Enemy of Gideon (12 page)

“You’re a remarkable young lady,” Mrs. Pettigrew says. “You’ve been through a great ordeal.”

“We’re happy to have you in our home,” Mr. Pettigrew says. “Is your mother working late again?”

“She had to work another shift, but I may be able to introduce her to you soon.”

I check the time on my wristband, nearly six o’clock. The longest night of my life lies ahead. Arkin shoots me a look I know all too well. His optimism fires up my hopes.
How can I thank him?
Then an idea comes to mind.

“If I could, I’d like to run downstairs and get something,” I say, hurrying from the table and out of the apartment.

At my apartment door, I freeze. Voices float out from behind it.
Is Mom home?
I press my ear to the door. Mom’s muffled voice comes through and so does a man’s.

I step back from the door.
Is this the guy Arkin talked about?
The one who convinced Mom to turn her back on Petra?

My questions will drive me crazy if I don’t go inside, so I take in a deep breath and push the door open.

CHAPTER TWELVE

M
om and the mysterious man stop talking when I step through the door.

“Raissa?” she calls as I enter the kitchen. “Where were you? I was starting to worry.”

“Eating dinner upstairs. I thought you were working late,” I say, my eyes falling upon the man sitting at the kitchen table in front of a bouquet of fresh-cut tulips.

“Hi, Raissa.” He wears the standard cannery worker smock over his coveralls. His blue eyes pierce through me, despite his exaggerated smirk.

“This is my co-worker, Hunter,” she says.

I give him a blank stare. “Hello.”

“He’s staying for dinner,” she says, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. “So you ate with Ogden?”

“I need something from my room. Then I’m heading back upstairs.”

“You look better. Are you feeling well?” she asks.

I rush to my bedroom. “I’m fine.”

After flipping on the bedroom light, I search through my backpack. When I find what I came for, I head to the apartment door.

“When will you be back?” Mom asks. “It’s a school night.”

I open the door. “Soon.”

“Raissa,” she says in her warning tone.

I stop and turn to her. “Is eight o’clock, okay?”

“Tell his parents I said hello.”

I swallow and close the door behind me. Her words reverberate in my mind. She spoke as if nothing happened, as if Chief Penski and his CE team never barged into our apartment in the middle of the night searching for Petra.
What did Hunter say to her? She acts as if he somehow erased her memories.
Climbing the stairs back up to Arkin’s floor, I try to shut out my worries. I have enough on my mind tonight.

Back inside the Pettigrews’ apartment, I flip through my sketchbook and present Arkin with my best portrait of him.

“It looks just like me,” he says, his eyes widening.

His pretend parents rise from the table to admire the sketch, nodding and complimenting my skill.

“I wanted to thank you for being there for me,” I say. “You’ve helped me through all of this, and I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

He hops up from his chair at the table and wraps his arms around me.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You mean so much to me.”

My head spins.
Does he have feelings for me?
My heart could’ve climbed out of my chest and floated away like a balloon. Just when I think I’ve discovered all I admire about him, he plays his guitar and sings. Or says,
“You mean so much to me.”

Arkin, Arkin.
His name plays like a song in my head.

We spend the next hour catching up on my missed school assignments for the teachers we share. Even though I hate school, I need the distraction. Otherwise, Petra’s escape and worries about every aspect of the process will eat me alive.

At five minutes until eight o’clock, Arkin walks me to the door and gives me another hug.

“Stop worrying,” he whispers. “All things work for the good of those who love Him.”

I know who he means by
Him
. Arkin tried to prepare me for the worst. I know it could also be God’s plan for Petra to lose her life.
But how would that be for Petra’s good?

Back in the apartment, Mom sits alone on the sofa. I search the room.
No Hunter. Thank you, Lord.

“Hunter just left,” she says, reading my eyes. “I saved you some pound cake for dessert if you want some.”

I shake my head. “I’m going to bed early. It’s been a long day.”

