Antitype (4 page)

Jacob straightens, zipping and belting back up. One side of his shirt pokes up and out of his pants. Clumps of red curls have broken free of his concrete hair gel. “What the hell, Dec?”

“Don't call me that, and get the hell away from the girl.”

She accepts my hand, allowing me to pull her to safety. A sheer coating of tears shines on her cheeks, and I know I made the right call. He would have raped her had I not come after him.

I wrap my jacket over her shoulders and smile. “Wait outside behind the security station. I'll just be a minute; then I'll escort you home.”

Her smile has a tentative twitch as her eyes move past me to Jacob. A long wave of blond hair has come free of her French twist. “Thank you,” she says, and leaves.

Jacob's smile is wide and friendly and unafraid. His arms fly out, lifted with a shrug. “Come on, Dec. Don't be like that. You know how it—”

I shut him up with a fist to the jaw that shoots pain through my knuckles and up past my wrist. He doubles over, and while he stares at the floor, I shake my hand out, wincing. I don't care about the pain, though. It was worth every throbbing knuckle, and I'd do it again.

Jacob looks up, hand cupping his jaw. Blood leaks from his lower lip. His eyes narrow in a confused way, as if he can't believe I hit him, or doesn't understand why. This reaction only stirs the heat raging in my chest. I take him by the neck and thrust him against a wall. His head knocks hard and he grunts, then grips my forearm.

“Listen to me very carefully,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “If you value your future at all, you won't let me catch you pulling this shit again. You aren't just breaking the law or taking advantage of a powerless girl, but you're fucking with my family's name. And
that
I won't allow.”

Noah

Visiting day.

WTC guards patrol the perimeter wall, plasma pulse rifles angled down across chests padded with protective gear. HK pistols hang from thigh holsters, and black batons swing from loops.

Hannah sits alone at a table surrounded by more tables among a copse of trees meant to shade everyone from the noonday sun. Her long black waves catch on the wind and blow off her slim neck. A few strands stick to her forehead, damp with summer sweat.

I pause some distance away to study her. She leans on the table, running hands through her hair. She's wearing a clean, pressed pant and shirt set that almost swallows her. Gray linen. Five black numbers stamped to a breast pocket. She's lost weight since I last saw her.

My stillness must catch her attention, because she glances over and smiles. A dimple deepens in her left cheek and her eyes shine. She stands to hug me. “Hey, you.”

I kiss her cheek and inhale the sharp scent of eucalyptus and mint. “Hey, bugaboo.”

She reaches up and scratches both sides of my jaw with the stubs of short fingernails. “You need to shave. I itch just looking at you,” she says and laughs. Dark skin rings the underside of her pale blue eyes, stealing the brunt of glee she displays.

“You don't like it?”

She scrunches her nose. “You have such a beautiful face.”

I grin. “‘Beautiful' isn't exactly the look I'm going for.”

She smiles back, her gaze steadily holding mine. “You just missed Aaron. He looks tired.”

“He studies hard,” I say of her older, full brother. “Wants to please Dad.”

Her eyes drop at the mention of our only mutual parent. “How are you? How's Gabe? I haven't seen him in a couple months.”

“Gabe is Gabe, and I'm doing all right. Dad sends his love.”

Her mouth slants downward on one side. “No, he doesn't.” She shrugs. “It's okay that he doesn't.”

I decide against the usual lies. I'm tired of them, to be honest, and she's smart enough to know better. Dad hasn't been to visit her in well over a year despite the monthly visit policy.

We sit on opposite sides of the table. Names, shapes, and numbers are carved into the lined gray metal I've seen a million times. The etchings are familiar, and I don't think anything new has been added since the last time we sat at this particular table.

I trace a finger over a pair of entwined hearts etched on the table. “Where are the girls? I asked—” I look over to find her smiling upward. Just how thin she is seems more pronounced now. Her neck stretched upward like that of a baby bird in search of food. Her bony shoulders could be her flightless wings. I follow her gaze to the leaves fluttering in the treetops.

