by Rysa Walker
“No. Like I said, I fought him back.”
“So it’s partly on Aaron, too. He could have trusted you.”
I look down at my sneakers for a moment and shake my head. “Have I given him any reason to trust me lately? Have I given any of you reason to trust me? All of this is just so damned frustrating! Myron is gone. I remember him leaving. These are only memories, so there’s no reason for—”
Deo holds up a hand, interrupting me. “Are your walls up?” When I nod, he adds, “All the way up?”
“Yes. Double. What happened in the truck scared the hell out of me.”
Something scurries spiderlike along the back of my consciousness. I’d love to put up a third layer of protection, but I’m not sure I have the focus to do that and still listen to Deo.
“Okay, then,” he says. “I’m gonna try this one more time, and I want you to focus on me. Just me. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you. And I don’t lie to you—okay, well, sometimes little lies to protect you, like when my fever was so high. But not about the important stuff. Not when it really counts.”
I want to argue that his fever spiking to 105 was important stuff, but I nod for him to go on.
“So . . . yeah. One more try. Focus on me and try not to freak out like the last time.”
“What last time?”
“The last time I told you we don’t think it’s just Myron memories.”
“I know that. It’s the concussion combined with the—”
“Anna.” Deo stares at me intently, his dark eyes as serious, as worried, as I think I’ve ever seen them. “No. Not just the concussion. Not just the Myron memories. I’m talking about Graham Cregg. We’re pretty sure it’s Cregg manipulating the Myron memories. Daniel said . . .”
I don’t hear what Daniel said or anything else. The spider, and it’s definitely a spider of some sort, is at it again. It’s not just running against the wall now but trying to scale it.
And I can see it now in my mind’s eye. Big spider. Strong spider. Mutant wolf spider crossed with a giant rat. It chips away at the bricks in the inner wall until one leg extends through, moving back and forth to widen the crack.
The leg extends out toward the second wall. Instead of claws at the end of the leg, there are two tiny hands, pulling away pieces of the mortar.
“Anna! Stay with me, Anna.”
“No.” I shake my head furiously, shrinking away from Deo, back into the tiny bathroom. My shoulder crashes into the towel rack, and the linens come raining down on me, brushing against my arm and face like spiders, like giant—
“NO!”
“Stay. With. Me,” Deo says. “We can work through this, but I need you here. Present. With your walls up, okay? You beat Myron when you were six. You can beat this son of a bitch, too.”
He’s right.
I beat Myron. I beat him. I kicked him out. Evicted him. Myron kicked and fought, but I beat him. He’s nothing but memories now, and I’m working through those memories. That’s all this is, just the concussion and—
Taking in a deep, deep breath, I try to force the panic into something compact. Manageable. “But Kelsey . . . Kelsey said it’s Myron. It’s from the concussion. From . . .”
“I know,” Deo says. “And usually, I’d go with her opinion, since she’s the doctor. Kelsey’s had you under hypnosis, what . . . five times maybe in the past few months, so she should know. But . . .”
“Kelsey had me under hypnosis?”
He nods. “Like I said, at least five different times. And she doesn’t think you’ve picked up another hitcher. Says all of this is just you, finally working through the Myron stuff. The concussion even gives her a handy medical explanation. That’s why she’s clinging to it.”
“But why? If there’s other evidence, why would Kelsey ignore it?”
Deo gives me a rueful smile. “Wishful thinking, maybe? She watched you walk through hell when you were six. Kelsey loves you, Anna. She doesn’t want to think about the possibility of you having to go through that again. Or that it might . . . that it might be worse this time.”
Worse is right. Myron was a killer. Myron was insane. But Myron didn’t have Delphi powers. Myron couldn’t force someone to turn a gun toward his head the way Cregg forced Deo.
That chittering noise fills my head again, scrabbling, scrambling, hairy mutant legs chiseling away at the hole. Widening it. Three legs are poking through now, extending into the mental space between my walls.
