by Joel Shulkin
“Wait!” she yelled, and forced an extra burst of speed.
The doors opened again. Cristina slipped into the empty car. The doors slid shut.
She dived into the seat farthest from the exit. Huddled behind the seat back. Held her breath, waiting for the door to reopen.
It didn’t. The train jerked, rolled forward.
Cristina released her breath. Where had that jolt of aggression come from? Not that she wasn’t grateful—otherwise she might not be alive. But the ferocity of her own actions terrified her almost as much as the threat of being shot.
As the train clattered down the track, Cristina opened her hand and studied the paper again. Charles MGH. She clasped her hands together, finding security in the paper scraping against her palms. Nothing else felt real. Hopefully, whatever Stacey had to tell her would change that.
Wind rattled the casements of Detective Wilson’s apartment as he studied the Framingham PD files. Detective Mitchell Parker seemed to be a model cop—decorated for meritorious service, community service, up for promotion. Out of nowhere, he had disappeared for two days and then killed himself. And he left no investigation records on the car wreck that killed Cristina’s parents.
Wilson scrolled down to the last page of the employee profile. Parker was survived by his wife of ten years, still living in their house in Framingham. He scratched his chin. He hadn’t pegged Cristina as a side gig. But Wilson didn’t know that much about her, did he? Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as she seemed.
His phone rang, and he picked it up.
“I lost her,” Hawkins said.
“What happened?”
“She attacked a vagrant on the Red Line platform while his back was turned and ran off. Practically ran me over on her way to the train. By the time I caught up, it had already pulled out.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Did she kill the vagrant?”
“No, knocked him out. Looks like he was reaching for his flask and she flipped out.”
Wilson scratched at his ear. He knew something was up with Silva but didn’t expect this. Maybe the shock of seeing Jerry Peterman getting gunned down by police had made her snap. “Did she recognize you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any idea where she’s headed?”
“A peddler heard her say ‘Charles MGH.’ I’m waiting for the next southbound train to pursue.”
“All right, let me know when you find her, but unless she does anything else disruptive, stay out of sight.”
As he hung up, Wilson leaned back in his chair and rubbed his upper lip. If Cristina was a threat to public safety, he’d have to take her in. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do that until he found out what was going on. Maybe she was crazy. But he had a hunch there was something bigger. And his hunches were almost never wrong.
When the subway doors slid open at Charles MGH Station, Cristina peered out and checked the platform twice. At every prior station, she’d braced herself when the train stopped. Each time no one else boarded. Each time she chided herself for being paranoid. But now that she was about to leave the safety of the subway car, the paranoia returned full force.
The platform was empty except for a pair of young women making their way to the staircase. No bearded men.
Sighing with relief, Cristina exited and followed the women upstairs. After passing through the turnstile, she scanned the lobby. It was busier here than at the other stations, mostly filled with doctors in blue scrubs from Mass General Hospital. Not even a blizzard kept surgical interns home. A man groaned and tapped his feet as an elderly couple puzzled over the ticket dispenser. An MBTA worker wandered over to help. A woman wearing a yellow rain slicker and snow boots flitted around the room, passing out flyers. No Stacey.
Cristina started toward the exit. Was this some elaborate joke at her expense? She considered asking the MBTA worker for help, but what would Cristina say? She was meeting with a woman that accused her of killing her brother and who was somehow connected to a man who claimed her memory was stolen? Right. If she mentioned she was a psychiatrist, he could make up a heck of a punch line to tell his friends later at the bar. Cristina shook her head and kept walking. If Stacey wasn’t waiting outside, Cristina would have to figure out something else.
“Care to make a donation to fight breast cancer?” The woman in the yellow slicker blocked Cristina’s path, holding a lockbox and hugging a stack of flyers.
“I’m sorry.” Cristina dodged to one side. “I don’t have time.”
“Well, at least take a flyer.” The woman stepped in her way again, grinning like the Cheshire cat as she held out a pink paper.
