Radical

by E. M. Kokie

  “You could walk, you know. Could let you off any time.”

  “But then who would help you pick up your lady friend’s car?” The truck starts to slow. “I was just kidding!”

  Uncle Skip is looking in the mirror. I turn and see the lights, two cruisers, flashers going, coming up fast.

  Uncle Skip pulls onto the shoulder to let them pass, but they slow, too, one pulling into a spin in front of the truck and the other behind. Then more cars.

  “What the —?”

  “Get out of the truck!” someone yells.

  “What?” I hear myself say, and Uncle Skip has his hands up above the wheel.

  The doors of the car in front are flung open, and the cops are behind them, guns drawn, pointed at us.

  “Out of the vehicle, now!”

  “Hands where we can see them!” a voice from the side says, movement in my peripheral vision, on my side of the car.

  “What did you do?” Uncle Skip’s eyes are huge.

  “Nothing! I swear. We were just . . .”

  I never told Deputy Creep my name. How did they find me? Or is this . . . What’s going on?

  “Do what they say,” Uncle Skip says, his hands going higher.

  “Keep your hands where we can see them. Out. Now.”

  “We’re coming out!” Uncle Skip yells through the open window. “Bex, stay calm. Do whatever they say.”

  “Keep your hands in sight!” I can see them inching toward us, guns trained on us. “Reach through the window. Open the door from the outside!”

  I start to open the door, but he yells, “From the outside!”

  As soon as the door’s partway open, everything happens at once. Shouting. Hands. My backpack is tangled around my leg.

  Uncle Skip shouting, “She’s a kid!”

  “On the ground!”

  “What?”

  “On the ground! On the ground!”

  I’m shoved down. My backpack is yanked away from me. Hands are pushing me down, pain in my back, arms pulled hard. Kicking my legs wide. Knee in my back. Someone’s hitting Uncle Skip. He’s still yelling, yelling about me. Then he’s not, and there are voices above me, yelling, hands everywhere. Something heavy on my back.

  “Clear!”

  My hands are pulled lower behind my back and secured. Tight and biting. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

  “You’re hurting her,” Uncle Skip yells.

  The weight leaves my back, but I’m still on the ground, hands bound. The guys I can see are not deputies. They’re in black, or dark blue. Badges and gear. Windbreakers. FBI. ATF. They’re searching the truck. I turn my head toward the truck. I can see Uncle Skip, facedown on the other side, looking at me.

  “It’s okay,” he says.

  “Quiet!”

  “I’m gonna throw up. I’m gonna —” Puke, in the dirt, under my face, all over. Coughing.

  I’m pulled up and toward one of the cars. Dark. Unmarked. Small flashing lights. Someone wipes my face with a towel. I spit to get the taste out of my mouth, and one of the guys from that side advances hard.

  “Easy, easy,” the guy who wiped my face says.

  “She was just spitting out the vomit.” Another voice, a woman.

  Someone holds a bottle of water to my mouth. “Take a sip.” I sip slowly, then turn and spit again, careful not to spit in anyone’s direction. “Another sip?” I swallow this time. “Breathing okay?” I nod.

  “What’s —?”

  “Quiet,” the guy, the one who wiped my face, says.

  They’ve got Uncle Skip up and they’re taking him to the other car.

  “How old are you?” the woman, the one with the water, asks.

  I don’t answer. Everything I’ve ever read says you don’t say anything. Not even your name. This is how it starts. Like this. I’m gonna be sick again. It’s starting and I’m caught before I could even try to get away.

  “ID?” she says, and someone hands her my wallet. From my backpack.

  My backpack. Fuck. They’re searching my backpack.

  “Rebecca Mullin.” She looks at me. “Sixteen,” she says. She looks at me again, long and hard, then puts me in the car, her hand on the back of my head, guiding me. It’s hard to get in and upright without my hands, and she helps shift me back against the seat. “Agent Malone, sir?”

  “What, Washington?” I can’t see him, but he sounds pissed.

  “Juvenile,” she says, holding out the wallet.

  He walks over and bends down to stare at me, at my face, at my body, and then takes the wallet she handed him and pulls my license out of the cover.