She nods, but I can tell something weighs on her mind. “Hunter likes me. I don’t know what to think.”

“Likes you?” I recoil at the thought of her being with a new man.

“Romantically. I like him too, but it’s been so long since …”

I start toward my bedroom. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“What would Petra say?” she asks.

I freeze in my steps. “What do you mean?”

“I would usually ask her things like this. I don’t know what to do.”

She gives me a blank stare as if I might be able to give her the desired answers.

I turn away. “Good night, Mom.”

►▼◄

I hide under the sheets on my bed, reading the Bible under the glow of a flashlight. Arkin once said that the Book of Psalms can bring me comfort when I need it, so I read each one with desperation, hoping for peace of mind. Psalm 18 catches my attent
ion, and I read and reread the verses, captivated by the images they place in my mind. “
He soared on the wings of the wind,”
it read. “
He rescued me from my powerful enemy.”
Can I be comforted by these words? Are they meant for me in this time?

I check my wristband. The time reads 9:13. My pulse quickens. I read through Psalm 18 again, picturing God with smoke rising from His nostrils and lightning bolts flashing across the clouds. The writer, David, cried out for help, and God answered him with great power. I long for such a rescue to take place for Petra right now.

I close the Bible, return it to its hiding place, and pray. Arkin said I can pray in my head, and God will still hear my thoughts. God is everywhere. I can’t fathom it, though. People are limited.
How can God be everywhere at once? How can anyone experience all things at all times?
My mind forms more and more questions, but these questions don’t trouble my heart, not like the questions that haunted me before I met Arkin. He shared so many more answers, some I wanted to hear and others I didn’t.

I flip off the flashlight, and darkness swallows my bedroom. My head still aches from the virus and from the stress of the day. My thoughts of Petra, Arkin, and Mom twist and turn around my brain like a vine engulfing a tree. I close my eyes, hoping sleep will overcome me, but the aching anxiety weighing down my gut won’t let me sleep. I float close to the edge of rest until a terrifying sound springs me back into full consciousness.

“Code 73,” an automated voice says from my wristband, interspersed with beeping.

I sit up. My glowing wristband flashes Petra’s face with
Code 73
in green letters.

“All buildings will be searched,” the voice says.

How long have I been asleep?
My wristband reads 9:38pm. My heart sinks.

“No!” I jump up from my bed. “It’s too soon!”

Mom opens my door with a glowing wrist. “Raissa? What’s going on?”

“Something went wrong. They shouldn’t know this soon,” I say.

“You had something to do with this?” she asks, her eyes wide in horror.

I said too much. “I have to find her.”

“No!” she yells, blocking my doorway. “She is a fugitive! You will have nothing more to do with this!”

“They’re going to catch her! Don’t you love your own daughter anymore?”

Out of nowhere, a sting of pain bursts across my cheek. I stand in shock.
She slapped me.
I grab my burning cheek with a cold hand.

She
narrows her eyes. “Go back to bed. If they find you with her, you’ll be treated like an enemy too.”

Hot tears sear my eyes. I grit my teeth, longing to burst into a tirade about Hunter and being brainwashed and how Mom disowned Petra like a piece of garbage. Something separate from myself keeps the words from my lips. Psalm 18 flashes in my mind.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer.

Mom leaves the room, and I collapse on my pillow, wiping away tears.
Please, God,
I beg
. Please help Petra escape. Please.

Mom’s bedroom door closes.
I could still leave. Mom wouldn’t know.

I move to my closet and slip from my pajamas to my coveralls. With the gentlest of movements, I turn my door knob, careful not to make a sound. Mom may be in her room, but she couldn’t possibly be asleep, knowing what’s happening to Petra. My bedroom door creaks once as I pull it open. I freeze and grit my teeth, listening for sounds inside Mom’s room. Nothing. I pull my door closed behind me, holding my breath. I tip-toe down the hallway, but two boards creak under my steps. I freeze again and listen. Nothing. I finally release my breath as I cross the living room at a quicker pass, still quiet as a mouse. My boots sit beside the apartment door. I thrust them on and reach for the door knob.

