Hunted (8 page)

HUNTED

centrate on not vomiting. That’d be a real giveaway. Sometimes humans are so inhumane.

But not everyone is cheering. Rachel has gone still and quiet beside me, and there are a few others who are looking at the jubilant crowd with dismay. I dart my gaze around, barely touching on the others. Maybe ten out of the forty or fifty aren’t hooting like crazed animals. That’s a lot more than I expected.

Alex claps my shoulder. “My god, that’s going to be a real hit for the basketball team,” he yells. “I’ll bet his team-mates are freaking out right now. They were playing with a Para! A freakin’ Para. He could’ve killed them.” I wrench away, afraid I really will vomit now.

“Becca’s a real bitch,” Alex yells over the noise of the cheering, shouting students. “But she sure knows how to sniff ’em out.”

I shudder. How could I have thought he was special?

How could I have even thought about trusting him? He’s just like all the rest.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks, leaning closer and shouting so I can hear him.

“You’re talking about Paul like he isn’t a person,” I shout back. “Sure, he’s a Para—but he’s human, too. And how do you know he’s actually dangerous? Using telekinesis in basketball doesn’t sound dangerous to me. Unethical, maybe, but not dangerous.”

Alex squints at me like my words are too bright. “I can’t believe you’d say that! Another Para off the streets makes for a safer world.”

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“Oh, use your head!” Rachel shouts, her cheeks dark with emotion. “How would you like it if the government started rounding up all the blacks? Or the queers? Or the Jews?”

“It’s not the same!” Alex says, stepping back. “We didn’t go around hurting anyone.”

“You don’t know that Paul was, either.” Alex looks back and forth between us, his forehead crinkling. He looks around, and lowers his voice. “What are you, Para-lovers? You can’t trust a Para!” I can’t believe I was ever drawn to Alex. Can’t believe I let down my guard as much as I did with him. “How do you know? Have
you
ever even talked with a Para?”

“I don’t have to.”

“You’re so stupid!” Rachel yells, spit flying from her mouth. “Haven’t you read
Teen Para
?” My blog—she’s read my blog!

“Why are you coming on so strong about this?” Alex says.

“Because I don’t like persecuting people!” Rachel snaps.

The others are still cheering, a teacher smiling be-nignly over them. My chest aches. I can’t stand it in here anymore.

“Come on, Rachel,” I say. “Let’s go.” Alex reaches out toward me. “Caitlyn—” I ignore him, my heart closed tight as a rusted-shut window.

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Rachel tucks her arm into mine and I see her father again, gray-faced, going out to meet the men in black uniforms with red stripes down their sides.

Rachel pushes open the door and I turn back. Alex is standing there, arms dangling.

I walk away.

101

CHAPTER 11

We head to the grill. Rachel’s hands are shaking so badly, she can’t pick up her glass without sloshing her carrot juice. She lowers her head, her hair falling like a veil in front of her face.

“Rachel—what you said back there—”

“It was nothing! Just forget it. It was stupid,” Rachel says, throwing the words at me.

“No—it was
wonderful
.”

Rachel lifts her head and stares at me through her hair.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispers. She clenches her hands together, her knuckles white, her thumbs deep red.

“Rachel,” I say slowly, though I already know the answer. “Rachel, do you know someone who’s a Para?” Rachel looks down at the table like it’s the one talking to her, not me.

“Rachel,” I say softly.
“Look at me.”
She jerks her head up, hair whipping back.

I casually tent my hands together so that I make the letter P.

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Rachel looks at me blankly.

My mouth goes dry as sand. She doesn’t know the sign.

I suck my lip inward, ripping at the skin with my teeth.

I haven’t given anything away yet. Not really. She wasn’t looking at me when I sent to her. But if she’s not in the Underground . . .

I lean forward. “Rachel—I know you don’t know me, not yet, but I believe in what you said back there. If you know someone who’s a Para, they’re lucky to have you.” Rachel swipes at her eyes. “Some people in our neigh-borhood still remember. It’s not like it’s a secret. He’s registered.” She blows out her breath shakily, then looks at me, her eyes bright and intense. “My dad . . . he’s a very low-level clairvoyant. You know, he can tell you who’s going to phone a minute before they do, that sort of thing. Nothing big. But when it became law, he registered.” Pain tightens her face. “The government took him away, even though he’s so low level he’s practically useless to them. Most of the time they just treat him like a lab rat, studying his brain, trying to see how his talent works. We’ve hardly seen him the last ten years—not even on holidays.

When they do let him visit, he’s monitored like a criminal.

That’s how they treat him—my dad, who still believes in the government, even after all they’ve done to him.” She sniffs. “They take me and my brother in for test-ing every year—but neither of us have shown any signs of our dad’s talent, thank god.”

