My Soul to Take (16 page)

“You’ve got to see about the revolution.”

Damn you, Sarge. Easy for you to say. You know how I like my peace and quiet
.

Phoenix could almost hear her father laughing at her.
Spoiled-ass brat
, he used to say.

When she flushed the toilet, Phoenix thought she heard Graygirl’s bark again.

In the bathroom doorway, instead of turning back to her bedroom, Phoenix shuffled to the living room, where a night-light shaped like a Victorian gas lamp glowed the color of flame near the arched dining-room doorway. She checked the locks on the front door—all three of them—her lingering habit from Carlos’s long trip to Puerto Rico. The alarm panel assured her with its cool green light. Armed and ready.

Her last stop before the bedroom was the security system’s master control panel. Phoenix had thought the six-screen panel was a hideous addition to the foyer wall when Carlos first had it built, but nowadays she was glad the tiny screens were there; an illusion of control. Each screen showed a different corner of her property: the front door, the back door, the road, the driveway. She looked for coyotes, but didn’t see any.

If she’d gotten up only ten minutes earlier the night Graygirl died, she would have seen that Graygirl had drifted from the kitchen
bed, squeezing her aging haunches through the doggy door to go outside. Phoenix had come too late, when the coyotes were there.

The coyotes were gone now.

Instead, Phoenix saw a white panel truck, hazy in the darkness.

The truck was driving at a good clip despite the bumpy road, so it whizzed past the first camera. Phoenix blinked. For three seconds, she thought the truck had been an illusion like Graygirl’s barking. Then, the truck appeared within view of the next camera, passing the jacaranda trees near their driveway.

There weren’t any headlights
, she realized. Someone who didn’t want to be seen was driving to their doorstep in the middle of the night.

The gate was locked at the end of the driveway, but Phoenix ran back into the hall on the balls of her feet. When she got to her bedroom, she closed the door behind her.

Carlos stirred, always on alert. He sat up this time. “What?” he said.

“There’s a truck outside. Coming up our driveway.”

Carlos vaulted out of the bed. He crouched and went across the room to the curtains, where he peeked through with his head low. “What kind of truck?”

Phoenix hadn’t let herself feel scared until she saw how scared Carlos was.

“A panel truck. White or gray.”

“Mierda!”
Carlos said.

“Could it be repairmen?”

Instead of answering, Carlos threw open the closet. He was only in his boxers, but he didn’t get dressed. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled down an old black touring bag so worn that one of the zippers didn’t work. She hadn’t realized she still had that bag in her closet, much less that it was packed.

Carlos thrust the duffel bag into the center of her chest, and she hugged it tight. The bag wasn’t heavy, but it was bulky. It wasn’t just clothes. Phoenix couldn’t quite see Carlos’s eyes in the dark, but his face was very close to hers. She smelled his fading cologne.

“Get Marcus,” he said.

“What?”

Suddenly, Carlos sounded angry, although his voice stayed close to her ear. “Out back, like we said. I’ll stay at the front door. Hurry and get Marcus.”

Phoenix’s thrashing heart wiped away the fog of sleep. They had a plan they’d laid out carefully since his return from Puerto Rico, and again since the concert. If anyone suspicious ever came to the house, they would steal out the back door to the rear of the property, past the broken wires in the horse fence by the tire swing and down to the Kinseys’ house. If necessary, one of them would take Marcus alone.

If
was now. Phoenix was almost sure she could hear the truck’s engine outside.

No time for pleas, last-minute kisses, or lingering gazes. The bedroom doorknob seemed to fight Carlos, but he flung the door open for her. Phoenix pivoted and ran down the hall, although in her mind it was all for nothing. Just a truck from Pacific Gas and Electric.

Marcus was asleep in bed with both arms wound around his head as if he were trying to shut out a great racket. She shook his shoulder, not worried about being gentle.

“Marcus—it’s time. Let’s go!”

Marcus kicked off his covers and sprang out of bed as if he’d been waiting for her. Children were always prepared to run and hide.

She saw one of his mud-stained gray sneakers, but not the other. The plan hadn’t bargained on a hunt for shoes. Denial peeled away, and Phoenix realized how frightened she was. It was bad enough to be running in the dark, but she couldn’t let him go barefoot. And he was too heavy to carry, which had a bigger price now than nostalgia.

