Mitch turned and looked up the right side of the long building, facing the back of the house. He had made his circuit and found no other entrance.
“Don't be silly,” he called, trying to sound amiable. “I'm looking for my daughter.”
“We don't have parties,” the woman said.
“Mother!” A man slammed open the screen door and stood beside her on the back porch. “Put that damned gun away. There are troopers out front.”
“Caught him,” the woman said. She pointed.
“Come right on up here. Let me see you. You with the troopers?”
“Emergency Action,” Mitch said.
“That's not what he said,” the woman commented, lowering the shotgun.
The man took the gun away from her with a jerk and stepped back into the house. The woman stood staring at Mitch. “You come to get your daughter,” she murmured.
Mitch walked warily around her, then to the left, seeing the headlights of a car and a van at the end of the road behind their old truck.
“Damn it, you've parked all wrong,” the man shouted from inside the house. Mitch heard feet stamping on wooden floors, saw lights go on and off through the rooms, heard the door open on the front porch.
As Mitch came around the corner, a plump, active man in shorts stood on the porch between the pillars, hands up as if surrendering. “What are they up to?” the man muttered.
Mitch's hopes were very low. He could not find Stella without making a lot of noise, and there was no way now he could imagine getting her away from the house even if he carried her. The woods behind the house and across a field looked thick. Bugs were humming and chirping all around him now that the rain had let up. The air smelled dusty and sweet with moisture and wet grass and dirt.
Kaye faced the main road and the newly arrived vehicles. Two men in two-tone gray uniforms got out of the patrol cars and walked toward her. The younger man cast a confused backward glance at the van.
“Did you call us, ma'am?” the older trooper asked. He was large, in his late forties, with a deep but crackling bull voice.
“Our daughter's been kidnapped. She's in there,” Kaye said.
“In the house?”
“We just got here. She called us and told us where to find her.”
The troopers regarded each other briefly, faces professionally blank, then turned toward the two figures emerging from the van: a tall, cadaverous male in a shiny black jumpsuit and a stocky female in plastic isolation whites. They slipped on gloves and face masks and approached the troopers.
“This is our jurisdiction, officers,” the thin man said. “We're federal.”
“We have a kidnapping complaint,” the older trooper said.
“Ma'am, what's your business here?” the woman asked Kaye.
“Show me your ID,” Kaye demanded.
“Look at the damned van. They aren't cheap, you know,” said the thin man in the black jumpsuit, his voice haughty. “You the mother?”
The troopers stood back. The big one scowled at the thin man.
“You are here to pay bounty,” Kaye said, her voice scratchy. “I have no idea how many kids are here, but I know this is not legal. Not in this state.”
The big trooper stood his ground with arms folded. “That true?” he asked the woman in the plastic suit.
“We have jurisdiction. This is federal,” the tall man repeated. “Sherry,” he called out to his partner, “get the office.”
“Maryland plates,” the younger trooper observed.
Kaye studied the big trooper's face. He was red-cheeked and his nose was a swollen network of broken veins, probably from rosacea, but it could also have been drink.
“Why are you outside of your county?” the big trooper asked the pair from the van.
“It's federal; it's official,” the stout little woman said defiantly. “You can't stop us.”
“Take off that damned mask. I can't understand you,” the big trooper said.
“It's policy to leave the mask on, officer,” the woman announced formally. Her outfit rustled and squeaked as she walked. There was an air of disarray about the team that did not inspire confidence. The big trooper's uniform was pressed and fit tightly over a strong frame going to fat. He looked sad and tired, but strong on self-discipline. Kaye thought he looked like an old football player. He was not impressed. He turned his attention back to Kaye. “Who called the state police, ma'am?”
“My husband. Someone snatched our daughter. She's in that house.”
“Are we talkin' about virus children?” the trooper asked softly.
Kaye studied his expression, his dark eyes, the lines around his jowls. “Yes,” she said.
“How long you been living here?” the big trooper asked.
“In Spotsylvania County, almost four years,” Kaye said.
“Hiding out?”
“Living quietly.”
“Yeah,” the trooper said with somber resignation. “I hear that.” He swung around to the Emergency Action team. “You got paperwork?” He waved his hand at his partner. “Check out the house.”
“My husband is armed,” Kaye said, and pointed toward the house. “They kidnapped our child. Please, he won't shoot at you. Let him surrender his gun.”
The big trooper unclipped his pistol with a swift motion of both hands. He squinted at the big pillared house, then saw Mitch and the old woman walking up the side yard.
His partner, younger by at least ten years, stooped and immediately drew his own pistol. “I hate this shit,” he said.
“Let us do our work,” the stout woman demanded. The mask slipped and she looked even more ridiculous.
“I haven't seen any paperwork, and you are out of your jurisdiction,” the big trooper growled, keeping his eyes on the house. “I need to see EMAC documents authorizing this extraction.”
Neither responded at once. “We're filling in for the Spotsylvania County team. They're on another assignment,” the thin man admitted, some of his bravado gone.
“I know the ones,” the big trooper said. He looked sadly at Kaye. “They took my son four years ago. My wife and I haven't seen our boy once, not once, since then. He is in Indiana now, outside Terre Haute.”