My wristband beeps, making me jump. Petra’s face flashes on the screen again with a different code: Code 77.

The automated voice speaks the words I dread and crushes my heart: “Fugitive apprehended.”

►▼◄

The morning brings no hope. The last city-wide communication is still imprinted in my head, even though it disappeared from my wristband many hours before. Mom enters my room in the bright morning light, and we look at each other with a mutual underst
anding of what will happen this morning as scheduled. Maybe Mom blinks away tears. I don’t know. She leaves the room too fast for me to confirm it. A moment later, the front door shuts.

I can’t get out of bed. All we planned and hoped for failed. Petra will die this morning. Storming to CE headquarters, demanding to see her again, should be my first course of action, but what good will that do? Besides, we said good-bye. The memory sends a wave of sorrow on top of me, and I sob into my pillow.

A few minutes pass, and a knock comes from the front door.
Is it Arkin?
I rush to answer it.
Who cares how terrible I look? He might have some news for me.
But I don’t find Arkin behind the door. Instead, a CE officer stands before me.

“Delivery for Audrey Santos,” the officer says, offering me a gray envelope with the City of Gideon official seal on it.

I take it. “What’s this?”

“Processing papers go to the next of kin,” he says, disappearing from the doorway.

Puzzled, I stare at the envelope. Could it be proof of Mom’s brainwashing?
Is it some document uncovering a conspiracy Mom plotted against Petra?
A million irrational ideas flash through my head. I rip into the envelope and pull out an ornate letter stamped with another gold city seal.

Citizen Audrey Santos,

In accordance with Notification Code 43, this official communication is meant to inform you of punishment enforced. In accordance with Disciplinary Code 1023, punishment for the breech of Codes 770, 771 and 927 was carried out this morning at approximately five o’clock. Enemy Petra Santos has been terminated, and her remains disposed of in accordance with Disciplinary Code 1024.

Amidst the numbers and formal rhetoric of the letter, I understand one word:
terminated
. My eyes fall across the words, and my knees give out. Dropping down hard on the wood floor, I release the letter from my grasp. The breath leaves my body, and I struggle to inhale.

Petra is dead. They didn’t even wait for the sun to clear the horizon before taking her life. While I slept restlessly in my bed, she took her last breath less than one mile away. My body wretches, and I heave, but nothing comes up from my stomach. Coughing, my whole body turns to dead weight, numb to the core. I weep, struggling to breathe.

Arkin
.
I need to see Arkin.

Somehow I gather my feet under me and run barefoot up to Arkin’s apartment. He won’t leave for school for another ten minutes or so. I can show him the letter. Maybe he can go to Philippi and find out what went wrong. After knocking countless times, I stumble back down the stairs.

As I step through my apartment door, a familiar voice calls me.

“Raissa?”

Ogden stands behind me, toting his backpack over one shoulder. “What’s going on?”

I can’t speak or even look at him. He’s never seen me this emotional, this broken. I offer him the letter. He takes it and steps into my apartment. When he finishes reading it, his expression is pale, stunned.

“Rais, I’m so sorry,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I say nothing to him.
Did Og’s dad take Petra’s life?
My stomach turns at the thought of it, and I yank out of his reach.

“Your father did this,” I say, my voice a raspy hiss.

His eyes redden. “Petra made her choice.”

“She made the
right
choice.”

“Don’t say that. You’ll get into trouble,” he says, sounding like his father.

“Why don’t you tell your dad!”

He steps back and wipes a tear from his cheek as if to wipe away my words.

“I’m late for school.” He tosses the letter at my feet and walks out.

Right away, I hate myself for what I said.
He was just trying to comfort me
. In my tumult of emotions, I don’t know who exactly to berate. I have reasons to lash out at everyone, except one person, the one I need the most right now.