“What girls?” she asks.

I don't know what should concern me more at the moment. Her devoted attention to foliage, or forgetting she has three younger sisters. I rest my elbows on the table and lean forward, make my voice small and calm. “Hannah?”

Her gaze lowers to meet mine, but detachment lingers in the depths of her eyes. It takes longer than it should for her attention to untether from wherever her mind went so suddenly. “Sorry,” she finally says. “Did you say something?”

“The girls. Where are they?”

She blinks rapidly; then her eyes widen. “Oh. Um. Paige got into a fight with some other girls at breakfast. She won't be here.” She drags her windblown hair over one shoulder and twists the black mane into submission. “Violet and Andrea have a new room mother who doesn't pay much attention to the time. I'm sure they'll be along soon.”

I practically sag in relief at her coherent response. She's fine. Everything's fine. I decide to keep the topic of conversation on the girls. “Don't tell me; Paige started it.”

Hannah grins, deepening her dimple, and rolls her eyes. “Nothing changes.”

“How's Violet?” I worry about the youngest, who has been having nightmares since Dad dropped her off three months ago. She'd been five years old all of two days and is too innocent to understand all this.

“Better. I check on her when I can. We're becoming good friends, her and I.”

I smile. It eases my mind knowing that I have nothing to worry about with her watching out for the younger girls.

“Andrea's been looking out for her, too. It helps that they're so close in age, but I swear she's like a little mother hen. Kisses Vi's bruises and makes sure her shoes are on the right feet. They're both so sweet, Noah. Breaks my heart.”

I would mend it by assuring her that it's almost over if I could. Only a couple more months, and I'll get them safely across the border into the west. Give them all the opportunity to be the women they were meant to be. But Updike warned me a long time ago to keep quiet. I can't trust that the flow of information won't get to the wrong person. The raid on this WTC has to happen without a single hitch.

“Anyway,” she says. “It's show week. Are you and James arguing yet?”

I've come to loathe the term “show week.” Girls staged on the other side of a mirror for potential husbands. It's ridiculous. “Actually, I'm avoiding Dad for the next week. Just in case.”

She chuckles. “You sure you want to skip your appointment this month?”

“There's no appointment. Dad and I have finally come to an agreement. If and when I'm ready to get married, I'm adult enough to handle it on my own.”

She turns her shoulders in a coy way and bats her eyelashes. “You sure you want to wait? I happen to know a couple girls who would be perfect for you.”

“And you happen to know what's perfect for me, do you?”

“Sure. Attractive, of course. Someone who will appreciate your kind heart. Your fierce protectiveness. Someone compassionate and strong and funny.” She preens. “I'd be a great matchmaker if you'd let me.”

I roll my eyes. “If I didn't know better, I'd swear Dad put you up to this.”

“As if he has your best interest at heart.”

“Well, in any case, I'm not ready yet.”

She rests on the table and props her chin in a fist. “Gabriel isn't ready. Neither is Aaron. But you? I haven't gotten that sense in a long time.”

I look away and rub the sudden tension seizing the back of my neck.

“What is it you really want?” she asks.

I can't tell her what I want, because what I want is to look at a woman from across a room and
know
she's the one. And ten seconds later I don't want to have to key in the dollar amount I believe she's worth. What I want is for the woman to look back and give me a sign that I'm not alone in our connection, then let me kiss her until neither of us can breathe.
That
is what I want. And I'd rather be alone with this fairy tale than give in to what's expected.

I straighten and shake my head. “Nothing. I don't want anything.”

A fine line forms between her eyes. “Aren't you lonely?”

“There are always ways to take care of that.” My standard answer exits my mouth on automatic.

“Eww,” she says, then shifts her gaze to my left. Her eyes dart up and down, up and down, as if watching someone, but when I look, there's nothing there. That same distance returns, clouding her eyes.

Shavings of ice collect under my skin, chilling my blood. I reach out and take her hand. “Hannah, are you feeling all right?”

