"Fine," she said, hearing the dull echo of fiberglass. Hoc's ears pricked as he stared expectantly at the door.
"I just don't want you messing with my times," Boyd said distantly. Again he knocked, then rang the doorbell. "I'm having enough trouble staying in norms as it is."
Grace turned, seeing his avoidance. "You're having balance issues? Why didn't you tell me?"
He glanced at her and away, his wrinkles making him look old to her for the first time. "I just did," he said, then cleared his throat at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Sure, but only when I can't say anything, she thought, as the door opened and a tall woman in jeans and a baggy sweater looked out at them. Her haircut was short, styled and highlighted in the latest middle-aged fashion. Expression questioning, she took in their suits, paling as she saw the car behind them. Hand gripping the door, she ducked behind it, almost hiding. "Can I help you?"
Can I help you, Grace thought. Not no thank you, or not interested. She knew who they were and what they wanted, and Grace's skin tingled. At her heel, Hoc wagged his tail, and she suppressed her excitement. Excitement didn't unbalance her erg strength, but it didn't help maintain it, either.
"Mrs. Thomson?" Boyd said, his deep voice rumbling.
"Yes?" She was scared, and Hoc's tail slowed as it brushed the porch. "What do you want?"
Grace dropped a hand onto Hoc's head to ease the animal's stress. "Mrs. Thomson. I'm Grace Evans, and this is my partner, Boyd. It has come to the Strand's attention that-"
The woman ducked behind the door, slamming it hard enough that the pumpkin on the knocker flopped against the fiberglass with a little thump. At her feet, Hoc whined.
Boyd and Grace didn't even look at each other. It was obvious the woman was just behind the door; they hadn't heard her walk away. A moment of pity washed through Grace, and then it was gone, forced out by common sense. The woman's son could throw energy. He needed to be assessed and trained so he wouldn't be a menace to himself or anyone else.
"My God," Grace complained loud enough for the woman to hear. "It's not as if we're going to give him a lobotomy."
Standing straighter, Boyd knocked lightly on the door again. "Mrs. Thomson? Your son has been documented throwing in vivo energy. We're not going to harm or change him. But for his and your own safety, he needs to be evaluated for control and depth of ability."
You don't want him to accidentally burn your house down after he's had one too many lattes because you asked him to take out the garbage. Staring at the door, Grace grimaced. It had been more than that. Lots more.
"Can we please talk to you for a moment?" Boyd tried again.
Grace held up a hand, and Boyd went silent. Together they leaned to the door, listening.
"They're going to brainwash and castrate me, Mom!" a young, understandably frightened voice said. That was another well-touted fallacy. Unless you were in one of the more energy-rich jobs, having children was encouraged. The Strand didn't brainwash anyone either. True, most throws worked for the Strand, but once you retired, you could work for any number of industries-if you were careful.
"He's going to run . . ." Boyd said, and Grace nodded.
"Either that, or blow up the house," she muttered as a tingle went through her. Together she and Boyd looked at their watches. They had stopped. The boy had lots of power, with just a shade less control. This was going to be nasty.
"You brought the sedative, right?" Boyd's tone was joking, but the question was real enough.
Grace cocked her hip, watching Hoc's pricked ears for any sign of the seventeen-year-old sneaking out the back door. "Mrs. Thomson, if you refuse to talk to us, a second team will be here in thirty minutes to break down your door and forcibly take your son." It was a lie, and as Boyd looked at Grace, she shrugged. "I'm in a hurry." He cracked a smile to show his long teeth.
"You can't do this! It's against the law!" the woman shouted from behind the door.
"Yes we can." Grace checked her watch. "Knowingly harboring an unregistered throw is punishable by fines that will take your house and leave you penniless." That part was true.
A whisper of pity went through her, and she lowered her voice, knowing there was a hushed argument going on by Hoc's cocked head. "I know it's hard, Mrs. Thomson. I've been on the other side of the door myself. If Zach sees you cooperating, he won't be scared. We're here to help both of you."
This too, she believed. She had to. Putting on a suit didn't divorce you from your humanity, even though she wondered about some of her superiors. But even in the best of acquisitions there was anxiety and fear.
At her feet, Hoc whined. The door cracked open, and a frightened half-face showed. "He's my only son. I can't lose him."
Relief swept through her, and Grace smiled. "I'm my grandmother's only living grandchild. We had lunch yesterday. We're not here to take Zach from you, Mrs. Thomson. You're encouraged to come with us, to be there to help him make this decision. It's a chance for him to have a say in his future. Please don't start his new life with unnecessary fear."
Hoc waved his tail, and Mrs. Thomson opened the door wider. Outside on the street, a van drove by, slowing when the driver saw the black car. "You can both do what he can?"
"Yes, ma'am." Boyd ran a hand over his silvering hair. "The Strand taught me what to avoid and how to control the rest, and I went on to get a free ride at the college of my choice and a steady paycheck after that."
It had been a bit different for her, but he was right about the steady pay-not that she ever had much use for it.
Hoc's ears pricked, and he stood, tail waving as he trotted off the porch. Tension slammed into Grace, and Boyd stiffened. Zach had left the house.
Seeing their expression shift, the woman's eyes widened. "Please come in," she said, flinging the door open. "I'll go get him."
From behind the garage, a motorcycle engine revved and roared.
Shoes scraping, Boyd ran for the car. Grace followed, while Hoc tore after the scooter that skidded out from behind the garage, almost spinning out of control when it jumped the curb and fishtailed down the street.
Belying his age, Boyd slid across the top of the hood. He was in the car and starting it before Grace had even lifted the latch to the door. "I hate it when they run," she muttered as she fastened her seat belt, knowing Boyd wasn't going to slow down for anything. He liked a good chase as much as she did.
Hoc was vanishing down the avenue after Zach. The boy was hunched on his bike, no helmet, sneakers and a white T-shirt making him look vulnerable. Impressed his cycle was still running, Grace reached for the radio, her hand dropping in disgust. Damn, he had fried it.