Hunted (9 page)

“I will. And I swear on my life, I won’t let anyone know
about you. Mom, Grandpa—I love you—”
Blackness fills my mind. Blood gushes from my nose, some of it down my throat, and I swallow it, choking on the saltiness.

Netta is there, her lilting voice soothing me, her warm hand on my back. She tilts my head forward, pinching my nose. “It’s all right, lass. Breathe through your mouth, now.

Margaret, do you have ice and a cold washcloth for her?” I feel cold against the back of my neck. I’m gagging on my own blood, struggling for air. I spit blood out, then draw in a breath. The flow of blood slows, then stops.

The room comes back into focus. Netta is there beside me, her one brown eye and one blue eye worried and kind.

“Is she all right?” Paul’s mom asks in a hushed voice.

“I’m fine,” I say, and stand to prove it.

The bakery tilts around me, lights piercingly bright.

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Netta steadies me quickly. “Sit down, lass, take it easy.”

“Really, I’m okay.” But it scares me. I’ve always known I get drained if I use my gift too much. Known my eyes become extra sensitive to the light. But nosebleeds?

That’s new.

Paul’s grandfather grabs a bottle of orange juice from the glass-doored fridge and hands it to me. “Drink that. It will help.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“Drink it,” he says firmly. “A little sugar always helps Paul when he’s overextended himself.” I take a gulp of the sweet juice, then another. I feel less shaky now. The lights are still too bright, my eyes burning fiercely, but I talk past the pain, grateful for my dark glasses. “Listen, you heard what Paul said. You need to leave. Get yourselves safe. Who knows, maybe you’ll find another telepath who can connect you.” Paul’s mom rushes over and hugs me tight. “Thank you,” she whispers hoarsely. “God bless you.” She turns to Netta. “I have a duffel bag packed just for this. I’ll go get it.”

Netta squeezes my shoulder. “Thank you, lass—you did a good thing here.”

“Where are you settled? Do you still need help? John
said—”

“Don’t tell anyone you saw me today,”
I send, impul-sively.
“Don’t even tell John. Okay? It’s important.”
Netta looks at me uncertainly, but I know she senses my urgency.
“All right, lass, you have my word.
” 112

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I don’t know why I said that. I just know there’s been too many near misses lately, and I need to keep my where-abouts as secret as possible. And I don’t want Daniel to get mad at me for putting myself at risk.

Paul’s grandfather stands before me, looking at me gravely. He clasps my hand in his warm, dry ones. “Thank you for what you did for Paul and his mother. I pray you stay safe.” He turns to Netta. “I’m ready.” They carry his box out to the car together, then Mrs.

Barrett’s duffel bag.

I watch them drive away, my body heavy with sadness.

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CHAPTER 12

The motel owner is at the window again, watching everyone pass by. Her gaze narrows when she sees me.

Maybe we shouldn’t have come here. I take a deep breath and open the door.

“What’s wrong with your nose?” the woman asks sharply.

I wipe at my nose. The blood is dry and crusted.

“Nosebleed.”

“Someone hit you or something?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just get nosebleeds sometimes. It’s no big deal.”

. . . she’s hiding something, I just know she is . . .

“My brother used to get them all the time, too,” I say.

And I realize, with a jolt, that he did.

“Your brother?” The woman leans forward, her nostrils flaring like she’s caught the scent of a secret. “Why isn’t he with you?”
. . . bet anything they’re visiting him in
Para-jail. And Paras run in the family . . .

I lick my dry lips. “I don’t know where he is. He ran 114

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away years ago.” Half truths are always more believable than lies—and they’re easier to remember.

“Huh,” the woman says.

I heft my backpack. “I’ve got a lot of homework to catch up on.” I turn toward the elevator, and she lets me go.

e

Mom knows there’s something wrong as soon as she gets in the door. Her mind may be closed off from mine, but her intuition is still strong.

“Caitlyn—what happened?” she asks, dropping her grocery bags and coming to sit with me in the dim light of the motel room.

I struggle to keep my face still, to not show her how much I hurt—over Paul and his mom and his grandfather.

Over Alex. Over Rachel’s dad, and all those kids cheering in the hallways. I don’t want her to talk about leaving again.

Mom smooths my hair back from my head, then tucks her hand into mine. I am startled, as always, by the lack of anything there—no thoughts, no emotions, not even what I’d sense from a Normal, just the warmth and soft strength of her hand. Usually it makes me feel more alone, but tonight I find it soothing.

She’ll find out about the arrest soon enough. It will be on TV, and all the newsfeeds, websites, and radio shows. I lick my dry lips. “A Paranormal was arrested at my school today. Another student.”

Mom’s hand tightens on mine. “Did you see it happen?”

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“No—but the principal announced it to the whole school. He’s giving us a half day off Monday—to celebrate.”

“That sicko!” Mom mutters. She shakes her head, her lips tightening in on themselves the way they do when she needs to cry. “Oh, that poor boy. His poor family. I wish there was some way we could help.”

“If it’d been me . . . ,” I say, my voice breaking on the words.