  “Menendez!” he shouts. “Over here.”

  The door is closed and they talk. The three of them, and then someone else. And then two of them are on cell phones, passing around my license. It still looks like I looked last year, young and stupid, with the long hair. The revolver. Shit, the revolver is in my backpack. I close my eyes. I can’t believe . . . I’m so stupid. My eyes sting. The guys were right, those crazy guys who said never register, never let them take your name. I shouldn’t have let them catalog me.

  They move closer to the car, and then I can’t see above their waists without craning my neck.

  Stuck in the car is like being underwater — there’s no air and everything’s muffled. I’m going to suffocate. My heart is racing. I try to see the other car, to see Uncle Skip, but the truck is between us, still being searched.

  The door is opened, and cooler air seeps in. “Rebecca,” the female agent says, “where’s your brother? Where’s Mark?”

  “What?”

  Sweat trickles down my temple and my neck. A whiff of puke hits me in the face. I gag. I can’t breathe. I feel the panic climbing.

  “Come on, where’s Mark?” the guy says over her shoulder, but she pushes him back.

  “We need to find him, Rebecca. Now. Before anyone gets hurt,” she says. “Where is he?”

  Mark? They’re looking for Mark?

  “Do you know? When did you last see him? Rebecca?”

  The feel of his arm at my throat. The gun in my hand. They’re looking for Mark?

  She closes the door again. No more air. I can’t breathe. I have to calm down. Breathe slowly.

  They’re looking for Mark. But they arrested us. Or detained us. Whatever we are. Maybe everyone? Why Uncle Skip?

  Are they rounding everyone up?

  My body’s shaking. I can’t feel my legs. Or my arms.

  I try to remember everything I’ve read about interrogation.

  They’ll try to ask me questions on the way, wherever we’re going. They’ll try to talk to me. They’ll lie, try to trick me. If they see me freaking out, they’ll try harder. I have to calm down.

  I have to think, to remember. Go compliant now that they have me. Stay calm and quiet. Give them no reason to get rough. If you’re injured, it’s harder to stay focused.

  If they try to take me anywhere but a police station, anywhere unmarked or military, go limp. They’ll take it for fear or injury, and I can use the time to count doors and exits, watch for a way out. Do not drink or eat anything.

  I breathe in, hold it, and then let it out slowly. Again and again. Just like in the woods, when I don’t want to be seen.

  I jump when the car door is opened. Front. Driver side.

  The woman says, “Come on.”

  “Aw, hell,” the guy who must be Menendez says, before opening the passenger-side door and getting in.

  Ignore them. Stay still. No response. Learn what I can.

  The woman agent, the one with the water, climbs in behind the wheel and turns so she can see me.

  I can’t look away, but I hope I seem calm.

  Menendez doesn’t turn around, but I can see him checking me out in the mirror. Their jackets say FBI.

  My mouth goes dry and my stomach clenches.

  Am I arrested, or is this it? Military state? Are we at war?

  “Do you understand these rights
that I have just explained to you?” I stare at him, the agent or police officer or I don’t know what he is. “Rebecca?” He waits a few beats, and then his eyes slide over to the agents standing to my right.

  They keep trying to talk to me. Agent Washington, Agent Menendez, some other guys. They ask me about Mark, about weapons and bombs. About things I don’t understand. About Uncle Skip and Dad and Zach and Devon and people I’ve never heard of, until my head is spinning and I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. I stay quiet as long as I can, and when they force me to say something, I just say, “I don’t know” or ask for Mom. Then I cry. I don’t know when I started, but I realize all at once that I’m crying. They keep asking. I don’t know how long it goes on. Then there’s a knock on the door, and they all leave, and I’m alone. When the door opens again, different agents or police are there, in my face. It goes on and on. I have to pee, but I can’t make myself ask for a bathroom. Then they make me stand up, and cuff my hands behind my back again, and then I’m in a cell. At least I’m not in here with a bunch of other people. But if there were other people, maybe I’d be safer. They could do anything to me and no one would see it.

  I need to pee so bad. But I can’t. I can’t make myself pee knowing someone is probably watching.