“They shouldn’t be able to take him away from you like that,” I say. I can feel my secret sitting inside my throat, 103

Cheryl Rainfield

bursting to get out.
She
trusted me. True, her father’s registered; it’s public record, anyone can look it up. But she didn’t have to tell me. And she doesn’t exactly seem pro-government.

No. I can’t risk it.

I sit on my hands. I can’t put Mom and me in danger like that. “You must miss him so much.” Rachel half sobs. “It’s like he abandoned us. Only I know he never meant to. And Ben—” She twists her hands.

“Ben’s so afraid they’ll take him, too, even if he never develops a gift, that he’s afraid to even dream, to plan a life for himself, only to have them take it away from him, too. I know they’re trying to protect us, but sometimes I think they hurt us more.” She claps her hand over her mouth, looking around furtively.

“It’s okay,” I say, knowing how useless that sounds, how little words can mean without the emotional truth, the sureness of mind-to-mind connection. “I won’t tell anyone what you said, I promise. I’ll swear it on any oath you want.”

Rachel wipes her cheek and gives me a small smile. “I knew you were one of us.”

The hair rises on the back of my neck. “One of us?”

“A Para-sympathizer,” Rachel whispers, leaning forward. “There’s a lot more of us than the government wants to admit.”

A Normal who supports us—and isn’t even part of the Underground. She’s someone who doesn’t have that added support.

“You are brave,” I say.

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“I have to be. He’s my dad.” Rachel presses her trembling fingers against her lips, smiling as tears drip from her chin. She’s made herself vulnerable to me—incredibly so.

I want to offer her something back. Something to show she was right to trust me.

“My dad was killed in the riots, trying to make peace,” I say, pain splintering through my chest like a cracked bone.

The words are out of my mouth before I’ve thought them through. I tense, waiting for her to see the obvious.

“God, I’m so sorry. He must’ve really cared about people’s rights.”

I swallow. “He did.”

I see him, shouting at Mom and me to get back inside as the people swarm around him with torches, bats, and guns, forcing the unprepared government agents back. Hear him send to us, one last time,
“I love you. Always remember that.”
Watch him lead the mob from our house, getting farther and farther away, until we can’t see him anymore. I feel Daniel and I shuddering in each other’s arms, shuddering with the violence all around us, terrified, and later feel the shriek of pain as Dad’s mind and heart are extin-guished, like they never existed. And then Mom leaving, too; though her body is still alive, she’s as far from me as any Normal. It’s like I’ve lost them both.

“All this hatred is gonna make us one screwed-up generation,” Rachel says.

“Or a stronger one that wants to stop the craziness—

but not with violence because we’ve seen too much of it.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says and reaches for my hand.

I squeeze her hand before I let go. It feels so good, 105

Cheryl Rainfield

talking with her; it’s almost like I have the Underground back. But I can’t trust her like that. No matter what she believes, she’s not the Underground. And even in the Underground, there are traitors.

e

I keep thinking about Paul as I walk back to the motel.

I can’t stop wondering what’s happening to him, thinking how it could have been me.

Why do Normals hate us so much? Why are they so afraid of us, when they’re the ones using violence? Why are they so threatened by anyone who’s different from them?

I think of Paul’s angelic face, his kindness, his bravery in standing up for Paras in class, and I want to weep. It shouldn’t have been him. It shouldn’t have been anyone—

but he stood up for us. He tried to make a difference, while all I do is hide behind my blog. I force back the tears. I
will
join Daniel’s cause. Even if I get tortured for it. I have to take a real stand, not hide in the shadows.

Paul must feel so alone and scared, riding in a van with guards beside him, his wrists cuffed, his ankles shackled. I pray that he wasn’t beaten or raped, that the guards didn’t take their pent-up anger out on him—but I know that they often do. I’ve seen it happen. Felt it. And his family . . . I don’t know what my mom would do if the troopers captured me. Or what I’d do if they took her.

I draw breath deep into my lungs. I’ve got to do something, not just think about him and feel sorry for him. I 106

HUNTED

focus on Paul, reach for that mixture of sauciness and sin-cerity, for that vibrating energy that his telekinesis gives off.

He’s there, but growing fainter, even as I listen—yet still in my reach.

I chew on my lip. I’m taking a crazy risk. If he slips and says my name, even by accident, it could lead the ParaTroopers right to me. But it could have been me. And I’d want someone to do the same for my mom.

“Paul,”
I send.
“Keep safe.”

“What? Er . . . keep strong. . . . Who are you?”

“It’s Caitlyn. From English class.”

“Caitlyn.”
His terror, his grief, are barely controlled.
“I
thought you might be one of us. But I wasn’t sure.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”
I send him calm.
“Paul, listen. Do
you want me to pass on a message to your family?”

“I—”
Cold fear slices through him.
“You’ll warn them
I’ve been taken?”

“I will.”