“Caitlyn, honey,” Mom murmurs, pulling me to her.

“It would devastate me. But it wasn’t you. You’re safe.” I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

Mom squeezes me, then lets me go. “How did the others react?”

“Most of the kids started cheering.” Mom frowns. “Of course. That’s typical.”

“But there’s more, Mom. I wasn’t expecting it, but there were a bunch of kids who didn’t cheer. And one actually yelled at the others for not seeing that we have rights.

There’re more Para-haters here, but there’re also more Para-supporters who speak out, more than anywhere else we’ve been.”

“But you’re still worried about something.” At times like this, I wonder if her talent has come back.

I reach for her mind, half hoping—but I meet a steel wall.

I can’t tell her about helping Paul. If he slips my name

. . .

Mom waits. I flash back to Alex’s satisfaction, only a few hours ago, that they’d caught a Para. To his insistence that we’re all murderers.

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“There’s this boy I liked. . . .”

“Oh, Caitlyn,” Mom says, a catch in her voice.

“I liked him. I liked him a lot. He was sweet. And then

. . .” Tears fill my throat.

Mom smooths my hair. “And then he cheered with all the others?”

I nod.

Mom rests her hand on my head. “I know it hurts. But it’s better to face it now, instead of after you’ve fallen for him so hard your heart breaks. You know you could never be with a Normal anyway.”

It didn’t used to be like this. Back before the riots, Mom used to tell me I could be with anyone—whether they were like us or not. I shrug away from her. “You used to say that all that mattered is that we love and accept each other.”

Mom sighs heavily. “I used to believe that. Used to believe that our differences didn’t matter. But that was before the riots. Before your dad was killed,” Mom says, her voice deepening. “You know he started the peace talks. I’m sure that’s why he was murdered.” Mom rubs her cheek. “He was a hero, Cait. And he loved you very much.” I clench my hands together like a prayer. “I know.” Mom gently unpries my fingers. “All I’m saying is—

your heart is important, but so is your head. If you see there’s danger, don’t walk into it.” What would she do if she knew about my blog? If she knew that Daniel was back—but enslaved to the government?

I’ve got to tell her. But I can’t.

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e

Alex phones my cell five times on Saturday, and ten on Sunday, but I ignore his calls. I can’t stop hearing him say that Paul might have killed someone. Fun loving, brave, kind Paul. And I can’t stop thinking that it could have been me.

Monday afternoon, Alex is waiting for me on the sidewalk outside school. I straighten my shoulders, lift my head higher, and march past him.

“Caitlyn, wait!”

“What is it?” I ask without turning around. I can’t stand to look at him.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?”

I shrug, turning to face him.

“I don’t know if it’s the Para thing that got to you . . . ,” he says.

I stare at him stonily.

“Or if I did something, but whatever it is, talk to me!

We can work it out.”

No, we can’t. Not ever.

Alex takes a step toward me. “It’s the Para thing, isn’t it? Listen, I’ve been thinking about it—you were right. If they were doing this to blacks or to Jews, it’d be a crime.

It’s just—we weren’t a threat to the human race.”

“Who says Paras are?”

He’s trying, I know he is, but it’s not enough. I turn away.

“Caitlyn!” Alex grabs my arm. “Look—I never thought about it much before. Of course Paras shouldn’t be 118

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dragged off like criminals, or like slaves, the way my people once were. No one should. My dad—he used to say Paras caused all his problems—made him lose his job, drink, and hit my mom—but I can see now that’s just an excuse. I was wrong to believe it.”
. . . I’m not like Dad. Am
I? . . . blaming everyone else, hating them . . . god, is that
what she sees in me? . . .

“You’re not your dad, Alex. It sounds like hate drove him—hate and lies and excuses. But thinking all Paras are dangerous or evil when you’ve never even met one, never even talked to one—that’s bigotry.” Alex flushes. He looks down at his shoes, swallowing, then back up at me, his eyes bright.
. . . try so hard to be a
good person . . . is she right? . . .

“I think . . . you might be right,” Alex says slowly.

Shame fills him, spreading out hotly toward me.

“It’s not your fault,” I say softly. “The schools, the ads, the government—they all say the same thing, that Paras are dangerous. That Paras are a threat. It’s hard to think past the garbage that’s spewed at us all the time, especially when no one around us challenges it.”

“God,” Alex says and rubs his face with both hands.

“This is huge, you know? This is really messing with my mind, that I might have been bigoted, exactly the way people are with me. . . .”

His pain rips into my chest. I pull him to me and hug him hard. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay. Just try and change how you think about it.”

Alex shakes his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I see the gun—Alex cowering with his momma, so 119

Cheryl Rainfield

scared he’s peed his pants, his toy truck forgotten on the floor, and his momma’s arms wrapped around him tight.

“It’s okay, baby,” she tells him.

His daddy stands there, swaying, the gun pointed at his mom.

“I’m gonna kill you, you bitch! You and that brat of yours. Looking at me like that, judging me, all because some Para shit cost me my job. . . .” Alex can smell the booze on his daddy’s breath, can feel his momma’s hitched breathing.

