The Collide

  Up close, I can feel these girls have none of the dreamy purity of the rest of the group. They are harder on the outside and raw and hot underneath. Like rock over a core of molten lava. Definitely not true believers.

  “Oh,” the curly-haired girl says finally, blinking up at me.

  It’s not a hello—definitely not—but it signals my turn to talk.

  “Hi,” I begin, but then no more words will come. The stakes suddenly feel too high. These girls have something so important to tell us. Too important to mess this up. And so all I can do is stare.

  “Hey,” Gideon says finally, stepping forward to fill the void. He holds up a hand and smiles. “I’m, um, Gideon.”

  The girls smile slyly and bend their long bodies like two preening birds. And just like that, for the first time ever, I notice how good-looking Gideon is.

  “I’m Grace,” the girl with the blond hair says, hunching forward like she is trying to make herself petite.

  “Jennifer,” the other one says, and then the two girls glance at each other. I can feel them giggling on the inside. He’s so cute.

  “Can you tell us what this is?” Gideon motions to the room, doing a decent job of seeming curious and maybe a little confused, but not judgmental.

  “Is it an AA meeting?” I ask. My voice sounds so sharp. I wish I hadn’t said anything.

  “An AA meeting?” Jennifer makes a face like I’m an idiot.

  “The random people, the juice,” I say, though now my evidence on this AA thing feels thin.

  “An AA meeting would be way more interesting,” Grace says wistfully, looking out over the crowd still milling around. No one looks in any rush to leave.

  “Seriously,” Jennifer agrees, then looks up at me, more forcefully. Like an accusation. “Why would you come to some meeting if you don’t even know what it’s for?”

  “Somebody called us from here,” I say.

  At least my voice is starting to even out. And I didn’t mention that the call was from the missing, maybe stolen phone of our also missing dad on purpose because it would seem like we’re looking for somebody who has committed a serious crime. It might give them incentive to lie.

  “No one makes calls during meetings,” Grace says seriously. “It’s a rule. So . . .”

  “It was a few days ago,” I say. “It might not even have been during an actual meeting. I don’t remember the exact time.”

  “Well, lots of people meet here. This is like a place where people meet, you know?” Jennifer rolls her eyes. “The Girl Scouts and their moms meet here.” I feel a quick pop of jealousy from Jennifer about the Girl Scouts specifically. Like she wishes she’d had the chance to be one herself, once upon a time.

  “Oh,” I say. My throat is pinching shut.

  I realize now as we hurtle toward a dead end, I’ve had too many hopes pinned on this.

  “Do you have a name?” Grace asks.

  “A name?” I ask, not wanting to tell them who I am.

  Jennifer and Grace eyeball each other. “Um, of the person who called you?” Grace asks.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “I can’t remember.”

  “Listen, just some friendly advice,” Jennifer says. “I wouldn’t seem so out of it around here if I was you. If these people decide you need ‘help,’ they’ll make you take it. You’re lucky the regular guy’s not here. He’s, like, relentless. They’re not bad people, most of them. Actually, they’re pretty good, on the scale of people. But they are not big on boundaries.”

  “Who’s the regular guy?” Gideon asks.

  “Like Brother John, but on steroids,” Jennifer says, with a wave of her hand. “Sometimes you get the feeling that the people here don’t believe half the shit that gets said. They just like the community and all that. But the new guy? He’s all in.”

  “It’s true,” Grace says seriously. “Once he gets started, he just doesn’t stop with the ‘I can save you’ crap. It can get kind of creepy. Not, like, sex creepy. Just creepy creepy. Which honestly makes it weirder. But, whatever, some of the girls we know like him. I have no idea why.”

  “What girls like him?” Jennifer asks Grace.

  “I don’t know, Sophie-Ann,” Grace says, nervous suddenly. “Girl, I guess. One girl. But she was, like, hanging out with him.”

  Jennifer shoots Grace a look. There is something about this Sophie-Ann. There’s no doubt about that. I need to double down on her, ever though it’s not the name the girl gave me on the phone. I can’t imagine she would have used her real one.

