by Rysa Walker
“Are you seriously comparing Delphi to the Manhattan Project?” I ask.
“Kind of. I don’t think this research is as earth-shattering as nuclear weapons—no pun intended. But it is a potential game changer. And governments will actually use these. Not just for international relations, but also in terms of controlling their own populations.”
Daniel has a point. Ron Cregg hasn’t even been elected yet, and already he’s doing a damn good job of weaponizing the program, simply by playing on the public’s fears. Maybe Graham was trying to diffuse the weapon. To democratize it so that his father wouldn’t be in control of the only nation with Delphi adepts.
“It’s not just governments,” Taylor says. “Like you were saying before, these seem to be small actors. Some of them might sell to governments. But, what if they’re planning to sell it on the streets? It won’t work on everyone, but . . . you could wreak a lot of havoc that way. And can you imagine how freaked out the non-psychics would be? Any government that didn’t find a cure of some sort would probably be toppled.”
“But Pfeifer doesn’t think a cure is possible. Only a treatment, something to mitigate the symptoms for the adepts or . . .” I trail off, remembering something. “Not a cure. A block. Like Sophie, or Maggie. Can you imagine how much people would be willing to pay to ensure no one else can get inside their heads?”
“So you think he’s offering them the blocker formula?” Aaron asks.
“Probably the amp formula, too. And they’re both dangerous. Basically, anything he’s got that will level the playing field and totally screw up his father’s plans. On the one hand, that seems like a good thing, but . . .”
“On the other hand, he’s a psycho with a penchant for murder and mutilation,” Taylor says.
“The enemy of my enemy . . .” Daniel says with a shrug.
Taylor scoops up the iPad. “You do know that’s a stupid saying, right? The enemy of my enemy is still my friggin’ enemy. I can have more than one.”
NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON TIMES
April 25, 2020
The granddaughter of Senator Ronald Cregg (UA-PA) is in stable condition after two days as a captive of WOCAN terrorists. Alexandra Cregg, age 21, was locked in a holding cell at the former Bainbridge Naval Training Center in Port Deposit, Maryland. The location had been used by WOCAN earlier this year, when federal authorities, acting on a tip from Senator Cregg, raided the base, killing one of the group’s leaders, Franco Lucas. Cregg’s son, Graham (now deceased), was injured in that attack.
A spokesperson for the Cregg family told reporters, “Alexandra is a strong girl. She is recovering from her ordeal and is happy to be reunited with her family.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Near Moorefield, West Virginia
April 25, 2020, 10:27 p.m.
The road is all but deserted on our way into town. We pass a few cars headed the opposite direction, but most houses along the highway are either dark or lit only by the flickering glow of televisions. Aaron seems to be stuck in his somber mood, or maybe he’s annoyed that I initially crawled into the third-row seat of the Kia rather than riding up front with him.
It still seems like a safer option to me. When I pointed out that he was the one who suggested I avoid riding shotgun, he looked like I’d just punched him in the stomach. So now I’m up front in my usual role as navigator/deejay, against my better judgment. Nothing has happened. I knew nothing would happen. But I also knew that Aaron would be nervous. And he is.
“If you grip that wheel any tighter, you’re going to snap it in half. And I’m riding in the back on the way home. All the way in the back, because there’s no way you can drive safely when you’re this tense.”
“I’m not . . . it’s not about that, okay? Yes, I’m nervous. But I’m not worried you’re going to grab the wheel. I’m just thinking about what Taylor said.”
“When she said you overreacted?”
“That’s part of it . . .”
“You didn’t overreact. You simply responded to a clear and present danger. And you didn’t overreact tonight, either. I do think guns are a bad idea for us to have around right now, when we don’t really have a good understanding of what my father’s hitchers can do. But if the choice was between you coming into that room armed and Daniel coming in armed, you did the right thing.”
“I love you.”
“Okay, that came out of nowhere. I love you, too?”
Aaron exhales—a half laugh, half sigh—at the slight question in my voice. It’s not because I’m unsure on either side of the relationship. I know that I love Aaron. And if he didn’t love me, he’d have run away screaming by now.
“Sorry,” he says. “You’re right. It’s just . . . Taylor seems to think maybe you don’t fully know how I feel. That keeping your walls up and fighting off Cregg would be a lot easier if you—I mean, if we—if we were more . . .” He shrugs, a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of his shoulders. “I think the word she used was grounded.”