“You're brave to still be together,” Kaye said, as if a spark had passed and they understood each other and their troubles.
The big trooper dropped his chin but still watched everyone with beady, alert eyes. “Don't you know it,” he said. He waved his hand at his partner. “William, retrieve the father's little pistol and let's check the house. Let's see what you all have got going here.”
Mitch slung his gun by its trigger guard on his pointing finger and held it high up in the air. He regretted carrying it at all now; he felt foolish, like an actor in a cop show. Still, the thought that Stella was inside the house or the long building or somewhere else on the property made him feel volatile and dangerous. Anything might provoke him, and that was frightening. The intensity of his devotion was like a blowtorch in his head, brilliant and blinding.
It had always been that way. There would never be any escape.
The younger trooper slogged across the wet grass in his boots.
The plump man in shorts finally decided to speak. “How can I help, officer?” he asked.
The younger trooper took Mitch's gun and backed away. “Are you holding children on these premises?” he asked the man in shorts.
“We are,” the man said. “Strays and runaways. We protect them until the truck comes and takes them to where they can be taken care of. Where they belong.”
Mitch looked at the trooper from beneath lowered, bushy brows. He had always possessed what amounted to a single eyebrow over his eyes and with age, the woolly caterpillar of hair had thickened and gone wild. At the best of times, he looked formidable, even a little crazy. “Our daughter is not a runaway,” he said. “She was kidnapped.”
The big trooper approached with Kaye and the two collectors close behind. “Where
are the children?” he asked.
“Round back,” said the man in shorts. “Sir, my name is Fred Trinket. I'm a longtime resident, and my mother has lived here all her life.”
“To hell with that,” the big trooper said. “Show us the kids, now.”
Something whickered over their heads like a big insect. They all looked up.
“Damn,” the younger trooper said, flinching and dropping his shoulders. “Sounds like federal surveillance.”
The big trooper drew himself up and circled his eyes warily around the dark skies. “I do not see a thing,” he said. “Let's go.”
22
LEESBURG
The arrival of the troopers did not please Rachel Browning.
“I think we should alert the Frederick County office,” she said. She blew her nose again. “And let's get the state's attorney general in on this. She'll want to know what her people are up to.”
“There won't be time,” Augustine said. “It's Virginia, Rachel. They don't like the feds telling them what to do. And the situation is highly irregular, even for an official kidnapping.”
Browning tilted her head to one side, jerking her gaze between Augustine and the displays. “I didn't hear what the big guy said.” The Little Bird had backed off about fifty feet and was hovering. Its little fuel cell would be depleted soon, and it would have to return or be retrieved by the command vehicle.
“The trooper said his son was taken,” Augustine told her. “He is not likely to be sympathetic.”
“Shit,” Browning said. “You're happy about this, aren't you?”
Augustine did not smile, but his lips twitched.
“I will not take responsibility,” Browning insisted.
“Your own machines are recording everything,” Augustine said, pointing at the console. “Better whisk Little Bird out of there, and quickly, if you want to escape a district court spanking.”
“You're as culpable as I am,” Browning said.
“I've never authorized bounty,” Augustine reminded her. “That's your division.”
The phone on the desk wheedled.
“Whoops,” Augustine said. “Someone's been tuning in.”
Browning answered. She covered the mouthpiece and looked up desperately at Augustine. “It's the surgeon general,” she said, eyes wide.
Augustine expressed his sympathy with a lift of his brows and a sigh. Then he turned and walked toward the door. The rubber tip of his cane made squeaking noises on the hard floor.
23
SPOTSYLVANIA COUNTY
Fred Trinket gently pushed his mother aside as he led the group around the right side of the house. Mitch hated this place, the plump man in khaki shorts, the collectors. His head was like a balloon filled with gasoline waiting to be torched off.
Kaye felt his anger like heat from a stove. She gripped his arm. If Stella was harmed, in any way, then . . . If their daughter was harmed, then . . .
She could not finish that sequence of thoughts.
“We've fed the runaways a chicken lunch, very nutritious,” Trinket explained. His face was like blotchy marble and he was sweating like a stuck pig. He was beginning to realize the big trooper did not like the way Trinket made money.
Mitch made a jerk in Trinket's direction. Kaye drew him back and squeezed his arm until he winced. He did not object, just looked at the gray, square board face of the long building behind the house, the asphalt shingled roof, the steel door with its tiny window and concrete stoop.
“We keep good, clean facilities,” Trinket said. He had moved ahead of Mitch and Kaye and flanked the big trooper. The younger trooper and the collectors took up the rear. “We've had a number of runaways through here,” Trinket continued, louder now with the distance to the door decreasing, his secret soon to be revealed. “We're a conscientious clearing house. We take good care of them.”
“Shut up,” Kaye demanded.
“Keep your temper, ma'am, please,” the big trooper requested, but his own voice was shaky.
Stella heard the lock in the big steel door and rushed from Elvira's side down the hall to the inner cage gate. She stood there as the lights came on in the first little room, with the boxes, and saw a big man in a leather jacket and a khaki uniform and behind him, Fred Trinket.