“Help me find your other shoe,” she said. “Hurry, Marcus.”

“What’s taking so long?” Carlos said in the hallway.

“Marcus,
where’s your shoe
?” Phoenix hissed, as if he were hiding it.

Marcus slid under his bed, retrieving a white sneaker, which didn’t match.

“It’s for the wrong foot,” Marcus said.

Carlos stuck his head in the doorway, a shadow. “Go
right now.”

Neither of Marcus’s mismatched shoes was tied when Phoenix
grabbed his hand and pulled him into the hall. Carlos gestured wildly for them, urging them on.

“Come with us,” Phoenix said. That wasn’t in the plan, but she couldn’t help herself.

Carlos shook his head. “No time,” he said. “I’ll catch up.”

But that might not be true. The truck sounded like it was on the front porch, a loud rumbling purr that made Phoenix’s stomach quiver. It didn’t sound like the electric company.

Carlos gave her the barest kiss on the forehead before he veered back to the living room.

We’re too late
, she thought, but she didn’t slow down as she pulled Marcus into the kitchen. Her hip crashed into the corner of the kitchen table in the breakfast nook, but the pain only made her more alert. The deadbolt key was waiting in the lock, exactly where it was supposed to be. The back door opened like a dream.

The cool night air caressed Phoenix’s face. Ahead in the darkness lay the fence.

Freedom. Phoenix’s relief felt like the flying had the night of the concert again.

“Don’t move!”
a man’s voice said, supernaturally loud, impossibly close.

Phoenix’s knees tried to buckle. Her gasp shook her like a blow.

Something tall and pale moved just outside her vision. Marcus wrapped his arms around her waist and let out a scream of raw fright that stabbed her. She didn’t want to look at the pale thing, but she had to.

Sleek, shiny skin the color of the moon. More than six feet tall. A misshapen head.

Phoenix almost joined her son’s scream, until her eyes focused: it was only a man wearing a contamination suit like someone at a nuclear accident. A large plastic mask hid his face. In his hand, at waist level, he held a shiny gun that was much too big.

Marcus felt weightless when Phoenix swung him behind her with one arm.

“Mrs. Harris, I said
don’t move
,” the man said. “Nobody will hurt you or your son.”

Phoenix heard noises from the front of the house. Men were yelling orders to Carlos, and Carlos was arguing. He had his problems, and she had hers. Only two rooms separated them, but they were a million miles apart.

“Then why do you have a gun?” Phoenix said. Her voice surprised her, clear and strong.

“Just a trank gun,” he said. “It’s a precaution.”

A tranquilizer gun. Like they were animals being captured in the wild.

“Point that at my son again, and I’m gonna shove it down your throat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, full of respect. But he didn’t lower his gun. “I need you to slowly put that bag down and put your hands on the counter.”

Do you know who I am?
Phoenix wanted to say. She’d vowed never to utter those diva’s words, but this time the answer was obvious: yes, they knew.

Outside, Phoenix saw the swarm of others wearing identical clothing trampling her squash and tomatoes in the vegetable garden, advancing. Four, five, six. There must have been more than one truck. Someone shone a flashlight into her eyes. Her vision went white.

“Are we under arrest?” Phoenix said. “For what?”

“Mrs. Harris?” the man said again, as if he had not spoken. “I know this is a shock at this hour—but put the bag down.”

If she was under arrest, the law said someone had to tell her. Was this worse than arrest?

Phoenix dropped the bag. She didn’t know what Carlos had packed, but she felt naked as it thumped to her feet. Despite the politeness of courtesy titles and surnames, or her empty threats, these men could do anything they chose to her and her son. Phoenix hadn’t known it was possible to feel so powerless. Pleading words tried to spill from her mouth, but she couldn’t pull her lips apart. She heard herself whimper instead.

“There’s no reason to be afraid, Mrs. Harris,” the man said. “We’re not here to hurt you. We work for the Department of Homeland Security. We want to be sure you’re not sick.”

In the living room, Carlos’s shouts were frantic. He was arguing. Phoenix remembered her father’s stories about black men arguing with armed intruders. They always led to shooting.

