Shock Point (7 page)

The door handle turned. Cassie stepped on the closed knife, covering it with her shoe.

Martha came in. “Okay—strip and then put on your uniform.” She lowered herself heavily into the other chair.

“Strip? You mean like naked?”

Martha rolled her eyes upward. “Of course I mean like naked. Kids come down here with all their drug paraphernalia, their cigarettes, their cell phones—I got to make sure you don’t have anything hidden out.”

Cassie almost jumped when the woman reached forward and pinched the jeans over her hip. Then she saw what Martha held in her hand—the twenty-dollar bill.

“You won’t be needing this here,” she said, and tucked the bill into the U of her top. “Do you have any piercings? Because you can’t wear them here, not even in your ears. The only things you can wear here are a small cross necklace or a watch, at least until you get to Level Four.” She looked speculatively at Cassie’s wrist. “What kind of watch do you have, anyway?”

“Timex.”

Martha grunted, obviously uninterested in Cassie’s thirty-two-dollar watch. Crossing her arms, she settled back. “Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”

Cassie stepped backward out of her mules, careful to leave the right one in the same place, covering the knife. Her fingers fumbled with each button and zipper. Finally she stood naked, shivering despite the heat, while the woman went through the other pockets of her jeans. Finding nothing, she grunted, “You can put your bra and panties back on, then put on one of the uniforms.”

Of the two shirts, she chose the one that had all its buttons. Both pairs of shorts looked worn. Just bending over to put on one pair made Cassie’s bladder throb.

“Can I go to the bathroom, please?” After a beat she added, “Ma’am?”

The old woman sighed heavily. “I guess I can let you use the staff bathroom. But be quick about it.”

Cassie left her shoes where they were, hiding the knife, and followed Martha. She had never been so glad to see a toilet in her life. A minute later, Martha hustled her back into the windowless room. Cassie was slipping her feet into her shoes, planning on leaning down and palming the knife, when the other woman’s hand grabbed the back of her neck. Her heart leapt like a fish.

“Give me those. You won’t be wearing shoes here. Only flip-flops.” Martha handed her some too-big black rubber flip-flops.

Cassie slipped them on. How could she get the knife without the old woman seeing it? She picked up both shoes with one hand, trying to hide the knife with the other. A stinging slap made Cassie drop the knife and fall against the wall. Grunting, Martha bent over to pick up the knife.

“That right there is a Cat. Five. Right there,” Martha said, her breath coming in huffs. “Just wait until I tell Father Gary.”

“What about you taking my money? What would this Father Gary say if I told him that?” Cassie couldn’t believe she had been so bold. She half expected to be slapped again.

Instead, Martha narrowed her eyes, thinking. “Neither of us says nothing, then. And you’ll be thankful once you realize what you missed.” She put her hand on the doorknob. “Father Gary will be here in a while to talk to you.”

It was only after the door clicked closed that Cassie allowed herself to cry without making any noise.

Before she went to bed, Cassie set her alarm for 3:00 A.M., then tucked it under her pillow. When it rang, she quickly fumbled for it, feeling like she hadn’t slept at all. In her dreams she had been running down dark hallways, ducking through shadowy doorways, squeezing herself into impossibly small spaces, trying to hide from pursuers she never saw.

She rolled out of bed and grabbed a small flashlight she had taken from the kitchen junk drawer. Slowly, she turned the handle of her door. As quietly as possible, she walked down the stairs. From behind the master bedroom door, she could hear Rick’s slow, rattling breaths.

As she carefully opened the office door, it let out a long, low creak. Cassie froze, but there was no sound overhead. When she closed the door, she did it more quickly, and this time it stayed silent. She thumbed on the flashlight, then opened the file cabinet and went straight to the C’s.

A sigh escaped her. Cassie hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath until she heard it let go. She had been afraid that Rick had hidden the files. But here was Darren’s, in the same place as before.