I bring a brick crashing down from above, as hard and as fast as I can. The spider-thing pulls back, but not quickly enough to save that first leg, the one that was stretched out farthest, feeling, exploring. It snaps off at one of the knees, and the truncated limb goes spinning across the floor. The fingers on those creepy, incongruous hands continue to twitch, even after it comes to a stop inches away from the cabinets that store Jaden’s and Molly’s memories.
Each of those twitching hands is missing the pinky finger. It’s a very good thing my stomach is now empty.
“Anna? You still with me?”
Deo’s voice pulls me back again, an anchor holding me to reality.
“Yes.” I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek, using the discomfort to keep my mind focused here, on the outside, rather than on the nightmare within. “You think it’s Cregg. You think I picked him up when . . . when we fought them at the airport.”
Inexplicably, Deo smiles. It’s a small, sad smile at first, but it morphs into a full grin when he sees my confused expression.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because this makes me happy! It’s progress. It’s the first time anyone has gotten you to even admit the possibility. Every other time, you’ve flown into a rage. You threw a fork at Aaron so hard it stuck in the freakin’ wall. But I’m guessing you don’t remember that.”
He’s right. I don’t remember that at all. What I do remember is sitting down to breakfast one morning about a month ago and finding only a spoon. Taylor saying I’d have to earn back my fork privileges. Me wondering what the hell she was babbling about as I went into the kitchen to get my own damned fork.
“Oh my God, D. What else have I done during these memory lapses?”
“Mostly you just . . . you tried to play all of us against each other. We started keeping a diary of sorts—all of us jotting down notes when you were acting extra weird. When you’re ready, I’ll show you.”
“Did I hurt anyone?” What I really want to ask is whether I pushed anyone. Whether I made them do anything they didn’t want to do. I’m pretty sure they’d have locked me away by now if I was going around persuading people to snip off body parts, but there are a million more subtle ways to hurt people.
“No. You didn’t hurt anyone. We were worried you were going to hurt yourself a few times, and Taylor said you were a little . . . rough . . . with Ein one day. But Ein learned to steer clear when you got that weird look.”
For some reason, the fact that I was mean to Ein, that I might have given him a reason to distrust me, to fear me, is what finally brings the tears to my eyes. I don’t give in to them, though. If I allow myself to start crying, I may lose it entirely, and I know that spider-rat-thing—him, Cregg—is waiting to pounce the second my control slips.
It will slip eventually. He knows that. I can’t keep up this level of control indefinitely. Holding my walls at full strength is exhausting. I’m not sure how long I can manage it. At some point I’ll have to sleep.
“I shouldn’t be here. You guys need to take me back and have Kelsey and Magda put me on lockdown.”
The spider-thing doesn’t like that suggestion, but its movements are more cautious now. It doesn’t stick any appendages through that hole again. It hangs back, licking its wounds or whatever freaky mutant rat-spiders do.
“We sorta did suggest that to Kelsey earlier today.” Deo gives me a sheepish look. “Only you said you were fine. And Maria was there backing you up, saying she peeked inside your head and Ke
lsey’s right, it’s not Cregg. I don’t know if that’s what she really thinks or if it’s just because Stan and the other Fivers say you’re supposed to be here. And speaking of, is it just me or does Stan’s whole vision thing make your head spin?”
“Not just you.”
“Yeah, well, anyway—Kelsey might have listened if it was you against me and Aaron. But being able to peek inside your head makes Maria pretty damn persuasive. She counters every argument even before you make it.”
“Did you guys explain where we were going? I thought Maria wanted to keep Kelsey out of the loop on Pfeifer, at least for the time being?”
“Yeah. Maria wasn’t real happy about that part. But then she consulted with her walking Ouija board and decided things were still on the right track.”
“Well, either way, I’ve had the vision now. So I can go back . . . where I can’t hurt anyone.” My voice sounds totally unconvinced, even to my own ears.
Deo picks up on my hesitation. “Except the vision has something to do with your father, doesn’t it? He’s here . . . okay, near here. Not back in NC, at any rate. Which means you were here, too, because unlike Stan’s weird Sliding Doors, alternate-paths schtick, you only see things that actually happen. Things that happen to us. So . . . spill. What did you see happening to us?”