“So . . . we’re taking relationship advice from Taylor now?”
“I didn’t say I was taking her advice. It’s just on my mind. I don’t think I’m conveying what she said very well.”
The GPS chooses that instant to direct us to turn in a quarter mile. So we have to make a decision, since our dining options at this late hour appear to be Sheetz (right turn) and McDonald’s (left turn). We choose the latter, and are just about to pull into the driveway when Aaron spots a restaurant down the block that isn’t closed. Once we get there, we discover only the pub is still open and it’s karaoke night. A woman is doing a pretty decent version of “Before He Cheats” on the small stage.
Aaron pauses a few feet inside the entrance with his eyes closed. Anyone watching him would think he’s already had a few drinks, but he’s gauging the mood of the place. His ability and restaurants aren’t always the best mix, and that goes double for bars. Tempers flare up much more quickly after some people have had a beer or two, and any violent thoughts floating around will make it hard to have a peaceful meal.
“The drive-through would be fine with me.”
“No . . . I think we’ll be okay,” he says after a moment. “Angry drunks don’t usually show up for karaoke night. So what song are you going to sing?”
I laugh. “If I sing, we will have to leave. Every person within earshot will have violent thoughts.”
The restaurant has a rustic feel, with antiques inside and out, and architecture that relies heavily on exposed beams and brick. Our food is good—the best I’ve had in weeks—and the smattering of people taking to the stage are still in that brief karaoke golden zone where they’re drunk enough to lose their inhibitions but sober enough to stay mostly on key. And even though I’m glad to be alone with Aaron, I can’t help but think that Deo would love this. He’d be itching to get up there and belt out “It’s Raining Men” or “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” assuming those are on the playlist. So far, it’s been a steady stream of country.
I sneak a few sips of Aaron’s drink but don’t order anything for myself. The ID in my pocket would definitely hold up to scrutiny, and I’ve had a crazy enough year that no sane person would begrudge me a margarita or five. I’m not sure how alcohol would mix with the meds, however, so I stick with ginger ale.
Whatever was bugging Aaron earlier is still weighing on him, even though he’s trying really hard to pretend that it’s not. So when we finish eating, I begin to work us back toward the conversation we were having in the car. I’m only a few words in when the waitress shows up to see if we want anything else. Aaron looks relieved and asks for a dessert menu.
I order coffee and we split a gooey fudge-and-cheesecake concoction. After one bite, I’m wishing we’d ordered two.
“Distracting me with chocolate. Well played, Mr. Quinn. Well played.”
“I wasn’t really trying to distract you.” Aaron stops, and a grin spreads across his face. “But it’s really hard to have a serio
us discussion when you have a glob of chocolate . . . right there.” He points toward my upper lip and reaches over to wipe it away just as I’m licking the spot to remove it. My tongue grazes the tip of his finger, and a shiver runs through me on contact. Through both of us, apparently, because his eyes lock onto mine and we’re frozen in place until he leans across the table to kiss me.
I pull back after a moment, very reluctantly. The bar isn’t crowded, but neither of us really like attracting attention, and we’re beginning to do precisely that.
When the dessert plate is empty, Aaron asks, “Do you remember that night back at Sandalford? Maybe a month before we left to rescue Bree and the others? I was worried about moving too fast for you, and we decided to put you in control of . . . this part . . . of our relationship.”
“I remember.”
“Okay, well . . . I’m having second thoughts. Not about us!” he adds, in response to my expression. “No. God, no. Absolutely not. It’s just . . . Taylor keeps saying we should . . .”
“Just do it already? She tells me that too—on pretty much a daily basis.”
It’s true. If I’m snippy because I haven’t had my morning coffee, Taylor will say, Jeez, why don’t you guys just do it already? Same thing if she sees us kissing or snuggling on the couch. You two already have a room, why don’t you just do it already? Deo joked that he’s going to buy Taylor one of those Nike shirts with the Just Do It motto on the front so she can point and save her breath.