“All right. They live in a bakery on Lennox Ave. It’s
about four blocks from school—”

“I think I know where that is. Just hang on.”
I’ve

already

memorized

the

streets

around

the

school—a typical safety measure. I turn back, away from the exotic dancers’ club, the billiards and pawn shop, and head north, watching the street signs as I go.

The houses and stores get a little tidier, not so seamy looking. I pass a used bookstore, a craft store, and then a bakery.

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Cheryl Rainfield

The bakery windows are dark, the door half open. I hope I’m not too late.

I swallow, my throat as dry as parchment, and edge into the doorway.

A woman in a flour-blotched apron sits weeping at a table, an older woman beside her talking intently. A white-haired man fastens a box with trembling hands. The younger woman shakes her head, weeping harder, and the older woman leans forward, her voice louder. I recognize her voice. I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s Netta, my Normal contact from the Underground.

I hesitate in the doorway. What if she’s the one who set me up?

“I tell you, we have to get you out of here now. You may not think you care, but a year or three in prison will change that,” Netta says.

“What does my life matter without my son?”

“Margaret, you have to go. You know you do. We talked about this day.”

I grip the door frame, the metal cold beneath my fingers. Netta’s voice is caring, intense—just like her mind-voice. They don’t differ.

“Caitlyn?”
Paul says.
“Are my mom and grandpa still
there? Are they okay?”

“Yes.”

The old man looks up, narrowing his eyes. “We’re closed. Family emergency.”

Netta’s gaze locks on mine. “Shoo, now, child; there’s been a—a death in the family.”

At that, the woman beside her cries harder.

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Netta doesn’t recognize me. But of course she doesn’t. She’s a Normal, and we’ve never “met.” I grip the door frame so hard my fingers ache. Netta’s worry for Paul and his family are genuine. She doesn’t feel like someone who would turn in a Para. But whoever it is, I haven’t sussed them out yet. And I should have, by now.

“I’m Caitlyn,”
I send.
“You were my contact.”

“Caitlyn!”
Netta’s mouth drops open, and she stands.

“I’m right glad to see you, lass! But you shouldn’t be here.

There’s too much danger.”

“Paul wants to give a message to his family.”
Netta’s eyes fill with tears.
“You shouldn’t take that
risk. Though god knows we could use it.”
She sits back down. “Margaret, I tell thee, it’s time to leave. You must go now. You can’t help your boy from prison.”

“I can’t help him free, either!” the woman cries.

I clear my throat. “I know Paul.”

The old man stands up, his gnarled hands clenching and unclenching. “Get out of here! Get out!” he yells, his neck and face reddening like he’s been burned.

“Keep safe,” I say, and make a small P with my thumb and index finger.

The old man sags back into his chair. “Sorry,” he mutters.

I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I should have started with that.”

“What’s happening?”
Paul interrupts.
“Caitlyn?”

“Your mom and grandpa are still here. But they won’t
leave.”

109

Cheryl Rainfield

“Tell them I love them. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them—”
Paul’s thoughts grow fainter. He must be getting farther away. Farther than I’m used to reaching. I clench my fists, panting with the effort.
“Tell them yourself.”

“Mrs. Barrett—Paul wants to tell you something.”

“Paul!” Mrs. Barrett staggers up, looking around wildly. “Is he here?”

“No, I—I’m a telepath.”

Paul’s mom covers her face with her hands. Paul’s grandfather looks at me with strained hope.

“Paul—your mother won’t leave, and if she doesn’t,
the troopers will take her to jail, her and your grandpa
both. You know they will.”

“Okay,”
Paul sends.
“Tell them—”

“Wait. I’m going to try something.”
I focus on the thread that connects me to Paul, then connect up to Mrs.

Barrett, then her father. My legs feel rubbery.

“Go ahead, Paul,”
I send.

“Mom? Grandpa?”
Paul sends.

“Paul?”
Mrs. Barrett gasps.

“It’s me, Mom. You have to get out of there. Get you
and grandpa safe. I couldn’t stand it if they took you, too.”

“Oh, my love, my son.”

“Promise me, Mom.”
Paul’s mind-voice is firm, even though it’s faint.
“I can get through this easier if I know
you’re safe.”

“I promise,”
Paul’s mom says.
“But Paul . . .”
My legs feel like they’re going to give out. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Paul must be miles 110

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and miles away. And connecting two Normals with a Para at once—it’s more than I’ve ever done. A fluttering sound fills my ears.

“Paul, son”
—his grandfather’s voice is choked—
“We
love you so much. We’ll do everything we can to find you. I
don’t know how, but—just hang on. I couldn’t be more
proud of you.”

“I can’t hold the connection open much longer,”
I send.
“Paul—you know the Underground?”

“Yeah.”

“Use the password. Maybe you can reach word to
them—”