  “Well, it was a girl who called us. Maybe it was Sophie-Ann,” I say. “Whoever it is actually has our dad’s phone, too.” I can only leave that out for so long.

  “Your dad’s phone?” Grace asks, intrigued. Jennifer, though, looks like she’s about to get up and leave. “She stole it?”

  “Technically, she said she found the phone,” I say. “But we still really need to find her. Because we need my dad’s phone. He’s missing. And we’re definitely not saying Sophie-Ann or whoever has it had anything to do with that. We just want the phone, that’s all. It might help us find him.”

  “Well, like we said, lots of girls come here.” Jennifer’s voice, her feel, is ice-cold.

  I consider for a second—the voice was distinctive. It’s still ringing in my head.

  “Wait, she had a hard-core Boston accent,” I offer, so relieved that I have anything useful to add. Amazed that it actually didn’t occur to me until now. “Like ‘remembah?’ She talked like that.”

  Grace claps her hands together excitedly. “That’s so Sophie-Ann!” She turns to Jennifer. “Right? That sounds just like her!”

  Jennifer stares at Grace in disbelief. “Jesus, Grace.” She shakes her head. “Let’s go before you say more shit you definitely shouldn’t.”

  Grace looks confused, then ashamed as she gets to her feet and quickly goes to stand behind Jennifer. She may not understand why, but she’s ready to accept she’s in the wrong.

  “Where can we find Sophie-Ann?” I ask. “Do you know?”

  “Nope,” Jennifer says instantly. A lie. Or sort of. Because, weirdly, it seems both true and untrue. “Grace, come on. Now.”

  Jennifer steps away, tugging on Grace’s arm.

  “Sorry,” Grace says, following her obediently. “But Mrs. Porter, our foster mom, says we’re not allowed to talk about her. I can give you her address—”

  “Gr—”

  “We live at three nineteen Culver Side Drive.”

  “—ace!” Jennifer has hung her head and closed her eyes. “This is on you, Grace,” she says quietly as she heads on for the door. “All you.”

  “Come on, Jennifer!” Grace calls as she rushes after her and out the door. “You’re not really mad, are you?”

  IT ISN’T UNTIL we’re back out in the lobby that I realize we should have asked Grace and Jennifer for the name of the group. Grace gave us the right address for Mrs. Porter’s, I think, but there is always the chance that we’ll have to backtrack.

  Luckily, there’s a janitor sweeping the lobby. He is young—twenties maybe—pushing a broom. I head over to him.

  “Excuse me, do you know the name of the group meeting here tonight?”

  But the janitor just continues on with his work. It isn’t until I ask a second time that I realize he has earbuds in. He startles when I wave a hand in front of his face, then smiles up at me brightly.

  “Sorry,” he laughs, pointing at the headphones. “I was just listening to the podcast. You know, the new guy? These days everyone needs a podcast, right?” When he shakes his head and smiles this time, I can feel how trusting he is. Like an unlocked door. “At first, it was a little out there for me, but I’ve been listening for an hour, and damn if it isn’t starting to make a whole lot of sense. My girlfriend would say that’s how this kind of stuff is supposed to work. Wear you down. She’s the suspicious type.”

  “What do you mean ‘this kind of stuff’?” I ask. “What is this?”


  And in the moment before he answers, I can feel a train hurtling toward me. No time to leap clear.

  “It’s The Collective. But the podcast is called EndOfDays,” he says as he puts his earbuds back in. “And come to think of it, it still does kind of seem out there, I guess. Don’t tell my girlfriend she’s right.”

  GIDEON AND I rush out of the American Legion Hall, headed toward Oshiro’s car, now partially out of view behind a white van. The hair on the back of my neck is standing on end. EndOfDays. The Collective. EndOfDays. The Collective. I did feel some of it coming, didn’t I? They have my dad’s phone. They have my dad. I did feel some of it. Just not assembled in this particular way. Also, I still don’t know who “they” are. Quentin? That doesn’t feel like the key, just like one more turn of the knob.

