They are waiting for me when I come out of the D. Sullivan Building first day of school. An idling black van, door half-open. Tinted front windows. Shadows in the back. I hear them jump onto the sidewalk, shoes on stone, then feel the tug on my arms. A hand shuts my mouth and they drag me inside, the door shutting neatly. A few seconds seem too little for all that to have happened, but it did, and now, we're driving away.
Faces are above me, shadowed in caps. They're all dressed in dark, heavy, unassuming clothes. The figures range – large, thin, fit. I'm still not allowed to speak, but I can see bits of their features. Young. Older. Who are these people?
Ransom. I've just been kidnapped for ransom. Wow! On the first day of school too! It's not as if I can tell them thanks, I know, plus I'm doubting that they set that detail out of kindness to me. That was probably more for shock factor. Or impatience. Who knows?
One of them finds something he's been fumbling for. He leans over, tying a bandanna round my eyes. My hands are pulled behind my back and bound together, then they stuff a sock in my mouth. Thank God it smells clean. I remain where I am, lying in some guy's lap. I think of Maggie and my dad, Pia and Brian, Wes, Glenn.
Slowly, my cool non-worry starts to turn to healthy panic. I could die. I could be raped. I could have a minor part of me cut off to be sent to my house to alarm my dad and the police – an ear, a finger, a toe. It's not impossible (even it if it does sound dramatic and TV-ish)! Nothing is impossible! Not torture (World War I and II, people), not beatings (hatred taken out on a Sullivan child by possibly impoverished deviants), not anything.
I start to shake, my mind streaming with pleas, silent tears, negotiation ideas. I wonder how long it will be before I get to it – the point where the worst happens. Surprisingly, the drive is short, but there's quite a period of preparation before we get out. First, the impoverished deviants bustle about, whispering about something or other, then I feel myself moving, being carried. Then ... believe it or not, I'm stuffed into what feels like a sleeping bag.
Like a corpse, I'm hauled out into the day, but soon after, I hear the creak of wood, the light dies, and I know we're indoors.
There's a strange crackling sound as they walk, and I can hear other things too. Murmurs. Creaks. Footsteps. They go far back, giving me the clue that the room we're in is large, then I'm set down – with surprising gentleness – onto the floor. The bag opens, I'm pulled out, and the bandanna over my eyes comes off.
I blink. OK. First thing I see? People. A lot of them. Like a classful. They're standing around me in a dark but strangely familiar-looking space.
I can't believe it. It's ... the glass warehouse.
One of the men steps up and stretches his hand towards me. He's tall and straight-built, African-American, with a relaxed, good-looking face. He pulls me up and sits me in a chair facing everyone.
"Don't worry, Miss Sullivan," he assures me, arms over his chest. "Nobody here's going to hurt you."
I blink at him. My mouth is still stuffed, so there's not much I can respond with. I try to glance at him and show him with my eyes, and he purses his lips together, considering. Finally, he pulls out the sock, waiting as if expecting me to scream. But I'm not that stupid. I know no one's going to hear me through these industrial-thick walls.
"Is there something you want to say?" he prompts me.
I move my mouth for a moment, trying to get the cottony taste off my tongue. "Who are you?"
"Me, or us?"
"Both."
"You can call me Nate. I'm head of the Watchers."
Hmm? "Did you say – ?"
"Yes, I did."
"You guys are the Watchers? The ones everyone have been talking about?"
"Yup."
I take a second, looking around more carefully. Most of the people here are men in their twenties or thirties, but there are women too. They all look ordinary, as in they wouldn't have stood out to me on the street. That kind of bothers me.
Nate pulls up his own chair, nodding at the others. They disperse, most disappearing through back and side doors, a few still lingering in corners, smoking and talking quietly. Nate sits in front of me, rubbing a thumb-tip along his jawline. "I take it you've heard of us."
"Of course. Who hasn't?"
"How much do you know?"
"Enough."
"Really?"
"I follow the news."
"Do you?" He seems surprised or impressed by this. "So I assume you know about the little feud we have going on with the police?"
"Uh, well, yeah."
"And you know who Gerringer is?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Head of the East District police. But also a good friend to your father."
I shrug at that. "I don't really give a damn about my dad or his friends."
"Does he give a damn about you?"
"If you mean will he fork over a ton of money to get you people to return me, I suppose so." I falter suddenly. He will, won't he? I know he loves his money, but he wouldn't leave me here ... right?
"It's not money we're after, Nora."
"It's not?"
"No. It's something else. Something more socio-political."
"Uh ... "
"Do you know what it is we do?"
I hesitate for a moment. "Fight?"
"Yes, but for what?"
"I don't know."
"What do you think?"
"I don't know."
"Try to imagine yourself as one of us," he requests, hands spread like a teacher trying to get his students to focus, to pay attention. "What do you think we might want?"
The student, me, forces her brain to work. "Better lives?"
"OK. Good. But how?"
Why is this starting to feel like a real classroom? Is that why this idiot kidnapped me? To practise a new private school system? "How?"
"In what aspects, specifically?"
"Look, I seriously don't know – "
"Come on, Nora. Try. You go to Nelson's Academy. You should be a smart girl."
I can't help bristling, even though I know I shouldn't care what this stranger thinks. "Just because I don't know what you're talking about doesn't mean I'm stupid."
"Guess, then."
"Money."
"I already told you it wasn't that."
"Living conditions. Amenities. Security."
"Right," he breaks in abruptly, kind of startling me. He leaps from his chair, smiling down at me.