I debate whether to tell him the only one of us in that vision was me. Truth is, I don’t know why I was there on my own. Nor do I know the actual names of the men I was thinking about, although I can picture both of them clearly in my mind. The taller one really doesn’t look much like Bud Abbott. He’s a lot younger, for one thing. But the shorter, heavier member of the duo was a dead ringer for Lou Costello.
And I’m pretty sure he’ll soon be a dead dead ringer. In the vision, I remembered him lying in a pool of blood on a tile floor. The floor seemed kind of familiar, then I remember the blood on the white tiles in Lab 1, back at The Warren after Lucas executed Jaden and two other adepts.
The emotion I attached to that fleeting, split-second memory of this Costello guy’s body on that floor was barely even tinged with guilt. It was mostly a bizarre mix of relief and anger.
I don’t know that I killed the guy. The only thing I do know with absolute certainty is that, as Deo just noted, this vision will happen exactly as I saw it. As I felt it. If I tell Deo or Aaron I’ll be doing anything as patently stupid as intercepting an armed man, they won’t let me out of their sight. And that could get one of them killed trying to protect me.
“I saw the scene outside that building,” I say. “The same scene Maria pushed to us at the meeting this afternoon. Except what I was seeing was . . . maybe ten seconds earlier. It’s definitely downtown DC, but we figured that out already. Two bodyguards—private, I think. They’re not in any sort of uniform. And I’m certain it’s Scott Pfeifer in the center.”
At the sound of Pfeifer’s name, that thing in my head kicks into action again. He claws at the wall frantically, but he’s stuck on the other side. For now, at least.
There’s a soft tap on the door, and Deo raises his eyebrows.
“Just a minute,” I say, and whisper to Deo, “Can’t put this off forever, I guess.”
“You want me to stay?”
“No. I should talk to him alone. But I’d rather not have Taylor watch while I grovel. Could you distract her? We’re parked behind a McDonald’s. Maybe the two of you could go get some fries?”
He grins. “I think I can handle that. You want anything?”
My stomach churns at the thought. “No. Just . . . tell Aaron I’ll be out in a minute.”
I go into the bathroom. Towels are scattered all over the floor and the vanity. I don’t have the energy to pick them up, so I shove them to the side and splash some water on my face. Then I brush my teeth, keeping my eyes trained resolutely on the sink.
No way am I looking in that mirror.
CHAPTER SIX
Ashland, Virginia
April 23, 2020, 8:46 p.m.
Aaron is sitting on the bed with his head in his hands when I open the door. His anger seems to have dissipated and he mostly just looks tired. Deflated.
“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”
“Do not apologize. I nearly got us killed out there.”
“I overreacted.”
“No. You didn’t.” I sit down on the bed next to him, still clutching the washcloth. “I was a hair’s breadth away from grabbing that wheel. We both know it. Lying to each other about it isn’t going to change it.”
“But . . . you didn’t do it.” I give him a look, thinking he’s about to start making more excuses for me, and he shakes his head. “I’m not saying I want you riding shotgun with me again. Taylor was right. That was a really stupid call on my part. My point is, you pulled back . . . your anger.”
“Not my anger. You mean I pulled back Graham Cregg.”
An odd scraping sensation slides through my brain, almost like someone raking through it with a wire brush. The spider-thing is angry that I know he’s in there. Pissed he didn’t make it into the driver’s seat quickly enough this time. That he didn’t have a chance to make me forget.
Aaron’s eyes are wary. “Deo told you?”
“Yeah.” I smile weakly. “Don’t worry. No forks here in the bedroom for me to throw. The only thing I could hurl at you is a washcloth.”
“Last time—”
“Last time I went crazy, right? And then forgot everything?”
“Last time, Kelsey had to sedate you. You didn’t speak for nearly three days. And you packed up your clothes and took a room in the other wing.”
“None of which I remember.”
