't decide which is worse: being sent to Colonel Thorason, or knowing she owes a debt of gratitude to Dr. Gallingham.

“K
EEP THOSE HANDS WHERE
I can see 'em!” the Brown Shirt shouted. He lowered the M16 from Four's temple and aimed it at me. Even in the headlights' weak glare I could see the tension from his muscled arms spilling into the weapon. He needed little incentive to pull the trigger.

“Who are you and where're you from?”

We didn't answer. Crew Cut's face grew red, and a vein throbbed on his neck, thick and purple as an earthworm.

“I asked you a question!”

He swung the butt of his rifle into Four Fingers's stomach, and Four fell with a splat to his knees, eyes wide.

Crew Cut stuck his face within inches of mine. “Well?”

I felt my body go slack, knees buckling.

“We're from Camp Liberty,” I managed. Four Fingers looked at me in surprise, but I didn't care. I couldn't bear to see him get hurt anymore.

“What're you doin' here?”

“We escaped.”

“And made it all this way?”

I nodded. Crew Cut let out a long whistle. “Looks like we just caught us some Less Thans,” he said to the other guard.

His friend forced a smile. A purple welt bulged beneath his eye where my rock had struck him.

Crew Cut leveled his gaze at me. “How many of you escaped?”

“Just us two,” I said, too fast.

Crew Cut narrowed his eyes. “Just you two, huh?” He inched closer. “You should know I don't cotton to liars.”

“I'm not lying. It's just us two. Do you see any others?”

“Just 'cause I don't see 'em don't mean they ain't there.”

“Trust me. It's just us.”

Crew Cut nodded, satisfied. He turned away. Then he pivoted back around and jammed the rifle barrel into my gut. I felt it poking against my ribs.

“I said I don't cotton to liars,” he hissed, spittle splashing my face. “Seems to me we got us a report sayin' somethin' like eight Less Thans escaped from Liberty.”

“I don't know anything about that,” I said, trying to hide the quiver in my voice.

“'Cause it's just you and your pal and this little dog of yours.”

“That's right.”

Crew Cut motioned to the heavyset soldier, who walked over to Argos.

“And what if I told you we'd kill your pooch here if I thought you was lying.”

Heavy Brown Shirt pointed his rifle at Argos's head and my own head began to swim. I couldn't let Argos die, but I couldn't tell them about the other Less Thans either. Crew Cut's eyes drilled into me. The heavy soldier edged his finger on the trigger, just waiting for the command. All color drained from Four's face.

“All right,” I said. “I lied.”

A noxious smile spread across Crew Cut's face. “You oughtn't to've done that,” he said, his breath smelling like a bag of rotten onions. “As I said—”

“I know. You don't cotton to liars.”

If this was in fact my last moment on earth, I didn't want to have to spend it listening to a lecture from the likes of him.

His smile collapsed and he whipped his weapon
around. The butt of it caught me in the chin with a shuddering crack and sent me sprawling. A moment later, I felt the cold circle of the M16's barrel imprinting itself against my temple, and I squeezed my eyes shut. I had no desire to watch the bullet travel the short distance from his rifle to my brain.