Stella smelled Kaye and Mitch almost immediately.
“Mommy,” she said, as if she were three years old again.
“Open that door,” the big trooper ordered Trinket. There were tears on the trooper's cheeks. Stella had not seen many police officers in her life, and she had certainly never seen one cry.
Trinket mumbled and drew the brass key on its string.
“Mommy, she's dead!” Stella cried. “She just died, just right now/ We couldn't do anything!” Her voice split and she spoke in two high-pitched, singing, weirdly beautiful streams, as if two young girls stood by the mesh gate, one inside the other. Kaye could not understand, but her heart almost exploded with joy and grief.
“Open it now!” Kaye shouted, pushing through. Her fingernails raked Fred Trinket's cheek. He recoiled, dropped the key and squealed in protest.
Kaye tried to reach Stella through the mesh. The distance between the two doors separated them.
“Lord almighty,” the younger trooper said. Mitch scooped up Trinket's key and tossed it to Kaye, then grabbed the man and held him. The big trooper stood back. Kaye opened the mesh gate and then the inner gate and grabbed Stella.
“Get the others,” Stella said.
“How many?” the big trooper asked Trinket.
“Five,” Trinket said.
“Sir, it's our duty to assemble and transport all virus children,” the stocky collector asserted, shouldering into the first room. Her tall, thin colleague remained outside, staring at the ground, the steps, anything but what was happening within the long building.
Kaye, Mitch, and the big trooper walked down the hall. Stella followed her mother closely. Mitch gave his daughter a squeeze around the shoulders and she hugged him close. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.
Mabel and Kevin sat on the couch. Will stood by Elvira. The television blared an old episode of I Love Lucy. Kaye bent beside the prone girl and examined her, face wrinkling in pity. She saw the bloody crust under the girl's nose, turned her head gently, found more crust behind her ears, felt the lumps under her jaw and in her armpits.
“How long?” Kaye asked Stella.
“Five, six minutes,” Stella said. “She just coughed real bad and lay still.”
Kaye looked over her shoulder at Mitch and the big trooper. Trinket winced but wisely kept quiet.
“Let me see,” the stocky collector said. She knelt briefly beside the girl. Then she pushed to her feet with a whuff of air and a sharp look at the others and stumbled hastily back down the hall.
“Is she sick?” Trinket asked. “Can you help her?”
“What the hell do you care?” the big trooper asked.
Kaye heard the collector calling for the first aid kit. “It's too late,” she murmured.
“You a doctor?” the big trooper asked, bending low over Kaye and the girl on the floor.
“Close enough,” Kaye said.
“Get your daughter out of here,” he said.
“I might help,” Kaye suggested, looking up at the big trooper's jowls, his intense blue eyes.
Mitch let go of Trinket and pulled Stella close.
“Just get her out of here,” the trooper repeated. “We'll take care of this. Go far away. Stay together.”
“Can Will and Kevin and Mabel come?” Stella asked.
Will regarded them all with slit-eyed defiance. Kevin and Mabel focused on the television, their cheeks gold and pink with fear and shame.
“I'm sorry,” Kaye said.
“Mother . . .”
“We have to travel light and fast,” Kaye said. And they might all be sick.
Stella pulled loose from Mitch and ran to Will. She grabbed Will's shoulders and they stared at ea
ch other for several seconds.
Kaye and Mitch watched them, Mitch twitching, Kaye oddly calm and fascinated. She hadn't seen her daughter with another Homo sapiens novus in two years. She was ashamed it had been so long, but ashamed for whom, she could not say. Maybe for the whole troubled human race.
The two separated. Kaye took Stella by the hand and gave her the secret signal that she had taught her daughter years ago, a scrape of her pointing finger across Stella's palm that meant they had to go now, no questions, no hesitation. Stella jerked but followed.
“Remember the woods,” Will sang out. “Woods everywhere. Woods for the whole world.”
As they ran down the asphalt road to the truck, they heard the trooper arguing with Trinket and the collectors. “We don't take kindly to child theft, not in this county.”
He was buying Stella and her parents time.
So was the dead girl.
Mitch drove around the van. The hedge scraped Kaye's door. “We should take them with us, all of them!” she cried, and hugged Stella fiercely. “God, Mitch, we should save them all.”
Mitch did not stop.
24
WASHINGTON, D.C., OHIO
At Dulles, Augustine's limo was flagged through and driven directly to the waiting government jet, its engines idling on the tarmac. As he boarded, an Air Force staff officer handed him a locked attaché case. Augustine asked the attendant for a ginger ale then took his seat midplane, over the wing, and buckled himself in.
He removed an e-sheet from the attaché case and folded the red corner to activate it. A keypad appeared in the lower half. He entered the code of the day and read his briefing from the Emergency Action Special Reconnaissance Office. Interdictions were up 10 percent in the last month, due in large part to Rachel Browning's efforts.
Augustine could no longer bear to watch TV or listen to the radio. So many loud voices shouting lies for their own advantage. America and much of the rest of the world had entered a peculiar state of pathology, outwardly normal, inwardly prone to extraordinary fear and anger: a kind of powder keg madness.