“Baby, we’re okay!” Phoenix called out to Carlos. “Don’t worry about us—we’re fine!”

“Phoenix?”
Carlos answered, to be sure it was she.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed at the plastic mask and the gun still trained on her and her son. Phoenix made herself smile so she could borrow some cheer for her voice. Marcus’s father would not be gunned down within his earshot. That family tradition would end with her, even if it meant lying to her husband.

“Yeah, baby,
tranquilo
!” she said. “Nobody’s hurting us! We’re gonna sue their asses! I already sent out the email!”

She almost fooled herself. Marcus’s instincts told him not to call out for Carlos; instead, he locked his arms around Phoenix’s legs more tightly. She held on to the counter to keep from losing her balance. She wasn’t going to fall down and scare Marcus. And she wasn’t going to be shot in front of her son, even with a trank gun.

“Come on, Marcus, let’s put our hands on the counter,” Phoenix said. “You heard what he said. Nobody’s gonna hurt us.”

Marcus was crying, his grip iron. His tears seeped through the thin fabric of the flimsy track pants she slept in. Phoenix couldn’t move him without pulling him away hard.

“He’s seven years old,” Phoenix said, as close as she could bring herself to pleading. How could anyone with the memory of childhood hurt a child?

“Yes, ma’am, I have a daughter that exact age,” the man said. He tried on a more upbeat voice: “Buddy? Stand next to your mom by the counter. I know we look funny to you, but we’re just regular folks wearing big, hot raincoats. Do what your mom says, and you can have one of these nifty suits too. See? It’s got a light inside.”

A dim yellow light went on beyond the plastic. Two eyes stared out at them. Kind eyes.

Marcus straightened, suddenly more fascinated than frightened. The light made him forget the gun. Marcus loosened his grip around her legs and finally let her go.

Phoenix was almost grateful to the man behind the mask, although she knew he was about to take her to a truck and force her away from her home, probably without Carlos. Someone—even this man who claimed to have a seven-year-old daughter—might try to take Marcus from her. That hadn’t happened yet, but it could. Knowing that made Phoenix want to break a wine bottle and wield it like a knife. Knowing that made her see blood on the walls.

But that would lead to shooting, too. She would not make this worse than it had to be.

Phoenix needed to believe the man’s lying eyes.

6:05 a.m.

T
he truck smelled of oil and cleanser. The drive took two hours. Phoenix’s wristphone had been politely confiscated, but she had a good internal clock. The daylight when the truck’s rear door opened only confirmed what she knew: it was dawn, the sky dappled with unpromising gray light.

Marcus had fallen asleep across her lap, and her arms were numb from holding him on the lightly padded bench where they had been strapped side by side. Her shoulder seat belt felt like chains. Marcus moved only when the truck jostled, but Phoenix had decided that she wasn’t going to let Marcus go. As long as she was holding on to Marcus, she could handle the rest. The world wasn’t ending yet. Her knees’ shaking had stopped somewhere north of Paso.

If they were expecting her to cry or break down, they would be disappointed. And anyone who put a hand on Marcus would lose an eye. Her thumbnails were primed to strike.

Making plans helped Phoenix keep her knees from shaking. Carlos had been stolen away before she and Marcus were allowed to leave the house, and she’d never heard a thing. They must have sedated him somehow, or he would have called for her again.

But Carlos is all right
, she told herself when her knees tried to shake.

Phoenix couldn’t wait to call her cousin Gloria and crank up her machinery: press releases, internet blasts, TV. She would buy a home-page spread in
The New York Times
online. She would call
the president and shame him into an apology. “This is gonna come down hard.”

You’ve got to see about the revolution, Phee
.

Phoenix didn’t move after the truck came to a gentle stop and someone pulled open the rear doors. The doors hissed softly on their hinges. Judging by the protective suits, none of the half-dozen people congregated planned to get too close.

They really think we have the killer flu
, she thought. One day, it might be funny.

The two men closest to the door held black semiautomatic rifles with both hands, waiting in disciplined silence. She was at a military facility. She might as well be in another country. A mechanical ramp whirred from the back of the truck with a clang onto the asphalt, and Marcus stirred. She wished she could put off his waking, or change what he was waking to.