Article 5

“Don’t be. Just remind me not to meet you in a dark alley.”

I half smiled.

When the bleeding had stopped, I closed the wound with several butterfly Band-Aids from the kit, hoping this would be enough. I wrapped clean gauze around his entire arm, securing it in place with heavy white tape.

“Your knuckles look pretty torn up,” he acknowledged, his mouth tightening.

I examined my fingers. They were raw from scraping the gun off the asphalt, bruised and wrecked from the reformatory, and achy now that he mentioned them. I had forgotten my pain in place of his.

I cleaned the skin, but he put the Band-Aids on my fingers. Again, he gazed over Brock’s damage but said nothing about it.

His hands were very warm under mine, and I realized they were swollen from the fight. He couldn’t quite close them, nor could he stretch them all the way open. There were several fingers that didn’t even line up quite right, but I suspected these had been broken long before today.

When he finished, he withdrew his touch quickly.

We began alternating turns with the spoon. The soup was too salty but warm. I tried to ignore that his skin sometimes brushed against mine, but it was difficult.

Chase jerked suddenly and turned up the volume on the radio.

“…assaulted by a man and woman, late teens or early twenties, outside a sporting goods store in Hagerstown, Maryland. The assailants are armed and should be considered dangerous. They are believed to be driving a late seventies era Ford pickup truck, maroon, Michigan or Minnesota plates. Male subject may have defected from the Federal Bureau of Reformation. Victims reported presence of an FBR nightstick used in the beating. A lineup of AWOL soldiers’ photos are under review by the victims. If found, perpetrators are to be detained and brought in for questioning. Any information can be forwarded up your chain of command.”

I lowered my forehead to the table, everything inside of me frozen. The man on the radio continued.

“…list of missing persons grows by two today. Ronald Washington, African American, sixteen years old, runaway from the Richmond Youth Detention Facility. Ember Miller, Caucasian, seventeen years old, possibly abducted from the Girls’ Reformatory and Rehabilitation Center, Southeast.”

My heart stopped.

“Oh,” I said in a tiny voice.

I caught a couple of additional lines: “no leads… call the crisis line if apprehended.” But I could barely focus on the man’s callous tone.

“Brock figured it out,” I said weakly. I had doubled over my stomach. “She must have called to verify the trial.”

If they knew I was gone, “possibly abducted,” it seemed safe to say they knew Chase was the one that had taken me. Soon the highway patrol that had pulled us over would add to the report. Then Rick and Stan from Hagerstown. The pieces fit together, burned into my brain.

I had a hard time swallowing.

Chase’s expression was as gloomy as I’d ever seen it. Not surprised, like mine surely was, but deeply concerned.

“You’re worried about something,” I prompted.

“That’s not enough?” He gestured to the radio, raking a jagged hand over his skull. I could tell he was unnerved but trying to hold it together. Maybe for me. Maybe just for himself.

“It’s more than what we just heard. Tell me. You can tell me,” I assured.

He rolled his head in a slow circle.

“It’s too soon for you to be reported missing. I don’t think the headmistress happened to call Chicago to check on the trial. I think that someone may have contacted her first.”

CHAPTER 9

“WHAT? Who?” Was it Randolph? Had he suspected something?

My thoughts backtracked to the overhaul, to the blond soldier with the green eyes. And the three marks down his neck from my nails.

“Morris.” I guessed. It had seemed like they were friends. You said you’d be cool, Morris had said when Chase protected me. He’d obviously known Chase and I had had some sort of connection in the past.

“You know him?”

“How could I forget? He arrested me.”

“Tucker Morris is…” Chase grimaced, as if unable to find the right word. “He was in my unit. He came back with me after he… delivered you to transport.” He glanced quickly over and then looked away, his face tightly drawn.

“Why would Tucker have called the reformatory?” I asked, glad that Chase seemed to dislike him as much as I did.

An odd expression crossed his face. He was beyond angry now. Tortured almost. Clearly Tucker had done something really bad to Chase.

Or Chase had done something really bad to Tucker. Which would explain why Tucker would have turned him in.

“There’s… sort of a history there.”

“What ‘sort of a history’?” I asked dubiously.

I could hear Chase’s heel tapping the floor. He hesitated so long I thought he wasn’t actually going to answer me. Then he sighed heavily, resigned to sharing.

“Tucker enlisted in the Bureau about the time I was drafted. We were in the same training cohort.” He was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“And you two hit it off?” I prompted dryly. Getting Chase to explain anything was like pulling teeth.

“No,” he said. “We had some things in common. Important things for training. We’re about the same size, so they put us together for hand-to-hand, and—”

“Hand-to-hand fighting?”

“Yeah. Combat maneuvers. He seemed all right at first, quiet, but decent anyway. We had classes together, just like in school. On the Statutes and all their caveats. Negotiations. And then policies and procedures for management of disruptive civilians.”

I snorted, thinking of my mom telling the soldiers to get off our property.

“He got in some trouble….” Chase waved his hand, indicating that this part of the story was inconsequential. “After that he was a real pain. Arguing with everything the instructor said. Refusing to follow orders. Kid couldn’t even fill out the correct paperwork for an SV-one.”

I frowned. I didn’t want Tucker to have rebelled against the MM, because that’s what I had done, and I didn’t want to have anything in common with that blond-haired, green- eyed coward. I motioned impatiently for Chase to continue.

“It wasn’t that he couldn’t get anything right. It was that he purposefully tried to get things wrong. He kept sneaking off base, then getting caught and thrown in the brig. Getting his pay docked, his rank stripped. He was sort of used to calling his own shots, and he had… uh… ties he couldn’t cut at home,” he added.

“Have to dedicate your life to the cause, right?” I feigned indifference but remembered with a pang what Rebecca had told me in the reformatory. How convenient for you, I thought bitterly, that your ties were so easy to sever.

“Yeah,” he looked mildly relieved. “It’s standard procedure to break off any previous relationships. Women are a distraction, temptations of the flesh and all that.” He laughed awkwardly.