A Girl Undone (24 page)

“Later, you’re going to tell me everything you know about that.” Helen pressed the switch to reactivate the monitor, and resumed her Sigmund persona. “Do your magic,” he ordered Elancio, and strode out.

Elancio washed and dried my hair, then started fusing the extensions. I faced myself in the mirror, Helen’s voice echoing in my head. “So you did what you had to do to save yourself.”

Helen said she didn’t blame me, but I couldn’t help feeling I hadn’t had to betray Sparrow, that I could have done something differently. But what that was, I had no clue.

Elancio returned his round brush and blow-dryer to their spots in the cabinet. “Are you happy with your look?” he said, peering down his nose as if he dared me to say no.

I shrugged and combed my fingers through my side-swept bangs, and tossed the glistening dark brown hair on my shoulders. The color and cut should have made me look like my old self, but I didn’t.

I’d lost weight, but that wasn’t the reason I looked changed. I had a new look in my eyes: I wasn’t innocent any longer and I knew my survival was a long shot.

Sigmund met me outside the Airstream. He smoothed his aubergine silk tie and kept his voice low as we walked back through the garage. “Streicker’s disappeared. I asked Ho to contact him so we could assess how much damage Luke could inflict if he resurfaced, but everything’s gone. Phone number, bank account, Web site for LFOD Livestock—every trace has been scrubbed clean. It’s like Streicker never existed.”

“I’m not surprised. I bet if somebody went to his house, they’d find it stripped.”

“Yes, he’s probably on a beach in the Maldives luxuriously out of reach of U.S. authorities.”

We headed back in the house to go through my closet and prep for tomorrow’s interview with Evan Steele. Sigmund unzipped three or four garment bags and appraised the contents. “None of these outfits are suitable,” he said. He took out his phone, tapped on the screen, and handed it to me. “What do you think about this dress?”

“Is the room monitored?”
read the screen.

“
Audio only
,” I typed back.

“I think this would convey the image we want for you,” he said as he typed,
“Tomorrow when Steele grills you, you have to blame Maggie.”

I shook my head no. “Yeah, the dress looks great.”

“She would want you to keep the focus on her and take it off others,”
he tapped.

I bit my lip so I wouldn’t tear up.
“Okay.”

“I’ll call the designer,” Sig said. “Have him send over some samples.”

“You’re the boss.”

I realized right then that I needed to give Sigmund the wall hanging. He could keep it safe, and I couldn’t. I slid it out of the drawer.
“Recognize this?”
I typed.

Sigmund ran his fingers over the embroidered branches that connected and crisscrossed the stitch-coded names of one dirty politician to another, linking money, dates, and deals. Yes, he nodded.

I tried to press the hanging into his hands, but he shook his head.
“It’s not the time,”
he typed.

What?

“We need to prep you for your interview,” Sig said, pocketing the phone. “Adam Ho’s waiting.”

I argued with Sig in my head all the way downstairs. He should take the hanging. I could never tell its story. Not after the deals I’d made.

Sig had some mistaken fantasy that I was like his hero Maggie, even though it should have been crystal-clear that unlike her, I wasn’t nearly brave enough to die for what I believed in.

32

The stars were still out when we drove off to the television studio the next morning for my interview with Evan Steele. Jessop, Ho, and I rode in back while Sigmund sat up front with Deeps. I listened to Deeps chat up Sig.

Last night, after Sig had left, I’d overheard Ho tell Deeps, “See if you can find out who in Fletcher’s office sent him.”

“Sure, I’ll give you a full report,” Deeps had promised.

Then this morning when I told Sig what I’d heard, Sig got very still, as if weighing whether to let me in on some big secret. But instead of coming out with it, Sig straightened up and said, “Don’t worry. I’ve got it handled,” which convinced me that Sig was hiding something.

Deeps drove us in from Malibu, after inviting Sig to sit up front. I kept one ear tilted toward them, but all they seemed to be talking about was the Lakers. When we turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Sig asked him if he thought we’d run into any demonstrators.

“I doubt we’ll run into any ‘No on 28’ protesters this early in the morning,” Deeps answered, “but the nav system will alert us.”