An incredible smile snaps to her face. “Great. You? How's Gabe?”

I walk Hannah back to the main building a few minutes later, where I ask the nearest dorm mother to escort her to a doctor.

I then ask to see the head administrator, a man named Jerome Zimmerman. He's a rotund man, average in height, and heavily lined and gray from years of stress. He looks less than thrilled being pulled away to speak to me, but I don't care about what's convenient for him when something's clearly wrong with my sister.

“Mr.—”

“I've just sent my sister Hannah to the infirmary,” I cut in.

Well, at least he has the decency to look stunned. “Is she hurt?”

I blink. “She's clearly malnourished, and she literally forgot we'd been talking for five minutes. You mean to tell me nobody on your staff has noticed how off she is?”

He holds up his hands, palms toward me. “Mr.—”

“Don't you dare try placating me, Mr. Zimmerman. Yes or no?”

“No, but—”

My finger squares rigidly with his nose, forcing his eyes to cross. “You'll get the best doctors here to care for her, and you'll do it today.”

The man unearths the remains of his backbone and looks me in the eye. “You are not her legal guardian. Therefore, you are in no position to make such a request. Second, the young woman in question is evaluated on a monthly basis, as they all are. Her reports have come back favorable.”

“When was she last evaluated?”

“Last week.”

I'm stunned. Hannah was fine last month, but what I saw today was far from “favorable.”

“Our doctors believe Hannah is perfectly suitable for marriage,” he adds.

My fist connects with his jaw, powered by the rage ripping my sanity up by the roots. Guards have me by the arms and are dragging me away from the bleeding man before I get another shot off.

“That's all you care about, isn't it?” I yell, vainly jerking my arms to get free of the multiple bruising grips. “You're only paid to make sure they get out the door in one piece, so why bother with anything else, right?”

“Get him out of here,” Zimmerman tells the men holding me.

I jerk my arms again. One of the men grunts. “I'm not leaving until I see that Hannah is treated appropriately, and I see that my other sisters are all right.”

His eyes narrow. “I assure you, they're fine. Get him out. Now.”

The men wrestle me another two steps before I grab a doorframe and lock us in place. “I want to see my sisters.”

Zimmerman gives me his back and I'm yanked into the main hall. I try shaking loose of the men, but they don't trust me to leave quietly. Not that I plan to. I drag my feet and jerk at random, hoping to trick one of them into letting me go.

We pass the corridor leading to where I'd been with Hannah. Violet and Andrea are walking inside with a slender, aged woman in a shapeless black-and-white dress. They're desperately innocent at five and seven. They have the same blond mother but so closely resemble our father it's scary. They have long, straight brown hair and Dad's slender, pointed nose. They even share the same amber-colored eyes, the only feature Gabe and I took away from that half of our bloodline.

Andrea runs forward, calling my name, but Violet stops altogether and plops a thumb in her mouth. Her free hand clings to the long skirt of the woman beside her.

I glare at the man to my right, then left. “Let me just say good-bye to them and I'll leave.”

I'm freed in time to kneel and catch Andrea, whose smile puts a shine in her eyes. “You came! I told her you'd be here.”

I smile, forcing back every negative emotion marching through my head. They don't need to see how worried I am. “I can't stay. Something came up, but I'll be back next month.” To Violet, I say, “Come here, baby girl. Brother wants to see how much you've grown.”

She hesitates but strolls forward, her gaze darting to the men hovering behind me.

When both girls are in my arms, I kiss their cheeks and hold them to me in a tight hug. Violet begins crying seconds after.

“Don't cry,” I whisper. “Everything will be okay. Promise.”

 • • • 

Paintings hang on the wood walls of Dad's personal study. More than half of the canvases depict very erect gods or voluptuous fertility goddesses. His mantels hold more of the same in the form of stone and bronze statues.

But not all of his paintings are borderline pornographic, and the work of one particular artist happens to draw my attention every time. I've always loved his vision behind certain constellations and how he managed to show the stars while incorporating the story behind the constellation into the rendering.