Raging Sea (Undertow, #2)(6)

Furious, I tear myself away from the papers only to find the cashier in my path.

“So, this little scam the two of you pull would probably work if not for one thing,” he says.

Bex is just over his shoulder. She frowns and throws her hands up in surrender.

“I’m not a total idiot,” he continues. “I’ve already pressed the silent alarm, so the police are on their way. Let’s stay calm and let them handle this.”

“How about if I put it all back?” I offer.

He hesitates, considering the notion, but it’s too late. Two squad cars pull into the parking lot outside and stop. Four cops squeeze out of them, seemingly quadruplets, or at least clones—goatees, shaved heads, aviator sunglasses. Two of them circle around the back. I assume they want to make sure Bex and I don’t sneak out a rear exit. The other two swagger through the front door and look around.

“Ladies, I’m Officer Perry and this is Officer Casto. Let me tell you what’s going to happen here,” he says as he takes off his sunglasses. Behind them are two oval-shaped patches of white skin in a sea of sunburn. “We’re placing the two of you under arrest for shoplifting. It’s best if you cooperate. It will go better for you when you go to court.”

“Court,” I whisper to Bex.

We can’t go to court. We can’t get arrested, either. The moment I’m put into the system, the military will march into this town and drag me away, probably to Tempest. No, when I show up there, it’s not going to be in chains. Getting arrested is not an option today.

“Take off the backpack, please,” Perry continues.

I do as he says, mainly because it will slow me down when we make a run for it.

“We promise we won’t do anything like this again,” Bex begs, still hoping this will end well.

“Sounds like we have a couple of Coasters, partner.” Perry says to Casto.

Casto looks us up and down, then shakes his head like we’re an infestation of vermin.

Coasters. That word pops up everywhere we go, like a hateful jack-in-the-box. It hangs in storefronts and gas stations. I’ve seen it on T-shirts and the front page of newspapers. We come from the East, places that people used to move to so they could be near the ocean. Boston, Savannah, New Haven, Providence, Norfolk, Miami, Fort Lauderdale, New York City, they’re all devastated, destroyed by floods and tidal waves and monsters from the deep. People watch the tides. They leave everything they own when the Rusalka arrive. They run for their lives, but before they can get very far, cops and roadblocks try to stop them. The governors of places like Texas and Alabama tell us we are not welcome. They claim Coasters pose a threat to public health. They say it with a smirk. You don’t have to read a history book to know that half of this country has been waiting a few hundred years for a chance to screw the other half. Now they’ve got their chance.

“That could have been a possibility if you weren’t in violation of the governor’s executive order,” Casto says in answer to Bex’s offer. “No one from outside the state is permitted within Texas borders without the proper identification. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you don’t have it.”

He pauses for Perry’s laugh. It’s a joke only he and his partner find funny.

“I’m going to search you now,” Perry says. “Do you have anything dangerous in your pockets? Needles? Anything sharp I should know about before I put my hands inside? Drug paraphernalia? If I reach into that pocket and something sticks me, things are gonna get unpleasant.”

“Really, you don’t have to do this,” Bex begs, but she’s not looking at the cops. She’s looking at me.

Perry pats me down and mutters something about “Coaster filth” and how I smell. He’s “had it up to here” with “illegals” sneaking into his state, causing problems, “sleepin’ in the parks.” He’s not having it in his town, “no, sirree, Bob.” He’s “drawin’ a line in the sand” before the place he grew up in turns into another “stinkin’ refugee camp.”

“What is this?” he barks as he snatches my gloved hand and lifts it up to my face as if I have no idea it’s wrapped around my wrist.

“It’s jewelry,” Bex lies. “She made it.”

“Take it off,” Perry orders.

“I can’t. It’s locked on tight.”

It’s the truth. This thing won’t come off. I’ve tried vegetable oil, butter, soap, prying it open with a knife, smashing it with a hammer, everything short of amputating my hand.

“What are these markings?” he asks, twisting my hand roughly as he peers closer. “What is this? A wave or something?”

He looks into my face, maybe for the first time, and there’s a burst of recognition. Yep, it’s me. He’s befuddled and turns pale as chalk, then falls backwards like I slugged him. On his way down, he knocks over a rack of candy bars, then a container filled with bottles of soft drinks in ice.

“Perry?” his partner cries. “What the heck? Get up.”

“Casto, she’s that girl from New York,” he croaks while fumbling for his gun. When he finds it, he points the muzzle right into my face. “The terrorist!”

“Holy crap! The mermaid?” Casto cries. He aims his gun at me too.