“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.”
“I’m not! Please,” I beg. “Don’t do this.”
He frowns, his reddish eyebrows pulling close as he finally looks at me.
“She attacked a boy. Unprovoked—”
I hold his gaze as I appeal to him. “No . . . it wasn’t like that. . . .”
Pollock sighs and stands, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Is this going to be a problem, Andersen? You’re not the only outfit around. We can—”
“No problem,” he quickly replies, snapping his gaze away from mine.
Pollock smiles and sits back down.
Andersen lowers onto a stool. I crane my neck, watching him as he soaks a piece of gauze with some kind of strong-smelling fluid . . . an antiseptic, I guess. I flinch as he wipes down my neck. If there was ever a doubt, it leaves me now. I know what’s coming.
“Please,” I whimper.
He lifts my head and wipes the back of my neck, fanning my hair out of the way.
“The less you resist, the less it will hurt,” he instructs, not meeting my eyes as he maneuvers a white circular device over me. He cracks it open at a joint with a sharp snap and it comes at me like a great set of jaws. “Don’t move.”
And I don’t. I’m frozen in fear. Shock. Both. I’m not sure. Emotions I’ve never felt before wash through me, take over everything, become everything. All that I am.
He locks it around my neck with a click. It’s tight and uncomfortable and I immediately surge against it, gasping, claustrophobic, my airway constricted. Panic drowns me.
The collar bites into my windpipe and I gag. I’m pinned everywhere. Wrists, ankles, and now my throat. I can’t move. Not without pain.
Andersen places a hand on my forehead and lowers his face until it’s just inches from mine. He talks in a low, soothing voice. “Breathe. I know it’s tight, but you can breathe just fine. See? There you go.” His bright blue eyes lock on mine intently. Even though he’s the one doing this to me, I stare into those eyes, sink into the blue, grab at the hint of kindness greedily.
“Good?” he asks.
No! Not good . . .
“I’m going to begin now and if you struggle there will only be more pain. Do you understand?”
I start to nod and then wince at the movement. Tiny pinpricks of pain radiate all over my throat. The sensation is so severe that the discomfort spreads across my shoulders, down my chest, and up into my face.
A hot tear rolls down my cheek and into my hairline. “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t.”
His hand smoothes my forehead. “Shh. I know you’re frightened, but this will go easier if you just calm down. Relax. Don’t fight it. Think of someplace else. . . .”
I take a moment and try to steady my heart rate with deep breaths through my nose. I take his suggestion and try to think of something else, search for the music that’s usually in my head, but I can only think about what’s happening to me.
Andersen flips a few switches and a low humming starts to drone on the air. He applies some goggles to his face and then slides a pair on me.
He fiddles with my collar, making sure it’s positioned to his liking. He brushes back a few errant strands of hair off my neck. “Now this will hurt. I’m not going to lie, but don’t move no matter what. You don’t want a smeared or smudged imprint.”
I don’t want it at all.
I’m not sure it matters whether it’s neat and tidy or smeared. Still, I hold stiffly and stare straight ahead, my gaze flying blindly over the tiles in the ceiling, blurring with tears.
“Easy now. Relax,” he continues to murmur.
There’s a faint clicking sound and then pain. Red-hot.
It slices into my neck and feels like someone is garroting me. For a moment, I think my head is being severed from my shoulders.
The low droning buzz grows louder, thicker. Like a drill. The instant injection of tiny, vibrating ink-filled needles arches my torso up from the chair.
A shrill movie scream spins through the air, and I realize it’s me. The sound is nearly as startling as the sudden pain. I never knew such a sound could exist inside me.
My body forgets his instructions to relax as the ink bleeds into me. Spasms ripple through me as currents of ink are injected from countless tiny needles deep into my flesh.
“Almost done,” Andersen croons. “Just a few more moments.”
His hand on my head bears me down, holds me still as the imprinting is happening, and I go from a girl who can walk the streets like a normal person to a monster recognized by all.
(Agency Interview)
AGENT POLLOCK: So you’re saying she struck you, son?
ZACHARY CLEMENS: Yes, but she was angry. . . . I hurt her . . . said things—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: She was totally out of control. I—I was afraid she was going to turn on me next. You should have seen the look in her eyes.
AGENT POLLOCK: And you, Zachary? Did you fear for your safety, too?
ZACHARY CLEMENS: I wouldn’t say that—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: Well, he’s a guy. He’s bigger. I was very afraid. I thought she was going to hit me, too. I’m still afraid of her and what she might do.
ZACHARY CLEMENS: Tori—
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: What, Zac? You want me to lie? You may not want to say how it really went down, but I can’t pretend. You still want to protect her out of some misplaced sense of loyalty, but I’m trying to protect the world from her.
AGENT POLLOCK: Thank you for your concern, Victoria. I know coming forward can’t be easy.
VICTORIA CHESTERFIELD: You have no idea. She was my best friend. It’s like she died. She was here one moment and now she’s gone. Only I wish she had died. At least others wouldn’t be in danger then.
AGENT POLLOCK: We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. Davina Hamilton won’t hurt anyone else.
FOURTEEN
I HARDLY REMEMBER AFTERWARD. IT’S ALL A BLUR. Movements and words I can’t process.
The collar clicks free. Andersen rubs some kind of ointment on my neck and wraps it with clear plastic and then covers it with gauze. I lose sight of the ceiling as he helps me sit up and gives me two aspirin.
I don’t want to sit up. I just want to sink back down with my eyes closed and never get up. Never open my eyes again.
I watch Andersen’s lips move, catching only a word or two. A phrase. Enough to know that he’s giving me aftercare instructions, but I just can’t process. I just don’t care.
Webber takes my arm and I’m moving, walking, my feet barely skimming the ground.
Soon I’m back in the van.
I don’t bother with the buckle. I slouch to the side and lie on the seat, staring sightlessly at the back of the driver’s side seat, my body limp, my limbs merely appendages that don’t even feel like they belong to me . . . and I dimly wonder if that was aspirin he gave me or something else.
I lift a shaking hand to my throat, touching the soft gauze there. Tears well in my eyes, blurring everything around me, washing my world in water.
I sniff, refusing to cry. At least not until I’m alone in my room. No witnesses. I won’t break down in front of Pollock. It’s strange that I can still cling to pride now. Imprinting should have stripped me of that. I jam my eyes closed and hold them that way for a long while, not opening them again until we’ve stopped in front of my house.
We’re not even to the front door before it opens and Mom charges out. “What happened?” She wraps an arm around me just as my knees give out. She struggles to keep me from falling.
Pollock hands Mom a piece of paper. “Aftercare instructions to avoid infection.”
Mom glances from the paper to me, the whites of her eyes red as she gazes at my neck. “You had no right. . . . You’ll be hearing from my attorney—”
Pollock angles his head sharply, looking up at my mother who’s got at least three inches on him. “Go ahead, Mrs. Hamilton. Waste your time and money. Get your fancy lawyers. They’ll tell you that we had every right under the Wainwright Act. Your ‘angel’ committed assault. The agency is well within its authority to have her imprinted.”