“Whatever,” I said, ready to explode. “Why don’t you put his face on a milk carton? He’s just another one of those missing kids, isn’t he? This place is full of them.”
Anne’s face in the mirror looked taken aback, almost—was it afraid? Interestingly, after that she dropped it.
Which meant what?
84
“Right! You all have your orders,” Ari barked. He rolled his shoulders under his black leather coat. Another Eraser was driving, and twelve more crouched in the back of the van. “We go in, we grab the mutants, we clear out. Like surgery, right?”
“Right,” several Erasers muttered.
Take the mutants alive, his Voice reminded him.
“Remember—take the mutants alive,” Ari said. He grinned, looking forward to what was about to happen. “And no one touches Max! She’s mine.” He waited for the Voice to jump in with more advice, but it was silent.
He rubbed his hands together, already itching to feel his fists connect with Max’s face. Sure, Dad had said to bring Max back alive—there was more he wanted to learn about her. But the only thing Ari wanted to learn was what size coffin she’d need. He knew how he’d play it: Despite his orders, another Eraser had “gone crazy,” killing everything in sight. Before Ari could stop him, he’d ripped out Max’s throat. Then Jeb would kill that Eraser, Max would be dead, and Ari would be sitting pretty.
There were no downsides.
On the other hand . . . what if Max “disappeared”? What if Ari took Max and stashed her somewhere where no one could find her and she couldn’t escape? He thought he knew a place. If Max was trapped, if she had no hope of escaping, and if Ari was the only one keeping her alive with food and water—then she’d get used to him, right? She’d be grateful to him, even. It would be just the two of them, with no one telling them what to do. They would become friends. Max would like him. They could play cards. She could read to him. They could play outside.
This was sounding more and more like the best idea he’d had all year. And he knew a good place to take her. Someplace she couldn’t escape from. That is, once he’d cut her wings off.
85
“I have one more announcement,” said Mr. Pruitt, staring balefully at the entire student body. It was Monday-morning assembly, and we were all trapped in the school auditorium, listening to the headhunter spew bile at us. At least it was equal-opportunity bile—not aimed at just the flock. So far he’d vented his feelings about how messy we left the lunchroom, how we thieving little punks had stolen school supplies, and how he doubted our ability to use the restrooms like normal human beings.
The man definitely had issues.
“One of our students has gone missing,” Mr. Pruitt said, seeming to stare right at me.
I put on an innocent “Who, moi?” expression.
“Jeff Walker,” the headhunter went on. “From ninth grade. Though he was a new student, I’m sure you all know whom I’m talking about. We’re calling in a special detective unit,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. I kept my face carefully blank. “But if any of you have seen him, or know anything, or have any information whatsoever, come forward now. If we later find out that you did know something and did not come forward, it will be very bad for you. Am I making myself clear?”
Lots of confused nods.
Many kids turned to look at me, Fang, and the rest of the flock because we were Iggy’s “siblings.” I realized I should look upset and worried, and tried to change gears.
“Dismissed,” spit the headhunter, making it sound like a terminal sentence.
I leaped up, anxious to get out of the crowded auditorium. In the hallway, my friend J.J. caught up to me.
“I’m so sorry, Max,” she said, looking concerned. “What happened?”
Amazingly I had no story prepared. In my twisted freak-show world, people appearing out of nowhere and disappearing into nothingness was kind of everyday fare. Somehow, the idea that Iggy’s absence would actually upset and concern people other than Anne had never occurred to me.
Okay, I’d dropped this ball. I admit it.
“Uh . . . ,” I said, stalling. I didn’t have time to think through all the possible stories to see if they had loopholes or bear traps further down the line. Several other kids crowded around us.
“I can’t talk about it,” I said. And just like that, thinking about Iggy’s really being gone made actual, unfake tears come to my eyes. I let ’em rip. “I mean . . . I . . . just can’t talk about it right now.” I added a tiny sniffle and was rewarded with concerned understanding.
“Okay, everyone,” J.J. said, waving her arms. “She can’t talk about it. Let’s back off, give her some space.”
“Thanks,” I told her. “I still can’t believe he’s really gone.” Completely true.
“I’m so sorry,” said J.J. “If only they had taken my brother instead.”