She pulled out Darren’s file, put it down on top of the desk. But something looked different. She opened the file up and shined the flashlight over the papers. The permission slip for the Socom trial was gone. She squinted, trying to read Rick’s notes by flashlight. Even though they showed what she thought were the same dates as the ones she and Thatcher had looked at before, there was nothing, absolutely nothing about Darren being given Socom. Instead, Rick just labeled him a paranoid schizophrenic, and worried about his increasing delusions. There was even something that hadn’t been there before—a brief, anguished note about his suicide.

With a sense of dawning horror, Cassie realized that Rick had re-created the truth. Cassie quickly flipped through Carmen’s and Ben’s files, too. Anything about Socom was gone. No study permission slips or mentions in the records.

Her legs felt as weak as cooked spaghetti. She sat down heavily in Rick’s chair. Now she had no proof.

Then she remembered the digital photos on the memory card, the ones she had shown Thatcher. These would have to be enough for the reporter.

On tiptoe, Cassie ran back up the stairs, pulled open the top drawer of her dresser. In the back was the Victoria’s Secret bra, the one she had bought at the mall but hadn’t dared to wear yet. But when she lifted the bra up and probed inside with her finger, she touched only softness. No memory card.

She picked up the other bras and shook them, then flung them on the floor. Moving more frantically, she checked under her panties, and then unballed her socks, and tossed them all on the carpet. She was left looking at the blank wooden bottom of the drawer. The memory card was gone.

Cassie heard a noise, like the softest of chuckles. Dread froze her in place. It was all she could do to look up, but she forced herself to. Rick was standing in the open doorway, watching her.

And he was smiling.

Finally, Cassie heard the lock click open. A man with a ruddy face, glasses, close-cropped white hair, and a potbelly came in. A white edge of beard hugged the boundary of his chin, as if he were trying to draw a line to define it from his neck. Sweat gleamed on his forehead and there were blotches under his arms. Because Martha had said she was waiting for Father Gary, Cassie had half expected some guy in a Roman collar. Instead he wore jeans and a white shirt that looked like it had started the day pressed but had quickly given up.

He said nothing, just stared at Cassie intently. As he sat down, his eyes never left her face. They were only twenty-four inches apart. Reflexively, Cassie tried to edge her chair back, but the legs were already against the wall. She didn’t know where to look, so finally she looked at her clasped hands. Her watch was turned so that the face was on the inside of her wrist. Five minutes passed, seven, thirteen. Occasionally, she would look up into his dark blue eyes, but his face remained without expression. He was close enough that she could smell the sweetness of his aftershave. The fake lime-y smell made her empty stomach roil. Except for the drugged lemonade, it had been nearly twenty-four hours since she had last eaten or drunk anything, and that had been a grande mocha.

After seventeen minutes, he broke the silence. Sitting back in his chair, he folded his arms and said, “I can tell by physiological signs in your eyes that you are using crystal meth.”

Cassie reared back. “What are you talking about?”

“Your pupils,” he said calmly. “Drug use affects your pupils.”

“I don’t care what you think you see in my eyes. I have never used drugs. Never.”

His smile looked like someone had propped up each side of his mouth with a stick. “That, young lady, is the kind of attitude Peaceful Cove will change.”

Even though she knew it was useless, Cassie couldn’t keep herself from talking back. “I don’t even know what crystal meth looks like. My stepfather must have put some in my room.”

He leaned forward until his snapping blue eyes were an inch from her own. “Do you want to go into OP first thing? Do you?”

Cassie came to her senses. She didn’t know what OP was, but it couldn’t be good. “No, sir.” She looked down at her lap.

“Good. Peaceful Cove is designed to get you past your denials, your defenses, your lies. To separate you from the crutches which have allowed you to live your life only for yourself, with no thought for others. You’ll find that the rules here are easy to understand—and easy to obey, once you put your mind to it. You will not leave Peaceful Cove until you are judged to be respectful, polite, and obedient enough to rejoin your family.”

The whole thing seemed unreal. “Isn’t this against the law? How can you hold me here against my will? Don’t I have any rights?”

