The Capture (18 page)

H
OPE AND
S
CYLLA ARE
returning from the kitchen when they see the leader of the hunting party. It's the first time they've laid eyes on him since he escorted them to their trial.

“You go on ahead,” Hope says to her friend. “There's something I need to do.”

Scylla heads off, and Hope pushes herself into shadows. She lets the Skull Person get twenty yards ahead before she begins to follow.

He's an older man, his limbs lean and muscular, and wherever it is he's going, he seems in no hurry. The trail he takes is a winding one, through smaller and smaller tunnels, to a part of the Compound where Hope has never been.

When she emerges from a narrow walkway into the tiniest of chambers, she is surprised to find herself alone. He's not here. No one is.

So where did he go?
she asks herself.
And how could I have lost him?

She pivots in place, gazing down each of the tunnels. All are vacant, shrouded in dark. She kicks at the dirt floor and turns back around to retrace her steps . . .

. . . and runs smack into him.

He grabs her wrist and leans into her. “Why are you following me?” he hisses, his breath hot.

Hope tries to squirm free, but his grip is too strong. “I was just . . . trying to find my way back.”

“You were following me. Why?”

The man may be old, but he is all muscle. His grip cuts off the blood to Hope's hand. Pinpricks stab her fingers.

“Let go of me and I'll tell you,” she says.

“Tell me first.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Why should I trust
you
? You're the spy.”

“Because I won't tell you otherwise.”

The Skull Person casts her wrist away as if disgusted with it. He rests his hand on a huge knife sheathed at his waist. “You should know I'm pretty good with this.”

She stares at him warily, then shakes her hand,
trying to get the blood back to it.

“Why?” he asks again.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“Why you lied to the Council of Ten.”

“I never lied to them.”

“During our trial, they said you found a map on us. You know it's not true.”

His eyes flick nervously from side to side. When he speaks, his voice is lowered. “Who said that?”

“The prosecutor, Goodman Nellitch.”

The Skull Person recoils slightly, eyes looking everywhere. “I don't know anything about that,” he finally mumbles.

“When you arrested us, you accused us of spying.”

“Sure. Everyone who's caught trespassing is accused of spying.”

“But you deny telling him about the map?”

“I mean what I said: I don't know anything about it.” His voice echoes back at them, and a fearful expression comes over his face. Hope wonders why he's so defensive. So jumpy.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft, urgent,
desperate
. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.

“I'm trying to get at the truth. We both know there was never any map, right? And if I can prove the prosecutor lied, then maybe they'll change our sentence. So
I'm wondering: if there was never a map, why'd that man say there was?”

“You'll have to ask him.”

Hope remembers Nellitch's leering, self-satisfied smile. Fat chance he's going to tell her anything resembling the truth. “Why didn't you stay for the trial that day? Everyone else was there.”

“My orders were to drop you off and go hunting. People have to eat, you know.”

“Do you hunt every day?”

“Most days.”

“
Every
day?”

“
Most
days.”

“So who told you to hunt that particular day and not stay for the trial?”

The man's face twists into a scowl. “For your own sake, you need to drop this. Stop asking questions.”

“How can I? We're imprisoned because of a lie. You're our only hope for setting the Council straight and getting us out of here.”

The man seems to consider the request. Then his eyes lower and he says, “Look, I'm just trying to live my life. The last thing I need is people asking questions they shouldn't be asking.”

It seems he's about to say more, but two women walk by, deep in conversation. They pass, their footsteps echoing down a narrow passageway.

“Is there something else you want to know?” he asks. His tone is all business, with no hint of kindness or understanding.

“No,” Hope says, discouraged. “Just that.”

“So you won't be following me anymore.” It isn't a suggestion; it's a warning. His knuckles tighten on the hilt of his knife. Then he turns and strides away, swallowed by the tunnels' dark shadows.

Hope goes back the way she came, angry at him, angry at herself, angry at the world for imprisoning them deep beneath the earth when there are still three people out there she needs to teach a lesson to.

One way or the other, she vows, their time will come.

W
E WERE ALLOWED TO
eat on our own, at a place called the Commons. But my lunch break was different from the others', so when I stepped into the large, low-ceilinged room, I didn't know a soul. And because of the black square stitched to my shirt, none of the Skull People urged me to join them. I found a wobbly table in the corner and began shoveling food into my mouth. The sooner I got out of there, the better.

