Then I turned around. They were both so close I could see the zit on the cheek of the one on the left, the little booger up the nose of the other.
“‘Scuse me,” I said, trying to push past them. The one with the booger moved to block me.
“Sir,” he said, “can you step over here with us?” He gestured toward the restaurant’s door.
“Sorry, I’m eating,” I said and moved again. This time he put his hand on my chest. He was breathing fast through his nose, making the booger wiggle. I think I was breathing hard too, but it was hard to tell over the hammering of my heart.
The other one flipped down a flap on the front of his windbreaker to reveal a SFPD insignia. “Police,” he said. “Please come with us.”
“Let me just get my stuff,” I said.
“We’ll take care of that,” he said. The booger one stepped right up close to me, his foot on the inside of mine. You do that in some martial arts, too. It lets you feel if the other guy is shifting his weight, getting ready to move.
I wasn’t going to run, though. I knew I couldn’t outrun fate.
Chapter 7
This chapter is dedicated to New York City’s Books of Wonder, the oldest and largest kids’ bookstore in Manhattan. They’re located just a few blocks away from Tor Books’ offices in the Flatiron Building and every time I drop in to meet with the Tor people, I always sneak away to Books of Wonder to peruse their stock of new, used and rare kids’ books. I’m a heavy collector of rare editions of Alice in Wonderland, and Books of Wonder never fails to excite me with some beautiful, limited-edition Alice. They have tons of events for kids and one of the most inviting atmospheres I’ve ever experienced at a bookstore.
Books of Wonder: 18 West 18th St, New York, NY 10011 USA +1 212 989 3270
They took me outside and around the corner, to a waiting unmarked police car. It wasn’t like anyone in that neighborhood would have had a hard time figuring out that it was a cop-car, though. Only police drive big Crown Victorias now that gas had hit seven bucks a gallon. What’s more, only cops could double-park in the middle of Van Ness street without getting towed by the schools of predatory tow-operators that circled endlessly, ready to enforce San Francisco’s incomprehensible parking regulations and collect a bounty for kidnapping your car.
Booger blew his nose. I was sitting in the back seat, and so was he. His partner was sitting in the front, typing with one finger on an ancient, ruggedized laptop that looked like Fred Flintstone had been its original owner.
Booger looked closely at my ID again. “We just want to ask you a few routine questions.”
“Can I see your badges?” I said. These guys were clearly cops, but it couldn’t hurt to let them know I knew my rights.
Booger flashed his badge at me too fast for me to get a good look at it, but Zit in the front seat gave me a long look at his. I got their division number and memorized the four-digit badge number. It was easy: 1337 is also the way hackers write “leet,” or “elite.”
They were both being very polite and neither of them was trying to intimidate me the way that the DHS had done when I was in their custody.
“Am I under arrest?”
“You’ve been momentarily detained so that we can ensure your safety and the general public safety,” Booger said.
He passed my driver’s license up to Zit, who pecked it slowly into his computer. I saw him make a typo and almost corrected him, but figured it was better to just keep my mouth shut.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Marcus? Do they call you Marc?”
“Marcus is fine,” I said. Booger looked like he might be a nice guy. Except for the part about kidnapping me into his car, of course.
“Marcus. Anything you want to tell me?”
“Like what? Am I under arrest?”
“You’re not under arrest right now,” Booger said. “Would you like to be?”
“No,” I said.
“Good. We’ve been watching you since you left the BART. Your Fast Pass says that you’ve been riding to a lot of strange places at a lot of funny hours.”
I felt something let go inside my chest. This wasn’t about the Xnet at all, then, not really. They’d been watching my subway use and wanted to know why it had been so freaky lately. How totally stupid.
“So you guys follow everyone who comes out of the BART station with a funny ride-history? You must be busy.”
“Not everyone, Marcus. We get an alert when anyone with an uncommon ride profile comes out and that helps us assess whether we want to investigate. In your case, we came along because we wanted to know why a smart-looking kid like you had such a funny ride profile?”
Now that I knew I wasn’t about to go to jail, I was getting pissed. These guys had no business spying on me — Christ, the BART had no business helping them to spy on me. Where the hell did my subway pass get off on finking me out for having a “nonstandard ride pattern?”
“I think I’d like to be arrested now,” I said.
Booger sat back and raised his eyebrow at me.
“Really? On what charge?”
“Oh, you mean riding public transit in a nonstandard way isn’t a crime?”
Zit closed his eyes and scrubbed them with his thumbs.
Booger sighed a put-upon sigh. “Look, Marcus, we’re on your side here. We use this system to catch bad guys. To catch terrorists and drug dealers. Maybe you’re a drug dealer yourself. Pretty good way to get around the city, a Fast Pass. Anonymous.”
“What’s wrong with anonymous? It was good enough for Thomas Jefferson. And by the way, am I under arrest?”
“Let’s take him home,” Zit said. “We can talk to his parents.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I said. “I’m sure my parents will be anxious to hear how their tax dollars are being spent —”
I’d pushed it too far. Booger had been reaching for the door handle but now he whirled on me, all Hulked out and throbbing veins. “Why don’t you shut up right now, while it’s still an option? After everything that’s happened in the past two weeks, it wouldn’t kill you to cooperate with us. You know what, maybe we should arrest you. You can spend a day or two in jail while your lawyer looks for you. A lot can happen in that time. A lot. How’d you like that?”
I didn’t say anything. I’d been giddy and angry. Now I was scared witless.
“I’m sorry,” I managed, hating myself again for saying it.
Booger got in the front seat and Zit put the car in gear, cruising up 24th Street and over Potrero Hill. They had my address from my ID.
Mom answered the door after they rang the bell, leaving the chain on. She peeked around it, saw me and said, “Marcus? Who are these men?”
“Police,” Booger said. He showed her his badge, letting her get a good look at it — not whipping it away the way he had with me. “Can we come in?”
Mom closed the door and took the chain off and let them in. They brought me in and Mom gave the three of us one of her looks.
“What’s this about?”
Booger pointed at me. “We wanted to ask your son some routine questions about his movements, but he declined to answer them. We felt it might be best to bring him here.”
“Is he under arrest?” Mom’s accent was coming on strong. Good old Mom.
“Are you a United States citizen, ma’am?” Zit said.
She gave him a look that could have stripped paint. “I shore am, hyuck,” she said, in a broad southern accent. “Am I under arrest?”
The two cops exchanged a look.
Zit took the fore. “We seem to have gotten off to a bad start. We identified your son as someone with a nonstandard public transit usage pattern, as part of a new pro-active enforcement program. When we spot people whose travels are unusual, or that match a suspicious profile, we investigate further.”