  I hold it until it hurts. Until I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let it go, even if I wanted to. Until a distant noise almost makes me pee myself.

  I barely make it to the toilet, and I then I cry. In relief. In shame. With fear. I don’t even know how many hours I’ve been here.

  “Stand up. Hands behind your back.”

  I blink at the voice. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Again.

  “Stand. Hands behind your back.”

  I get up from the slab bed. Step as far back as I can. Hands behind my back.

  Two guards. Both women.

  “Where —?”

  “Quiet.” The taller guard opens the gate at the end of the hall. Eyes are watching me through several of the doors, scarier somehow than the guards when they look in.

  Through gate after gate, until I’m led into a room.

  The room is small, but compared to the cell, it’s spacious. Just a table, bolted down, and two chairs. A camera in the upper corner. What looks like a window but is probably a two-way mirror. And the agent, the woman, is waiting for me. She and the guards barely talk, but she smiles at them and at me. She looks different. She’s wearing a suit, and her dark hair is loose and sort of curled under. She’s even wearing a little makeup, lipstick at least. She smiles like we’re friends.

  We’re not.

  “Hi, Bex,” she says. I don’t answer. They were calling me Rebecca. Now it’s Bex. Someone talked to them. A different agent is with her. “I’m not sure if you remember, but I’m Agent Washington. This is Investigator Randall,” she says, like I should know what that means. “Please sit.”

  I don’t really have a choice. Seated where she wants, I face the two-way mirror. Who knows how many different people are watching me. I stare at the fake mirror. Maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll be able to see them.

  Agent Washington puts a bottle of water down in front of me, cap already loose.

  My mouth is so dry. I’ve been afraid to eat or drink anything.

  But I didn’t see her open the bottle.

  “I hear you’re not eating. Can I get you something? Candy bar? Sandwich?”

  She smiles again, acting like we’re on the same side.

  “Anything you want. I can get it for you.”

  Investigator Randall stands against the far wall, watching. Are other people watching, too?

  “Your aunt is here. We’re just waiting for her to be brought down.”

  “Where’s my mom?”

  Agent Washington ignores my question. Investigator Randall leaves the room.

  I swallow hard, or try to, but my mouth is too dry. Aunt Lorraine’s never been my favorite person. But my eyes sting at the thought of seeing her. Maybe she can tell me what’s going on, or help me get out of here. The trembling starts in my arms again, and I hold them tight against my body. Maybe she’s here to take me home. Just a little longer and I can go home.

  “Go ahead,” Agent Washington says, motioning toward the water.

  She wants me to pick it up. Why? For fingerprints? No, they already took those. DNA? Could be DNA, but seems like they could get that any time they want. Or is there something in there? Something to make me relax, make me let down my guard? Make me talk?

  “Bex, I can see you need a drink. Go ahead.”

  I stare at the open bottle. Debate the risks. Maybe one sip. No. That’s what they want.

  I cross my arms, tuck my hands in, and hold them down so I won’t accidentally drink it.

  Then she makes a sound and takes the bottle away. And she’s gone, out the door with the water. Maybe I should have chanced it.

  She gave up sort of fast.

  Maybe she thought I’m just a dumb kid, easy to fool.

  I’m not sure whether I’m smart or stupid. I need to drink something. My lips are too dry. But it seemed too important to her. Maybe I’m paranoid. Unless I’m not paranoid but really, really smart. You’re only paranoid if someone’s not trying to hurt you. They’ve already hurt me.

  I put my head down on the table. It’s cold against my cheek. Nice. I should have drunk the water. It was probably cold.

  The door opens, and then stuff is falling onto the table. Granola bar. Candy bars. Pretzels. Pop-Tarts. Crackers and peanut butter. Chips.

  Agent Washington puts two unopened cans down in front of me. Pop and juice.

  “From the vending machines.”

  The cans look solid. Slick on the outside, like vending-machine cans are.

  “Unopened,” she says. She got it. Can I chance it?

