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“Catch any AWOLs yesterday?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Usually we just patrol the detention facility, but a kid slated for unwinding went AWOL on our watch. We brought him down, though. Tranq’d him from fifty feet.”
“My, that must have been . . . thrilling.” It’s all Risa can do not to strangle her. Instead she opts for concentrated bleaching solution, rubbing it unevenly into her dark hair after rinsing out the shampoo. That’s when Audrey intercedes, a moment too late to stop her.
“Darlene! What are you doing?” Darlene is Risa’s salon pseudonym. Not her choice, but it works.
“Nothing,” she says innocently. “I just put in some conditioner.”
“That wasn’t conditioner.”
“Oops.”
The Juvie tries to open her eyes, but they still sting too much. “Oops? What kind of Oops?”
“It’s nothing,” Audrey says. “Why don’t I take over from here?”
Risa snaps off her gloves and drops them in the trash. “Guess I’ll go get those doughnuts now.” And she’s gone just as the woman begins to complain about her scalp burning.
• • •
“What were you thinking?”
Risa doesn’t try to explain herself to Audrey, and she knows Audrey really doesn’t expect her to. It’s a motherly question though, and Risa actually appreciates it.
“I was thinking that it’s time for me to go.”
“You don’t have to,” Audrey tells her. “Forget about this morning. We’ll pretend it never happened.”
“No!” It would be so easy for Risa to do that, but being that close to a Juvey-cop—hearing what she had to say, the blatant disregard for the fate of the AWOL they took down—it’s knocked Risa out of this local eddy and given her a vector again. “I need to find whatever’s left of the ADR and do what I can to save kids from cops like the ones we saw this morning.”
Audrey sighs and nods reluctantly, already knowing Risa well enough to know that she can’t be dissuaded.
Now Risa understands her awful recurring dream of the disembodied faces. It is the faces of the unwound that haunt her, forever separated from everything that they were, looming over her in desperate supplication, begging her, if not to avenge them, then to make sure their numbers do not increase. She’s been complacent for too long. She can’t deny their pleas anymore. The mere fact that she’s alive—that she survived—bonds her to their service. And giving a spiteful hairdo to a Juvey-cop, while satisfying to her, does nothing to save anyone from unwinding. Her place is not in Audrey’s salon.
That afternoon Risa says her good-bye, and Audrey insists on stocking Risa up with supplies and money and a sturdy new backpack that has neither hearts nor pandas.
“I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you,” Audrey says, just before she leaves.
“Tell me what?”
“It was just on the news. They announced that your friend Connor is still alive.”
It’s the best news Risa’s gotten in a long time . . . but then she quickly comes to realize the announcement is not a good thing at all. Now that the Juvenile Authority knows he’s alive, they’ll be beating every bush for him.
“Do they have any idea where he is?” Risa asks.
Audrey shakes her head. “No clue. In fact, they think he’s with you.”
If only that were true. But even when Connor shows up in her dreams, he’s not with her. He’s running. He’s always running.
29 • Cam
Lunch with the general and the senator is in the dark recesses of the Wrangler’s Club—perhaps the most expensive, most exclusive restaurant in Washington, DC. Secluded leather booths, each in its own pool of light, and a complete lack of windows gives the illusion that time has been stopped by the importance of one’s conversation. The outside world doesn’t exist when one dines in the Wrangler’s Club.
As Cam and Roberta are walked in by the hostess, he spots faces he thinks he recognizes. Senators or congressmen, perhaps. People he’s seen at the various high-profile galas he’s attended. Or maybe it’s just his imagination. These self-important folk, wheeling and dealing, all begin to look alike after a while. He suspects that the ones he doesn’t recognize are the real power brokers. That’s the way it always is. Lobbyists for surreptitious special interests he couldn’t begin to guess at. Proactive Citizenry does not have a monopoly on secret influence.
“Best foot forward,” Roberta tells Cam as they are led to their booth.