I smoothed the skirt of my dress. The second I saw it I thought “smashed window.” Navy tracks crisscrossed the creamy wool as if the designer had photographed broken glass. Then when I put it on, I saw that the dark blue lines radiated from my waist as if a force inside me had shattered the fabric.

Unforgettable was how Sig described it. That was our goal: to dress me so that I was seared in people’s minds. The more visible, the more memorable, I was, the harder it would be for the Paternalists to erase me.

The Love bracelet on my wrist sparkled in the semidark. I spun it nervously. Ho had done the miraculous and gotten Cartier to messenger over a bracelet identical to the one Maggie freed me of in Vegas. This time Ho screwed it on my wrist, and, to my complete surprise, handed me the screwdriver. “Mr. Hawkins would prefer that you not lose this bracelet.”

It was a small victory. I was still a prisoner, but I could remove my forty-thousand-dollar shackle at the end of the day.

We’d gone a few miles on Santa Monica Boulevard when I saw Deeps eye the panic button on the dash. His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I checked over my shoulder. A silver car was right behind us even though the lanes on either side were empty. A second later, the car veered off.

Deeps shrugged.
False alarm.

Dawn was breaking as we approached the studio. Deeps pulled into the turn lane in front. Across the street in the park, hundreds of tents covered the grass, “No on 28” painted on their sides. A crowd of young men were lined up at a food truck topped with a spindly Christmas tree.

“The ‘No on 28’ movement is growing,” Sig said. “You must be nervous about that.”

“It’s problematic,” Ho agreed. “The Paternalist leadership is pushing for states to pass the amendment, but if it fails, it could sink us.”

“Twenty-eight’s a suicide mission,” Jessop muttered, “but the big guns in Washington aren’t giving us much say in the matter.”

I smiled to myself. I hoped the Paternalists went down in flames for trying to take away the legal rights of everyone under twenty-five.

The studio gates were set back from the street behind a wall. Huge posters of the hit shows
Firefight
and
Behemoth
lined the entrance. The guard waved us through, and we were hustled into Studio B.

Sig stood over the makeup man as he worked on me, steering him away from bright pink lipstick, insisting on a more natural look, making sure I didn’t look anything like the blonde the tabloids had mistaken for me.

He made Hawkins take off his tie, and complimented him on choosing a light blue shirt. I realized Hawkins hadn’t slicked back his hair, making him look more human. Impressive that Hawkins had listened to Sig when Hawkins always acted like he thought he was right and everyone else was wrong.

I sat, trying to keep straight my instructions. Sig and Ho had drilled me on questions Steele might ask, and answers that might keep me safe. “Remember,” Sig had told me, “it’s important to look like you’re cooperating.” That and blame everything on Maggie.

Finally, a production assistant tapped me on the shoulder. “We need you on the set, Miss Reveare.”

Ho rushed over. “Steele’s promised no questions about the tabloid story.”

“Good job,” Hawkins said. He offered me his hand, and I took it. Our fates were tied. Time to play my part.

The assistant guided us to the interview couch and miked us up. He placed me center stage between Hawkins and Steele, and I rested my left hand on the arm of the couch as Sig had coached me so the Love bracelet showed. The studio lights turned the symbol of my commitment to Hawkins into a light show.

I felt as if I was watching the scene from outside my body. My blood pulsed in my ears with a loud
swish-swish
like a washing machine.

Off camera, Deeps gave me a thumbs-up. Hawkins rested an arm on the back of the couch and gripped my other hand. His was damp and hot like mine.

Evan Steele settled into his interview chair in his pinstripes and red tie. Steele wasn’t a huge guy, but he looked like he could crush you with his eyes. He frowned through his welcome, and then began to fire questions.

“Why did you run from your Contract, Aveline?”

I recited my answer about Sparrow pushing me to join Exodus. “She didn’t believe in Contracts. She said they exploited girls.”

Hawkins squeezed my hand hard. “But that’s not how you see Contracts now, is it, Aveline?”

It was exactly how I saw them, but that didn’t matter. “Now that I’ve been out in the world, I appreciate how my Contract protects me.”

Hawkins tucked me into his side; my answer had pleased him. Steele held me in his gaze, and my head began to throb as tiny zigzags of light sliced his face.