  My hand is reaching before I’ve fully talked myself into it, pauses, and then reaches all the way out and picks up the can of juice. Once I’m holding it, it’s inevitable. I pop it open and take a quick sip. Cold and a burst of sweet, sharp across my teeth and the back of my throat. I take another sip. Then a gulp. Then chug half the can.

  My mouth still sort of feels dry, like cardboard soaking in the liquid only partway. Fuzzy.

  Goose bumps pop out all over me.

  I didn’t even realize Agent Washington was gone until she was back, with the guy — Menendez — Investigator Randall, and Aunt Lorraine.

  “Bex!” She’s hugging me before the agents can stop her. Then there’s warnings about touching and more chairs are brought in, and she’s seated beside me, hands mostly to herself.

  “Are we allowed to talk in private?” Aunt Lorraine asks, big, fake, my-crap-don’t-stink smile on her face.

  “Sure,” Menendez says, glancing at Washington.

  “We’ll give you a little while to talk,” Investigator Randall says.

  “We’ll check back in a bit. And if you’re ready for us before then, just knock on the door,” Agent Washington says.

  “That’s fine,” Aunt Lorraine says, still big smiles but nervous. Smiling too much. She never smiles this much.

  When the door closes, she turns and looks at me. “Well, you don’t look too bad. Are they feeding you okay? Do you need anything? Don’t you worry — this will all be cleared up in no time. No time at all.” She smiles at me, waiting, but I’m not sure for what. “Are you okay?”

  Am I okay? I’m locked up. I’m pretty freaking far from okay.

  “Bex?”

  “No, I’m not okay,” I say. “What the hell is going on? They won’t tell me anything. Where’s Mom? And Dad? They keep asking about Mark. About . . .” I look up at the camera. They could be taping this. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know what is going on,” I say, loudly and clearly. “Where’s Mom?” I ask again. It’s burning behind my eyes.

  “They’re holding a whole bunch of people, including your mother, father, Mark, and Skip.”

  Ohgodohgodohgod.

  “
Who all besides us?”

  “Oh, Bex, I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know your people.” She is impatient. Looks at her watch, or where it would be. They probably made her take it off. She rubs her wrist, like I did from the cuffs. “The important thing is that we get this cleared up. Nathan said that since you are a juvenile, you should just tell them what you know and then we can get this all cleared up.”

  Uncle Nathan said. “But I don’t know —”

  “Tell them everything. Cooperate. Act in good faith, and then you’ll be able to work out a deal.”

  Sage advice from the insurance salesman who thinks he knows everything.

  “Bex.” Aunt Lorraine leans closer, so close I can smell her breath. “You’re a juvenile. Whatever you did, they can only do so much. But you need to get your mother out. She didn’t do anything like this. I know she didn’t. She couldn’t. So you just tell them whatever they need to know to let her go.”

  I stare at her, replaying the words.

  “I didn’t do any —”

  “You get her out!” she yells, grabbing me, shaking me. “This is all your fault. You and your brother, your father. All of you. They know you did it.” Her face is crazy. “They know everything.” Her eyes are bugging out. “You are in it up to your eyeballs, you and your brother. They took stuff from the house, the station. It’s been all over the news.” Spit on my cheek. “They know everything anyway,” she says, vicious, like she’s happy. “But your mother isn’t involved. You need to tell them. Now.”

  I’m gonna be sick. Or pass out. Or explode.

  “Your stupid brother.” She grits her teeth, like she wants to snarl at me but remembered she shouldn’t. “He tried to run away, but they found him, found him . . .” She stops, wipes her mouth, pastes on a calming look. “Honey, you know your mother wasn’t involved. She was hardly even there! Working so hard to support the lot of you.” Aunt Lorraine wipes at her eyes, takes a breath, pats the air in front of her like she’s trying to calm herself down.

  “Your mother must be terrified. And you know she would do anything for you.” She gives me a sweet smile. “Bex, you need to be a good daughter and do what’s right. For your mother. So”— she takes a deep breath and goes to the door —“you tell them what they need to know. You tell them that your mother didn’t know anything, that she wasn’t even part of this. That she’s been staying with me. That’s she’s been living with us, for months, this whole time. You tell them.” She knocks on the door.