A woman’s voice sounded in the room. “This is the office of Alison Birkett,” she said. “This is a protected line, federal registration no. 7237785. You may speak without fear or danger.”
Oh my God, I thought, he did it. Daddy did it! He got us Alison Birkett. The SDA itself had turned against us and none of us had any idea why. But now the woman who’d broken the Pentagon Possession, who had forced the Defense Department to admit its involvement with Malignant Ones, had come to save us. I ran and hugged Paul. “It’s her,” I whispered. “It’s Alison Birkett.”
Not exactly, for the woman said, “Please hold for Ms Birkett.”
A moment later a firm alto voice came on. “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I speak with Mr Michael Pierson?”
“Speaking,” my father said.
“Your lawyer, Mr Athenauer, asked me to call you.”
“Yes,” Daddy said. “Yes, thank you very much for calling.”
“Perhaps you could tell me the problem,” she said.
We took turns, first Daddy, then Paul, then me. I couldn’t believe I was speaking to her. I still had her photo over my desk. She didn’t talk down to me, or treat me like a child or anything. She just listened and asked a lot of questions, and afterwards she said, “You did very well, Ms Pierson. Having the name of the official will help us move much more quickly. Thank you.”
“Thank you too,” I said back.
When Daddy asked what would happen, Ms Birkett said, “The first thing we need to do is secure your house and your presence on an emergency basis. I’ll send my team over. Then we need to discover why the SDA refused to help your nephew. I’m going to file a request under the Freedom of Information Act. Usually these things take months, but I believe I can expedite it. There are ways. With luck, we will know something within two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” my mother said. She sounded like she wanted to run away from home.
Ms Birkett said, “If nothing else, the request should shake some people up.” I could hear the smile in her voice. After telling us how the team would identify themselves, she said goodbye and hung up. “Goodbye,” I said softly, even though I knew she couldn’t hear me.
The depossession team arrived half an hour later, two men and a woman, all carrying old-fashioned black doctor bags. They wore one-piece protective suits, heavy-tread boots, insulated gloves and animal head masks. The woman was small, about my height. She wore a crocodile mask and on the groin of her protective suit she’d handpainted a silver circle over two wavy blue lines—the moon of power over the river of continuous birth. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
While they unpacked their equipment, my mother asked, “Will our house be okay?”
“Oh, we don’t anticipate any trouble,” the taller of the two men said. He wore an elephant mask. “Ms Birkett said this was a prophylactic operation.”
They stayed four hours, measuring, taking readings on the house and on us (“Do we have to undress?” I asked the crocodile lady, but all she did was move a stick up and down my body, like when they check for guns at airports), chanting, sprinkling powders, drawing signs on the doors and windows, filling rainbow-coloured balloons with some kind of gas and then popping them in the air, and finally, spraying the four of us with some sort of mist from an unmarked plastic pump bottle (I asked if they used to use aerosols before the ozone crisis, but the crocodile only grunted). They gave each of us a smaller pump and told us to spray ourselves every time we left the house.
Before they left, the elephant warned us not to allow any strangers into our house. “No salesmen,” he said, “no polltakers, no free samples, no meter readers or deliveries of bottled gas or anything like that, no building inspectors, no one. If you need any repairs done make sure you know the person ahead of time. And if you have any friends over, even family, make sure they don’t bring over any third parties you’ve never met before. If they do, simply apologize and don’t let them in, no matter how much your friends vouch for them. Do you understand that?” We all nodded. “Good. Now—this is very important—when people come over that you do know, make them say their names out loud before they step over the threshold. Make them say, ‘My name is blank’ before they enter the house. The same goes for anyone who might lean over the windowsill.”
I said, “We’ll keep all the windows closed.”
“Good,” the elephant said.
Mom said, “Won’t it seem kind of strange if we ask people to say that? I mean, if we know them anyway?”
I knew what she meant. They’ll know we’re possessed. People will talk about us. I said, “We can tell them we’re doing a blessing enactment. They get to take part by saying their names.”
“Good girl,” the elephant said, and the crocodile added, “You would all do well to listen to this young lady. From what Ms Birkett tells us, she knows what she’s doing.” I really had to fight to keep my face straight.
My father asked, “What about going out?”
“No problem,” the elephant said, “at least for the three of you. The measures we’ve taken will effectively seal you against personal intervention. At least if you make sure not to invite her into your house. That’s the important thing. For Mr Cabot the situation is a little more touchy. He should stay inside as much as possible.” Paul nodded.
Mom said, “How long will this go on? We can’t live like this forever.”
I can’t be sure, but I think the elephant glanced at me before he answered her. “I’m sure Ms Birkett will take care of it, and then you can resume your normal life.”
“Shouldn’t we go see her or something?” I asked.
The crocodile said, “She’ll call you.” And then they wished us good luck, made some sweeping hand signs over our heads—and left.
Paul spoke first, the first real sentence he’d said in hours. “God, I’m so tired.”
“C’mon,” I said, “I’ll take you upstairs.”
He half turned towards my folks. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mom said, and Daddy added, “We’re getting help, that’s what matters.”
I was happy to arrange the guest room, to make Paul’s bed and get him towels. I was happy to get away from my parents. After I’d set up Paul, I went to my room and took down the photo of Alison Birkett. For quite a while I sat there, holding it in my hands, looking at the way she just stood there, as firm as a tree on the stone steps of the court.
We saw Ms Birkett thirteen days later. Those two weeks were really hard for me. They were hard for everyone, of course, and I guess I was as scared as the others, but I also had to speak to my friends and everyone, and not tell them what had happened. I stayed in the house as much as possible, telling my friends I was sick, but of course they still called. Like my best friend, Barb, who wanted to tell me about trips to the beach and the club. I couldn’t tell her how I’d faced a Malignant One, or that I’d spoken with Alison Birkett. My parents asked me to keep it secret, but I would have anyway. I didn’t want to push my luck.
I could talk to Paul, of course. And I did, except sometimes that just made it worse. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but he got so depressed, he kept saying how he was putting everybody in danger, how Lisa had “corrupted” him and now it was too late, how we could back out if we wanted, how he wouldn’t blame us and we should save ourselves—
One evening, Paul said to me, “Maybe I’m making a mistake.”
At first I didn’t want to answer. We were sitting in the living room—my folks had gone down to the den to watch TV—and I really just wanted to read. Finally I sighed and said, “What kind of mistake?”