There was a long silence. He sat staring at her, his eyes skewering her. Finally, Father Gary said softly, “I’ll let that go this time, Cassie, because no one has yet explained the rules to you. Ordinarily I’d have you in OP so fast that your head would spin. And no, it’s not against the law. Your parents signed a contract with Peaceful Cove granting us forty-nine percent custody rights. And don’t even think about running away. We’ve got armed guards and barbed wire and a two-hundred-foot drop over a cliff to stop you from doing that. The people who live in the village outside these gates are all Peaceful Cove employees—and they know that anyone who turns in an escapee gets a year’s salary, on the spot. If you truly want to go home, then buckle down, be respectful, and work your way up to Level Six. Once you complete Level Six, you are free to go home.”

“How long will that take?” After a second, Cassie added, “Sir,” because it seemed prudent.

“That’s right.” He nodded approvingly. “You either call me sir or you call me Father Gary. Because we are a family here. As to how long you stay, it’s entirely up to you. That’s the beauty of the system. It’s not determined by us, but by you.”

“Can I call my mom?”

He slowly shook his head to show she was truly stupid. “Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. No, you cannot. You’re here because your mother doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“That’s not true!”

He just looked at her. She wished she could say or do something to take the fake smile off his face.

“While you are here, you will have no contact with the outside world. Not with your family, not with your friends. There will be no TV, no Internet, no radio, no magazines, no newspapers. We want you to be able to hear us, and to hear yourself, and the only way we can do that is to turn off the noise of the outside world.

“You will be assigned a buddy. Rebecca is a Level Five. You can learn a lot from her. You are a Level One, and you will stay a Level One until you can show us that you’ve learned something. Once you’re a Level Three, you will be allowed to call your parents, in a carefully supervised situation, of course.”

“How long will that take?”

“As long as it needs to take. But you must earn your privileges. So the first thing I would work on, if I were you, is your attitude.”

Cassie ground her teeth together and said nothing.

Father Gary looked at her for a long, long moment. This time she met him, eye to eye. But finally, Cassie was the one who blinked.

“We use a point system to reward positive behavior. Reward—and punishment, if that becomes necessary. There are a few simple rules.” Gary held up one blunt finger. “One. No talking out of group.” He held up another finger. “Two. Pay attention. Three. No newcomers talking to newcomers. Four. Do your own work.”

When her chin bumped against her chest, Cassie realized Father Gary had finished talking and that she had nearly fallen asleep. She was hungry, exhausted, and had never felt more alone in her life. It was then that Cassie realized the truth. Peaceful Cove wasn’t a school. It was a prison. And Rick had locked her up and thrown away the key.

“What did your stepfather say?” Thatcher’s eyes were wide. He and Cassie were standing outside West Portland High, next to a handmade poster that read, “Get your legal addictive stimulants at the student store,” and listed prices for various coffee drinks.

“He just said, ‘Are you looking for something?’ And I swear he was smiling.”

“What did you do?”

“It was totally creepy. I felt like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. Like maybe if I just stayed still long enough, he wouldn’t see me. So I didn’t say or do anything.” Cassie shivered when she thought of how Rick had looked at her, how he had pretended to be sleepy when she could tell that he was really full of himself and his power over her. She touched Thatcher’s elbow. “Since the memory card is gone, I’m hoping you made a copy on your hard drive.”

Thatcher shook his head. “No. I’m sorry, I should have thought to do that. But all I did was open up the file. I didn’t save it to the drive.”

“Can’t you recover it?”

He shook his head slowly. “Even if I could find the alias for it, it wouldn’t let me open it without the original file. Which we don’t have anymore.” His sigh was shaky. “What do we do now? We don’t have anything we can give the reporter. I guess I’ll have to call her and cancel.”

“No.” Cassie grabbed his wrist, then dropped it when two girls walked by and stared at them. “No,” she said more quietly. She had been awake for the rest of the night, thinking of what she could do, of what they could do. And of what might happen if they didn’t do anything. “Not having the files and not having the photos doesn’t change the facts. Three kids killed themselves, and all three of them were on Socom. If we can just convince the reporter to start asking questions, she can still find out the truth for herself. All she would have to do is talk to people in Minor—their friends, their families. Someone
must
know those kids were on Socom.”