“Your friend Sparrow connected you with Father Gabriel, the priest who was jailed, pending trial for kidnapping in conjunction with Exodus.”

Steele waited for me to fill the silence as I picked at the couch arm with my fingernail. The truth was those girls Father G had allegedly kidnapped were trying to get to Canada, and he was helping them, but truth didn’t matter. “I’m sorry, but I can’t talk about Father Gabriel since I might have to testify at his trial.”

“You seem anxious about testifying.”

“I am, a little.”

“Then you’ll be relieved to know there won’t be a trial. The Vatican declared Father Gabriel a diplomat yesterday, giving him immunity for his crimes. He was returned to Rome last night.”

Thank God.
I felt the cameras zoom in on my face. “Oh, that’s shocking.”

“Yes,” Steele added, “a clear abuse of diplomatic immunity. But let’s go to what happened after you arrived in Las Vegas. You were installed by Exodus in the escort service operated by Margaret Stanton.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that Margaret Stanton was a spy?”

Maggie spied for the good guys, but that didn’t matter here. “All I knew was she was with Exodus, and she wanted me to play air hockey with her guests.” I heard someone behind the cameras chuckle.

“These were defense contractors who were in from Virginia and Washington, D.C.?”

You jerk. They were congressmen and senators.
“I don’t know what they did. We were just hanging out, partying and having a good time around the foosball table.”

Hawkins whispered in my ear. “You’re doing fine.”

“Did you know that Margaret Stanton stole a computer containing classified defense documents that night?”

“No, I didn’t.” Lies were piling on lies and I couldn’t contradict them. At least none of Maggie’s relatives or friends in Salvation had a TV, and would hear me betray her.

“And your friend Sparrow managed to get a ride to D.C. with one of those contractors.”

“I suppose.” She’d hitched a ride on Air Force Two with Jouvert, but that would never come out.

“According to the administration at Masterson Academy,” he said, “Sparrow was a highly intelligent girl, but showed signs of emotional imbalance.”

I shivered under the hot lights. Sparrow was sick, killing herself the way she did, but I refused to say it here. “Yes, Sparrow was unhappy.”

Steele brought the audience up to speed about how I’d broadcasted the video Sparrow had sent me of her allegedly dousing herself with accelerant on the Capitol steps. I waited for Steele’s next question, rehearsing the lines Ho and Sigmund had given me.

“You must have been shocked,” Steele said, “when you learned that the video she sent you of her suicide was a hoax.”

The floor fell out from under me. Hawkins glanced at Sigmund and Ho, and neither of them had answers, either. “Yes, I was surprised.”

Sparrow had doused herself with gasoline and lit the match, but Evan Steele repeated the government’s fabrication that it was a homeless man protesting joblessness. “We have just learned that Sparrow Currie was Retrieved that day and is currently in a private psychiatric facility in Palm Springs.”

Liar!
I wanted to leap up and scream it so everyone could hear. Hawkins must have sensed it, because he pushed down on my shoulder, keeping me in my seat. “If you find out which one,” I said through almost clenched teeth, “I’d like to send her flowers.”

Evan didn’t even blink, he was so obviously sold on the stories he’d been fed. “We’ll get that information to you after the break. Now, did Margaret Stanton force you to flee with her when federal agents came to arrest her for stealing government secrets?”

“I thought they were Retrievers who realized where I was hiding.”

“When you got to the antigovernment community of Salvation, did Margaret Stanton turn over the stolen defense files?”

“No—not that I know of.” Let Maggie take the blame. Sig had warned me the truth would be perverted, but not like this.

“Salvation had anticipated a government attack for some time, hadn’t they? An underground bunker, stockpiled food and weapons all point to their intent.”

“I’m not sure how to answer that.” Yes, they’d stockpiled food and weapons, but they were peace-loving people who’d lost faith in the government. “But they weren’t expecting Maggie. They didn’t want her there.”

“Not even the son, Luke Stanton?”

I couldn’t let Steele think Luke was Maggie’s accomplice. “Luke hated his mother for abandoning him. He wouldn’t even speak to her.”

“A young man from home, Yates Sandell, joined you in Salvation. The same young man who’s been jailed in conjunction with Father Gabriel.”