“Don’t do this, Tom,” she cries, but his daddy pulls the trigger and his momma jerks back away from him, blood spattering Alex. Then his daddy turns the gun toward Alex, his hand wobbling. Alex looks up at him mutely, waiting, frozen in fear. And then his dad turns the gun on himself.

The gun goes off again and his dad falls hard to the floor, part of his head gone, pulpy blood spattering everywhere.

But Alex doesn’t look at him, won’t look at him; instead, he scrabbles toward his groaning momma, the blood spreading across her shirt.

“Call 911, baby.”

And he does.

Now, in my arms, Alex shudders. “Everything I’ve done—I’ve tried to be the opposite of my dad.”
. . . never
getting serious about anyone, not getting involved, not until
you, never drinking, holding myself in tight . . . but god, I’m
just like him, hating others . . .

“You
are
the opposite,” I say. I send him love, all the love I feel for him, and for the little scared boy that he was.

I wipe the tears from his cheeks. “You’re gentle and sweet, 120

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and you stand up for other people. I don’t see you hating anyone. Maybe you were just . . . not thinking about what you were parroting, or that it could hurt someone. But I didn’t feel you hating—not like most Para-haters. You’re not your dad, Alex. You’re
you
.” Alex laughs self-consciously, then pulls away. “Thank you.” He touches my cheek softly, a sweet caress.

“Caitlyn!” Rachel calls, running toward us. “Have you seen it yet?”

“Seen what?” I ask, turning to her.

Rachel comes panting up. She raises her eyebrow, looking back and forth between Alex and me.
. . . should I
wait? . . .

“It’s okay, Rachel—whatever it is, you can tell us both.”

Rachel looks at me doubtfully, but she presses a button on her cell phone and hands it over. I watch the video clip, my body growing cold. Alex leans over my shoulder to watch.

“Yes, Stacey, that’s right. A group of Paras held up the First National Bank today, getting away with more than twenty million in cash,” the announcer says, her voice so bright it’s as if she isn’t connecting to what she’s saying.

She stands in front of the bank, yellow police tape flapping in the wind. “One robber threatened to squeeze everyone’s heart shut with telekinesis if anyone made a move. The robbers left behind this note—‘In support of Teen Para.

Change is coming!’ Apparently it’s an exposé blog written by an anonymous teen Para, chronicling her life on the run—”

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I can’t breathe. Someone’s trying to bring my blog down and destroy everything I’ve worked for—all the goodwill and understanding I’ve tried to create between Normals and Paras. It feels pointed, like someone’s got it in for
me
, not just for any Para. But why would someone target me?

“It’s crazy,” Rachel says. “Why would a Para do this?”

“A Para wouldn’t,” I say slowly.

“Because that would make everyone think they’re as bad as everyone says they are?” Alex asks tentatively.

“Oooh—loverboy’s been boning up on Para-rights!” Rachel says.

Alex and I both flush.

I grip the phone. The ParaTroopers found us too quickly the last few months. Somehow this robbery feels connected. Uneasiness shifts in my stomach as I think about how I let Netta know I’m here. But her concern for Paul’s family, and for me, was real.

I hand Rachel her phone and pull out my own.

I have to get on my blog, deny any involvement—

again—in a crime. But how long are people going to keep giving me the benefit of the doubt? I have to find out who’s doing this and stop them.

I do a YouTube search on the heist. Two thousand hits come back—and it can’t have been very long since this happened. “It’s gone viral,” I say.

“Yeah,” Rachel says quietly. I know she’s worried about her dad. Her brother. Herself.

I click on one of the links and watch a different re-122

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porter tell the same story, blaming my blog with fervor and reminding Normals to turn us in.

“This is a setup,” I say grimly. “It has to be. It’s capitalizing on people’s fears—and it’s so close to Para Cleansing Day. That can’t be a coincidence.” Rachel looks at me, startled, and I know I sounded too definite.

Alex watches us both silently.

“I mean, you said it yourself,” I say. “It doesn’t make sense for a Para to have done this, and so publicly. It’s only going to make Normals hate them more.” And I still have no clue who’s behind this. Who’s setting me—and every Para—up.

I want to ditch school, go to the bank that was robbed, and try to figure this out. That’s what someone would do in a movie. But this isn’t a movie and I know it’d be too dangerous.

“This really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Alex says quietly. “People spreading hate.”

“Yeah, it does,” I say.

“You’re amazing,” Alex says, admiration in his voice.

Rachel harrumphs.

“You both are!” Alex says quickly.

Rachel rolls her eyes and I have to stifle a laugh.

I itch to research this more, but I have to keep to my routine, blend in. I check my watch. “Got to get back inside.

Don’t want to miss class.”

I trudge up the school steps, Alex and Rachel beside me. Rachel glares at Alex like he’s got an offensive smell.

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“Oh, crap,” Alex says, his face tight. “I forgot to study for my test next period—” He touches my hand. “We okay?”