“Yeah. I’ll admit, I’ve gone back and forth on this. So has Deo. And Kelsey . . . she seems pretty firmly convinced this is just you working through the Myron stuff. Even Daniel isn’t entirely sure it was Cregg he saw—or felt, or whatever—inside your head.”
“Daniel?” I pause for a moment, confused, and then I remember. “Oh. At the hospital. He tapped out SOS, then he pointed at me. Do you think that’s what he meant?”
“I do. He started asking for you as soon as he got some of his speech back. Mom and Sam didn’t mention it until last month, because . . .” Aaron looks down at the floor. “Well, because of the whole competitive thing between me and Daniel. Mom thought he was trying to move in on you . . . romantically.”
I snort. “Oh, we would not make a good couple.”
Aaron’s shoulders relax slightly.
“Really?” I say, both exasperated and amused.
“Okay, okay, you’re right. But to be fair, Anna . . . this wasn’t just me being jealous of Daniel. You began pulling away from me, acting stranger every day. You didn’t want me to touch you. Kelsey said it was very common after traumatic brain injury for people to act different, to not to be interested in . . . well, sex. And—”
“Please tell me you didn’t talk to Kelsey about our sex life.”
I’m not sure why that bothers me. I’ve talked to Kelsey about sex before, even about my feelings for Aaron. And yes, I guess technically she’s his therapist now, too, but she was my therapist first.
“Babe . . . I’ve talked to Kelsey about pretty much everything you’ve done or said in my presence. All of us talked to Kelsey. We’ve got journal entries going back more than a month, and—”
“Yeah. Deo told me.” It’s only a tiny dash of anger—and not even anger, really. More annoyance than anything else, annoyance that I’ve been so out of control that the people I love have had me under constant surveillance. But that smidgen of emotion is all it takes to set the spider-rat-thing on alert.
Cregg, damn it. It’s Cregg. I’m completely terrified of rats and spiders individually, so it says a lot that I’m more comfortable thinking of my current resident as a giant rat-spider combo, with mutilated human hands, than I am with the notion that I’ve picked up Graham Cregg’s spirit.
And there it goes again. Scree-e-e-e-ch-ch-ch-ch. The n
oise is like nails scraping against a chalkboard. Human nails at the end of a spider’s weirdly human hands.
I clench my fists and bite down on that same spot inside my cheek, which is now sore enough to make me wince. “Never mind, Aaron. It doesn’t matter.” My voice is tight and too loud for the tiny room.
“No. It does matter. I didn’t like spying on you. Neither did Deo. But the surest way to set you off was to mention anything about Cregg. Anything about Myron, even. Bottom line is we were terrified of losing you. And what bothers me most is that, in the end, all the notes we kept were for nothing. Kelsey started you on some antipsychotic meds, something she’s said is good for dissociative disorders. Which you don’t have, but she thought if Cregg really was in there and you were having trouble blocking him, it might trigger that section of your brain. She said it was guesswork, really, as to whether it would be effective, and to be honest, it seemed kind of odd to me. It’s not like your hitchers are separate personalities, so . . .”
I shrug. “Drugs were part of the equation when I fought off Myron. And whatever is left of my hitchers is inside my head, so it’s at least in the same ballpark as separate personalities. The brain isn’t entirely a mystery. We know different parts have different functions. And we know which sections are most affected by the Delphi serum. So . . . it’s a very educated guess. Kelsey always prescribed fewer meds than the doctors who treated me at the hospital, and she was a lot more careful about monitoring for side effects. If she thinks something will help, I’m willing to try it.”
And I am willing to try it. What bothers me is that I have no memory of her ever discussing any of these options with me, and I’m certain she would have. She discussed things like this with me when I was six, explaining the advantages and disadvantages of any medication I took, doing her best to put it into terms I could actually understand. I’m an adult now. She wouldn’t have discussed my treatment with anyone aside from me unless she thought I was incapable of making an informed decision. And even then, she would have also discussed it with me.
Which I’m pretty sure means she did discuss all of this with me, probably multiple times. I just have no memory of those conversations—so there were more gaps than I thought. Plus, it seems Cregg did some creative rewriting of my memories.