“Fine.” Cristina snatched the paper and marched onward. As she neared the door, she heard sleet pounding the pavement outside. She went to open her umbrella and realized she was still holding the flyer. She was about to dump it in the trash when something handwritten on the back caught her eye: Longfellow. The penmanship matched the note the homeless man had given her.
She stormed back to the woman in the yellow slicker. Grabbed her shoulder. Waved the flyer in her face. “What the hell is this?”
“I don’t know.” The Cheshire grin and the blood drained from the woman’s face. “This woman made a sizable donation. She showed me your picture and asked me to give you that flyer.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t know. She asked to remain anonymous.”
“Where is she?” Cristina tightened her grip. “Tell me!”
“Ladies, is there a problem here?” The MBTA worker approached.
Cristina’s cheeks flushed. She could imagine what she looked like, holding this woman by the shoulder. Judging by the panicked look on the woman’s face, she wouldn’t be of any more help anyway.
“No, no problem,” Cristina said and released the woman. “I—I’m sorry.”
Cristina ran into the freezing rain.
It took fifteen minutes to trod from Cambridge Street to Embankment Road. The clue, Longfellow, was easy enough to decipher. Opposite the Esplanade from MGH, the Longfellow Bridge spanned across the Charles River. How far would she have to cross to find Stacey, or would she have to deal with more cat and mouse games first?
“Over here!” Stacey’s voice rose above the pelting rain. She was under the bridge, wearing a hooded raincoat.
Tightening her grip on her umbrella, Cristina picked her way around the puddles and ice patches to join her.
“What’s this about?” After shaking the rain from her umbrella, Cristina glared at her. “What’s with all this cloak and dagger bullshit?”
Stacey pushed back her hood. Her face was pale. “I’m sorry, but I had to be sure you weren’t followed. Were you followed?”
“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think everyone is after me.”
“That’s good. It’ll keep you alive.”
A shiver ran down Cristina’s back. Her resolve wavered. Then she reminded herself this woman had nearly destroyed her career. Heat flushed through her body.
“You sound like someone from a bad spy movie.” Cristina wagged a finger in Stacey’s face. “Why did you email me, asking me to meet you at your hotel, and then refuse to see me?”
“I didn’t send that email. Francisco did.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s hard to follow his reasoning. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you then, but I will answer your questions now.”
“Fine. Let’s start with your brother. He was hunting someone named Quinn, and it wasn’t some childhood bully.”
Stacey nodded.
“Was that Quinn he killed?”
“No.”
“So who’s Quinn? Why did Jerry want him dead?”
Stacey’s head tilted downward. “Quinn stole Jerry’s life.”
“That’s what Jerry said the night he died.
What did he mean?”
“It’s complicated.”
Cristina scoffed. “I’ve got time.”
Stacey’s gaze darted side to side. With a sigh, she said, “Jerry didn’t lose his memory in an accident. Quinn stole it.”
“Why would Quinn steal his memory?”
“As part of a plan.”
“What plan?”
Stacey shook her head. “I don’t know all the details. I know Jerry remembering wasn’t part of it. That’s why he went insane. By the time you saw him, his mind must’ve been ripping apart at the seams.”
Cristina’s cheeks grew cold. Was that what Jerry meant when he said it was her fault? By treating his amnesia, had she driven him insane? Recovering memories should bring peace and comfort. Unless those memories were stolen, like Santos claimed hers had been . . .
“Why should I believe you?” Cristina asked.
“You shouldn’t believe anyone.” Stacey handed her a handful of pages torn from a book. “But you might believe these.”
“What are they?”
“Entries from Jerry’s journal.” Stacey gave her a pointed look. “The one you gave him.”
Cristina’s mouth went dry.
Stacey urged the papers into Cristina’s hands.