Across the room sat Goodman Nellitch. He and three other men swapped stories as they inhaled that day's soup. On the surface, he was just a short man with a full beard and a big laugh. So why did I have such a bad feeling about him?

“What's the matter? You smell or something?”

A girl slid into the seat opposite me. She had pale skin and long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her gray eyes glinted with mischief, and she had one of those mouths that seem constantly on the verge of smiling.

“I, no . . .”

“There must be some reason you're sitting all alone.”

“I don't know anyone,” I said.

“That doesn't stop people sitting with
you
. What, you think just because you're a spy, people avoid you?”

“I'm not a—”

“Personally, I think it's something else. Probably body odor.”

“What?”

“Or maybe bad breath.”

“Hey, you can't—”

“I'm just teasing. I'm Miranda, by the way. Mandy to my friends.” I guessed she was my age, maybe a year younger.

“Nice to meet you, Mandy. Miranda,” I corrected myself.

“That's right. We're not friends yet.”

“Sorry, I—”

Freckles danced as her face erupted into a smile. “I'm just joshin'. Fact is, we'll probably be friends. If you're lucky.” She gave me a playful wink. My face felt suddenly warm.

“So,” she went on, “how's the spying business?”

“I'm not a spy.”

“That's what they all say. You just happened to be in the neighborhood? Just
happened
to cross that bridge and come into our fields?”

The conversation felt like a walk with Cat: I was one step behind and unable to catch up. “We were on our way back to Camp Liberty.”

“Right, right, that's what you said at the trial.” She tugged at her necklace—a metallic pendant that scattered shards of light. “Where're your friends?”

“Different lunch assignments.”

“Too bad. Tough for spies to be effective when they're separated.”

“We're not spies.”

“Oh right, I keep forgetting.” She smiled again, then ripped off a hunk of bread and dipped it into a mound of blueberry jam.

“How about you?” I asked, trying to regain my footing. “Where're
your
friends?”

She shrugged. “Not that many people my age in the Compound—most were snatched up by the Republic years ago. And those that are still around are usually on patrol.”

“Patrol?”

“You know, keeping the Compound safe. Looking out for enemies.”

“So what do you do?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” She winked again, and
sweat ran down my temples. My face was like a river.

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.” Another wink. Another rush of blood.

“Skip it.” I buried my face in my food.

“Aw, I'm just pulling your leg. You're so serious. Anyway, nice to meet you, Book.”

“How'd you know my name?”

“I was at the trial, remember? I gotta run, but maybe we'll do this again.”

“Uh, sure.”

She rose, her now-empty tray in her hands. “By the way,” she said, “you slant your
f
's and
l
's.”

“Huh?”

“Your
f
's and
l
's. You slant them.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Your handwriting. It's not terrible, a little erratic at times, but the main thing is, some of your letters lean. You wanna watch that.”

I looked at her, dumbfounded. “How do you know?”

“I'm the other scribe working on the book.” She gave her necklace one last tug and presented me with a lopsided smile. “Oh, and call me Mandy.” She pranced off, her ponytail swishing from side to side.

Although I didn't see Mandy for several days, she did leave me a series of notes in the book we were copying.
Silly messages. Things like
: Make sure you don't leave out the
i
in “Fecial.”
Or
Your
o
's are very sexy.
Or
You can cross my
t
any day of the week.

One day, Goodman Jotson caught me reading one of the notes.

“What's that?” he asked, his voice gravelly and humorless.

“Just something from the other scribe,” I stammered. “About the book. The one we're working on. Together. Whoever that person is.”

I was about as good a liar as Flush.

Plus I felt oddly guilty receiving these messages. It almost felt like a betrayal of Hope, even though it was Mandy who was writing the notes, not me.

When the day shift ended and I left the library, I rounded a bend and Mandy was there. She was wearing faded dungarees, her hands tucked into her back pockets. A gray T-shirt hugged her torso.

“What're you doing here?” I asked.

“That's a nice way to greet a friend.”

“No, I didn't mean . . . I never see you at dinner, is all.”

“I'm just giving you a hard time.” She placed her hand on my arm and let it linger there. “I'm taking you away, that's what I'm doing here.” Then she slapped me playfully on the shoulder. “You don't have to look so glum about it.”

“But dinner . . .”

“. . . is right here.” She held up a tidy bundle wrapped
in a large bandanna. “We're going to have a picnic.”

“But my friends . . .”

“. . . will have to have dinner without you. Or don't you want to have a picnic with me?” She stuck out her lower lip and pretended to pout.