  I expect to feel better as we get closer to Oshiro’s car, but I only feel worse. I have to believe Oshiro will have some idea what we should do now, though. Because I can’t see how anyone could claim that my dad would have gone somewhere “voluntarily” with someone tied to a group who were at least partly responsible for Cassie being dead and almost killing me. That’s true no matter how little anyone has been interested in getting to the bottom of any of it. So far the camp has been left as just another unsolved tragedy. Contained, though, not likely to repeat.

  “Holy shit.” Gideon freezes as we come around the van. Through the back window of Oshiro’s car, we can see him leaning to the side. “No wonder he didn’t care how long we took. He’s fucking asleep. So much for protecting us.”

  No, I think, unable to move. He is not asleep. But I can’t get myself to say a word.

  The rest is so terribly slow. Gideon moves ahead of me to the driver’s side window. “Oh my God,” he says.

  When I get close enough, I can see the shattered window, bits of glass hanging around the edges. And inside the jagged hole is Detective Oshiro, motionless and bleeding.

  TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL

  To: Senator David Russo

  From: The Architect

  Re: Bracelet Identification Registration and Enforcement

  May 11

  Though the research threat has unfortunately not been contained, as of yet, we anticipate a solution is imminent. We recommend proceeding nonetheless.

  As discussed, our model predicts that the principal obstacle to the successful implementation of a program to identify and track the targeted subgroup population “Outliers” will be compliance. If a member is determined to be noncompliant, our model suggests that the following penalties will be most effective.

  First offense: Subject will be placed on house arrest for a period of no less than three days.

  Second offense: Subject will serve a jail term of no less than three days.

  Third offense: Subject will serve a jail term of no less than three months.

  Fourth offense: Our models predict that fewer than 1 percent of the targeted subgroup will commit a fourth offense. We recommend a prison term of no less than two years.

  Though penalties may meet with initial civil rights objections, we believe that a continuous, strategic public relations campaign focused on safety and security will result in gradual support of these measures.

  For maximum benefit, we believe this approach should be outlined early in the campaign, as soon as the target population is publicly identified.

  RIEL

  TURNS OUT, DAVID ROSENFELD LIVES IN BEACON HILL, NOT THAT FAR FROM Trident Booksellers & Café, which is maybe the reason that Riel was drawn there in the first place. It’s early evening when she heads out following the map Brian printed for her, finally finding Rosenfeld’s converted carriage house tucked down an alley. The sun hasn’t yet set, but down there it is already pretty dark.

  There’s good reason to think that this David Rosenfeld is the Rosenfeld whose name is written on the envelope. But his name might have been there because he is the main guy to avoid. That’s the real reason Riel insisted on going herself despite the risk that someone will see her. After everything Marly has done, Riel can’t put her in harm’s way like that.

  At least Riel knows Leo’s still okay. According to Level99, there has been regular activity on Leo’s credit card, suggesting that he’s been going on with his life. At least for now.

  Riel takes one last deep breath, rings Rosenfeld’s doorbell. And then she waits. And waits. And waits. But Rosenfeld is home. Riel can feel him inside, watching. Waiting for her to go.

  Riel rings the bell again, tries to feel her way forward. If Rosenfeld is afraid—and Riel can feel he is, which is a relief, given the alternatives—she has to make it more dangerous for him to leave her standing outside than to let her in.

  “I just wanted to thank you!” Riel shouts as loud as she can, hating that getting in means drawing attention to herself, too. She just hopes it works quickly. “For all that information! I think we have enough now!”

  Sure enough, the door snaps right open and Riel is yanked in so forcefully that her head jerks back. Inside, she bangs hard into something.

  “Fuck!” she shouts, grabbing at her throbbing shin as the door slams shut behind her, locking her in. “What the hell!”

  “You’re asking me what the hell?!” Rosenfeld yells. And, wow, is he pissed behind his square black glasses when Riel’s eyes stop watering enough to make him out clearly. Like pissed enough to consider for a second what it would take to kill her with his bare hands. He is leaning heavily on a cane, but she is sure this would not slow him down. Actually, he might have whacked Riel with it already. She takes a step back so he can’t do it again.