Jaw clenched, Cristina flipped through the pages. Jerry had written in two different styles: one in flowing script, the other chiseled print. But by the last page they looked the same: Ragged. Pressured. Cristina’s heart thumped as she read his rantings about being a killer, stolen memories, and the name Quinn over and over.
She felt dizzy as she read the last paragraph.
It’s like an itch under my skin. The more I scratched at it, the worse it got, until I exposed the raw flesh underneath and realized it wasn’t my flesh at all, but someone else’s. Jerry Peterman is nothing but a facade. The real me has been itching to escape, and now he has. I know who I am.
The words resonated in her mind, as if he’d shouted them through a megaphone. The real me . . . I know who I am . . .
“Why are you showing me this?” She scrutinized Stacey’s face. No signs of deception, but there was something else. Stacey almost never blinked, like she was afraid to let her eyes close even for a millisecond. Like she was afraid for her life. “You’re not Jerry’s sister.”
“No.” Stacey stared into the rain for a long moment, hugging herself. When she faced Cristina again, she appeared calmer, more focused. “My name is Anastasia Petrov, and I work for Zero Dark.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Despite the numbing cold, the back of Cristina’s neck burned. Freezing rain pelted the bridge over them. Her body tensed, waiting for some sign the woman standing only a foot away might pull out a weapon. When Stacey remained still, arms folded across her chest, Cristina’s anger intensified. “Are you here to kill me?”
Stacey’s mouth twisted to one side. “I was only ordered to make you a scapegoat.”
“A scapegoat for what?”
“To distract anyone from discovering who Jerry really was.”
“Who was he?”
“Jeremy Hammond. In certain international circles, his skill as an assassin was well-known. They called him the Golem.”
Cristina wasn’t sure she’d heard Stacey right. “The Golem?”
“In the sixteenth century, a Czech rabbi created a man out of clay. It served its master’s bidding without question, without fear, no matter how horrible the order.” She locked her gaze with Cristina’s. “The Golem had no soul.”
Cristina shivered as she recalled Jerry’s words. I know who I am. A killer. “But I analyzed Jerry’s psychological profile. He didn’t have a violent bone in his body.”
“Maybe not the man you knew. But Jeremy Hammond was a coldblooded mercenary. Imagine living a peaceful life as a mild-mannered security guard and then waking one day to realize you are a brutal killer. That would probably send anyone over the edge.”
Jerry had been fighting a tug-of-war with two personalities. Literally fighting with himself. No wonder Zero Dark wanted to keep his past buried. “So you defamed me to draw attention away from the truth. What changed? What did Sebastian dos Santos say to you?”
“Sebastian . . . ?” Stacey’s gaze narrowed and then a knowing smile played at her lips. “Clever.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not important.” Stacey placed a hand on Cristina’s shoulder.
Cristina jerked away.
Stacey lowered her hand and drifted toward the other side of the alcove. “I’m sorry. They changed your nose, your face. If Francisco hadn’t told me the truth—God, I’m such an idiot.”
Cristina’s shoulders tightened. “What truth did he tell you?”
“They’ve been lying to me this whole time.”
“Who?” Cristina stomped toward Stacey and slipped on an ice patch. She caught herself on the wall. Forcing herself to stay focused, she turned back to Stacey, clenching the pages from Jerry’s journal. “Does Quinn work for Zero Dark? What do they want from—?”
Cristina stopped in midsentence when she saw Stacey’s wide eyes and open mouth. A red stain blossomed on the right side of her chest.
“Oh, God!”
Cristina dropped the journal pages and ran to Stacey, who crumpled to the ground, struggling to breathe. As she kneeled over Stacey, Cristina searched every direction for the shooter. All she saw were snowbanks and icy rain. Cursing, Cristina jammed her hand against the wound.
“Get off.” Stacey batted away Cristina’s hand.
“I need to apply pressure.”
With surprising force, Stacey shoved Cristina away and rolled onto her side. She withdrew a slim automatic pistol from her jacket. She checked the clip and fired into the rain.