“No, I do.” I was about to say more, but Hope and Scylla strolled by. They slowed to a stop, waiting for me to join them. When I didn't, they gave Mandy a quick once-over. An awkward silence followed.

Mandy nudged me in the ribs. “Well? Aren't you going to introduce me?”

“Right. Hope, Scylla: this is Miranda. Miranda: Hope and Scylla.”

Hope and Miranda said, “Nice to meet you,” at the same time. Scylla was grim and silent as always.

Mandy hooked her arm through mine. “I hope you don't mind,” she said to the two Sisters, “but I'm going to steal your friend for dinner.”

I dropped my eyes to the ground. For whatever reason, I couldn't bear to see Hope's expression.

“You can have him for breakfast, for all I care,” I heard Hope say.

“I may just take you up on that,” Miranda said. “Come on, Bookie Boy.”

Bookie Boy?

“Where're we going?” I asked as Mandy dragged me away. It was hard to imagine a picnic hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the earth.

“You'll see.” That same Cheshire cat smile as always.

We turned off into a side tunnel.

“Should we be here?” I asked. “You know I'm—”

“A spy?”

“A
prisoner
.”

“We're not leaving the Compound. We're just going to the edge of it.”

Guards lined the wall. Their eyes narrowed when they caught sight of me and the embroidered eye on my shirt, but when they saw Mandy, they seemed to relax, exchanging crisp nods with her.

It was a different entrance from the one we'd first been herded through, and the door was open. Sunlight poured in through the jagged oval. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness. Mandy led me outside to the edge of a precipice. Below us, looping like a writhing snake, the brown river sparkled in evening sunlight.

“Come on,” she said. We picked our way among the rocks, careful not to trip and plummet down the limestone bluff. She found a spot to her liking and plopped to the ground, legs and feet dangling over the edge. I joined her.

“Nice, huh?” she asked.

Nice
was an understatement. Below us lay the river; across the way, limestone cliffs jutted upward. Swallows darted in golden twilight, moving in an acrobatic frenzy. It was
spectacular
.

Mandy unwrapped the bandanna and gave me a sandwich. For the longest time we ate in silence, serenaded by the distant sound of the rushing river and the swallows' staccato chirps. The sun slid behind a bank of clouds.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Sure.”

“Why me? There are tons of people in the Compound. Why'd you choose me to take on a picnic?”

She shrugged. “There may be tons of people, but there aren't tons my age. Besides . . .” She hesitated a long moment. “There's something about you I trust.”

“Really?” I enjoyed the compliment, especially since Hope felt just the opposite.

“Absolutely.” Then she added, “And it doesn't hurt that you're kinda cute.”

“But according to your Council, I'm a spy.”

She smiled that mischievous smile, freckles dancing. “You and I both know you're not. You're too bad a liar for that.”

I had to laugh. “How about you?” I asked.

“How about me what?”

“I know nothing about you. How long have you been here? What's your family like? You know, that kind of stuff.”

She gave a small, restless sigh. “Nothing much to say, really. I was born and raised here, so this is all I know.”

“And your parents?”

“I lost my mom when I was a kid—cancer from the radiation—so it's just my dad and me.”

“What's he do?” For some reason I wondered if he was one of the men I worked with down in the Wheel. What if he was Goodman Dougherty with the bushy beard?

“He's a clerk. He does . . . clerical things, I guess. Kinda boring stuff, really.” Her eyes left the winding river and landed on me. “Was what you said at the trial really true? That you all came from Camp Liberty and Camp Freedom?”

I nodded.

“That's, like, really far away.”

“Tell me about it. I had the blisters to prove it.”

She laughed softly, then studied me a moment. Without any warning whatsoever, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

“What's that for?” I asked.

“For making it all this way. Blisters and all.”

A warmth coursed through my entire body. Without really meaning to, I said, “‘Admired Miranda.'”

“Huh?”

“Oh, just a line from Shakespeare.
The Tempest
.”

She smiled slyly and said, “‘Indeed the top of admiration!' Ferdinand's next line.”

My mouth fell open.

“You don't have to look so surprised,” Mandy said.
“I've read a book or two myself. And I happen to love that play.”

I couldn't think of a response, but I didn't need to. As twilight set the sky ablaze in orange and purple, Mandy leaned her head on my shoulder, resting it there as the sun dipped behind the western plateau. She kept it there long after stars began popping in the sky, and I didn't dare move. I suddenly felt incapable of it.