  “I have some pictures with your name on them,” she says. “I just wanted to ask you about them. Oh, and I read your book. It’s really good.” She throws in that last part in a lame attempt to win him over with flattery, which she senses works a lot of the time with him. Or would if he weren’t so pissed.

  “My book?” Sure enough, Rosenfeld feels a split-second tug toward softening. But he swallows it away. He shakes his head as he reaches for the door to open it again. “Nope, no thanks. Get out. You have questions, call Hope Lang.”

  “Hope Lang is dead,” Riel says.

  Rosenfeld freezes, closes his eyes. His hand is still on the door. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  Without another word, Rosenfeld turns and makes his way down the hall. He doesn’t invite Riel to follow. But she does anyway. She has no choice. Despite her sense that Rosenfeld would still happily do her harm.

  THE BACK OF Rosenfeld’s house opens up into a beautiful, newly remodeled kitchen and open living room, complete with fireplace and skylight above, all of it much nicer than the house looked from the outside. It’s completely free of clutter, too, apart from a perfectly organized, color-coded bookshelf and dozens of folders lined up like soldiers in expandable metal racks along the opposite wall. Riel stares hard at them. The files matter. Whatever they are.

  “You didn’t know Hope was dead?” Riel asks.

  “Listen, I’m lucky to be alive myself. I’ve made it my business not to know anything about anyone anymore.” Rosenfeld uses his cane to point toward a back door. “Now, out, that way. It’s safer than the front.”

  “But I’m—”

  Rosenfeld holds up a hand. “Nope,” he says. “Not another word. I don’t want to know anything more. Out.”

  “No,” Riel says, crossing her arms and sitting down defiantly on the couch. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Rosenfeld steps closer, more pissed, gripping the top of his cane harder. Yup, he definitely whacked her with it before. And he’ll definitely do it again. “Maybe you misunderstood. I’m not asking. Get out.”

  “If you touch me again, I will scream my head off. And I still won’t leave.” Riel reaches into her bag and pulls out the pictures. “Now, look, your name is right here on this envelope of pictures.”

  “And that is probably what almost got me killed,” he says, gesturing to his leg.

  “What do y
ou mean?”

  “All Hope Lang did was tell me about those pictures. On the phone. I didn’t know her. I’d been an expert for some reporter friend of hers. Anyway, I never even saw the pictures. Just the one quick call. And then boom!” He smacks his palms together loudly. “I was taken out in a crosswalk. I flatlined in the ER. Massive internal bleeding.” He shakes his head, but Riel feels a tremor of doubt. He isn’t sure anymore about throwing her out. He’s even a tiny bit curious. “Doctors say it’s a miracle I survived. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  The folders. Riel feels a tug toward them again, probably because Rosenfeld is worried about her looking in them. There is something there. She motions toward the folders.

  “But you researched it already,” she says. It’s a guess. A Hail Mary pass. “You must have figured something out.”

  Rosenfeld narrows his eyes. Wary of what she already seems to know, but also kind of wanting somebody to ask. He doesn’t want to be the only person who knows. He makes his way closer to the folders and looks down. He exhales, and with his breath out goes his anger.

  “You know, I’ve devoted my entire career to exposing all the messed-up shit our government does in the name of winning wars. Or just winning, period. But I accept now that they will win. Always. And I’d really like not to die for it.”

  “If you don’t help me, other people might die, though. Innocent people. Teenagers. They haven’t even had the chance to live their lives yet. They haven’t done anything wrong,” Riel says. Suddenly there it is: a crack in Rosenfeld’s rock-hard shell. And he is oozing out fast all over the place. She just needs to keep pressing. “Please, we really need your help. What is the place in the pictures? Why does my grandfather care so much about it?”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Senator David Russo,” she says. “And if it makes you feel any better, I think he tried to kill me, too. I’m pretty sure he’s going to keep on trying.”

  “Senator Russo is your grandfather?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right, fine. I’ll look at the pictures, but only because Russo for a grandfather is definitely a shitty deal.”