“What are you doing?” Cristina yelled.
Gunfire echoed against the walls of the bridge.
“You need an ambulance.”
“Not with someone shooting at us.” Stacey collapsed. Grunting, she switched the gun to her left hand. She propped herself on her elbow and fired again. “Get out of here.”
“I can’t leave you.”
“Go.” Stacey grimaced as she held her chest. “You’re no good dead.”
A bullet ricocheted off one of the bridge girders. Cristina ducked, trying to figure out from which direction the shot originated. What if there was more than one shooter? “Who’s trying to kill us, Stacey? What do they want?”
Stacey’s breathing became ragged. Between gasps, she said, “Zero—Zero Dark. They—they want to cover up the project.”
“What project?”
Stacey doubled over and coughed spasmodically. The gun slipped from her grasp and fell at Cristina’s feet. Stacey clamped her lips shut, breathing through her nose. Blood trickled from her mouth and splattered on the wet stone.
Her head jerked up. Her eyes widened.
She caught Cristina’s gaze and whispered, “Move.”
Gunshots.
Cristina’s mind hovered overhead as her body contorted in ways she couldn’t imagine. Time slowed. Bullets tore through the air inches from where her head had been. In one fluid movement, Cristina rolled to the ground, snatched up the gun, leaped to a crouching position, took aim and fired.
Cristina snapped back into herself. She knew how to use a gun. She didn’t know how she knew. She didn’t care. Swinging the pistol in a wide arc, she searched for a target.
A hint of blue behind a snowbank. She sighted down the barrel. Squeezed the trigger. Bullets streaked toward the snowbank. A man in a white ski parka leaped into the air. Dodged the bullets. Twisted as he fell. Landed with his gun trained on her.
Shit.
Cristina dived to the side and slid to the river edge. Slugs hit inches from her shoes. She scrambled to her feet and fired again. T
he gun burned hot in her hands. She guided it to the target.
The shooter dodged. Milliseconds too slow. A bullet grazed his shoulder. He yelled in pain.
Their eyes met. Cristina’s chest tightened. Thin nose, low-set brow, dark hair. Dead ringer for Cristiano Ronaldo. A jagged scar bordered one gray eye, the kind left by a dull knife—or a key.
For another breathless moment, he held her gaze. Then he fired.
Cristina dropped. The bullet screamed overhead. She looked up. He was running away. She bounded after him.
Wait. She glanced over her shoulder. Stacey sprawled, breathing erratically. Dying.
No time, a voice answered, the same one she’d heard during the attack in her apartment. If he escapes, you’ll be next.
Her feet pounded the slick pavement, slipping and recovering without losing momentum. Sleet pelted her face. The shooter was just ahead, ducking around a corner. A little faster and she would catch him.
Then what? Her legs pumped like pistons. The pistol conformed to her hand like an old lover. She aimed. An image flashed through her mind—bullets ripping through his chest. She tried to force her arm down. It wouldn’t respond. Fear gripped her heart. I’m not a killer.
You are what the world makes you. The voice grew louder, becoming more defined. It sounded like Cristina, only harder. Colder. Another memory, or was it real? As if in answer to her unspoken question, the voice added, Memory defines our reality, but what we remember isn’t always real.
Cristina’s legs pushed harder, faster. The assailant was in her sights. One squeeze of the trigger, it would be over. Her index finger clenched. She fought it.
No, this isn’t me.
You have no idea who you are, shouted the voice. You don’t know anything because you’re the one who’s not real.
A half-buried branch poked into Cristina’s ankle. She stumbled and fell. Her gun fired repeatedly. Her head struck the ground. The last thing she saw before blacking out was a flash of dark hair disappearing into the white snow.
“Wake up, Doctor,” a voice said, interrupting the void. “Wake up and remember.”
Cristina opened her eyes. Everything was white.