Free Deliver Her: A Novel by Patricia Perry Donovan Page B

in tandem with her temples. These people were serious. Could they really take her? “Wait a sec. I mean, I have rights, don’t I? This is, like, child abuse.”
    “This is perfectly legal, Alex. I’ll leave you with Officer Murphy to get ready,” the man said, lifting a camouflage cap to rub his head. “And let’s get a move on. No telling how many folks will be headed to New England this weekend.”
    New England? Alex’s palms grew clammy. She’d been crystal clear about her feelings on that subject when her mom dragged her out to the promenade for coffee. She wouldn’t, would she? Panicked, Alex stared at the man, whose hand rested on her doorknob.
    “I’ll be just outside the door.”
    Alex crossed her arms. “I’m going nowhere . I already told my mother that. And you guys could be some child molesters, for all I know.” She groped around her comforter for a cigarette and lit one. She was forbidden to smoke in the house—to smoke at all, actually—but the heck with that. “Where’s my mom? She can’t make me do this.”
    “Actually, she can. You’re still a minor.” Quicker than Alex, Camo Man neatly deflected the empty Coke can Alex grabbed from beside her bed and leveled at him, dropping it into her wastepaper basket. She didn’t even know where her own reflex had come from or when the jackhammers began their assault on her chest. She only knew her heart was beating so hard she was terrified she might pass out.
    Camo Man pulled a white handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his hand. “That’s not going to help, Alex.”
    “I don’t care. I need to talk to my mom. Mom ,” she cried. Out of bed now, Alex stumbled over old breakfast dishes and clothes to her door. Camo Man blocked her path and grabbed her wrist—not tight, but still. Mom Haircut was on the other side like a shot.
    “Your mom left.” His voice was irritatingly calm, like he was talking to a very young child. Or a mental patient. “You can talk to her later. It’s time to get dressed and cooperate.”
    Trapped, she rested her forehead on the door, her stomach in overdrive. I should puke on their shoes. “I’ll just run away.”
    “Alex, your mother told me what a smart girl you are,” Carl said.
    The same bull her mom handed her all the time. “I’m smart enough not to go anywhere with you.”
    The man’s grip loosened. “Look at it this way. At least you don’t have to go to school today. Excused absence and everything.” Was he busting her behind the aviators? She couldn’t tell.
    “Right, road trip,” Murphy chirped. “We’ve got movies, snacks—the works.”
    Bribing her with a load of Disney films. This was turning into a bad comedy routine, a nightmare Dr. Drew. Or maybe it was that other TV doctor, the bald one. She couldn’t remember.
    They turned her around slowly in a weird three-way dance. “This program will help you figure things out,” the man said. “And I can tell you definitively: cooperating is your better option.
     
    Let the powers that be warm the path you will tread;
    No journey’s harder than the one in your head.
     
    He had to be kidding. The dude was singing the chorus from Amphibian’s “Cloud Path.” Alex was obsessed with the second track on the Rainmaker album; Cass had covered an entire notebook with the lyrics. Even more surprising, Camo Man could totally sing, nailing the trademark tremor of Amphibian’s lead singer, Ace Ackerman.
    She glanced at the poster over her bed and bit her lip. No way he was a true Phib; this had to be a head game. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of even mentioning it.
    “I’ll leave you now to get dressed.” Carl released his grip. Murphy still held her other arm. “And one more thing. Give me that cigarette.”
    She took a long, defiant drag, staring at the warped version of herself in his stupid sunglasses, weighing her options. Maybe with him in the hall, she could work on the woman. She stabbed her cigarette into a milky