“Yeah,” Aaron says. “That. She’s picked up the pace with me the past few days, though. And it’s kind of troubling, because there’s this . . . I don’t know. Frantic note, I guess? I even asked her if she’s learned something from Stan or one of the other Fivers. If she thinks one of us is going to be hurt or killed. And she swore she hasn’t, but then she told me to think about everything that’s happened in the past six months, and about what could be coming up. Any of us could be killed, she says, at any moment, so why are we wasting what we have? At least, that’s her point of view.”
“And what’s your point of view?”
“I told her that the vague possibility of imminent death didn’t seem like a good reason to make major relationship decisions. And that she should get off my back. Off your back.”
I’m quiet for a moment, debating whether to share what’s on my mind. It’s one of the hitcher secrets I’ve never told anyone else, not even Deo. It kind of feels like I’m breaking a confidence, but the owner of this memory is long past the point where it could bother her. And I don’t think she’d mind me sharing her secret with Aaron.
“You remember Emily? My hitcher who liked crosswords?”
“Sure. She’s the reason you can kick my ass so resoundingly in Scrabble.”
“Well, not the only reason, but yes, that Emily. Anyway, she was a senior in high school when her boyfriend was drafted. It was already a few years into World War II, when young men were marching off to war and never coming back. Emily was always very prim and proper, but she loved Hiram and they planned to marry when the war was over anyway, so the night before he left . . .” I shrug and give him a little smile.
“Did he die?”
“Nope. He was one of the lucky ones. They drifted apart during the war, though. Emily went to college, and in his letters to her over the next two years, she realized Hiram wanted a much more traditional marriage. The kind where he brought home the bacon and she cooked it and fed it to five or six kids. She met and married someone else, eventually. So did Hiram. But the thing is . . . Emily never regretted making love to him. Not for a moment. It was the right decision at the time, and years later, it was still a cherished memory, even after she had children and grandchildren with another man who was very much the love of her life. I’m not saying that’s true for everyone, or that it would be for us, because I don’t know. But it was true for Emily.”
We fall silent again, and then he says, “What worries me is that you’ve given some really mixed signals in the past few months. Hot and cold, and not much in between. I understand why now, but a few weeks ago, you made it pretty clear that things were moving too fast for you, even though they’d actually been moving in reverse for several months. That’s when we went back to separate rooms, and . . . I guess I need to know how much of that was Cregg’s decision and how much was yours.”
Aaron wants me to say that it was all Cregg. I can read it in his eyes as plain as day. But that would be a lie, and this is too important to lie about. “It was a mix. I wanted you with me, but it was becoming difficult to hide my memory gaps when we shared a room. And most of all, I was worried that I might . . .”
Abbott’s voice fills my head. He told us he could’ve slit your boyfriend’s throat in his sleep and you wouldn’t have been able to stop him.
I don’t finish the sentence, but I’m sure Aaron can tell from my face exactly what I was worried might happen.
“Even though I’m less worried about that now, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s still a concern. Before, it was Daniel and Jaden and Hunter in my head. Hunter was clearly a roadblock, given his age. But now?” I lower my voice and lean forward, tapping my temple. “Now there’s a monster in here. He’s locked up tight right now, but he’s still in my head. Do you really want to make love to a monster?”
“No. I don’t. I want to make love to you. And if that’s what you want too, then Cregg shouldn’t even enter into the equation, other than—” Aaron stops, and he seems to be measuring his words. “He doesn’t own you. Now that the medicine has kicked in, you are in control. You will never be his vessel, you will never be this Ophelia Duncan person. Your body is yours, and yours alone. At some point, hopefully soon, we will find a way to evict him, and I’m dead certain that hell has a spot waiting with his name etched in the brimstone. But until then, maybe we should stop letting the fact that his shriveled soul is stuck in your head control our lives.”
The opening bars of the next song accompany his last words. It’s louder and more raucous than the previous few numbers, and we’ve apparently moved beyond the sober karaoke window. The guy on stage now seems to know most of the opening and the chorus, but the verses are a mix of slurred words, punctuated by long glugs from the Michelob he’s holding in one hand.
“Last call,” the waitress says, almost yelling to be heard over the music. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“No!” Aaron snaps. “Just leave the check.” At first, I think he’s frustrated by her interruption, but his eyes dart around the room. He’s picked up something, maybe from the couple near the door who seem to be arguing.
The waitress gives Aaron a foul look, and once she locates our check in the pocket of her apron, she slaps it down on the table. He hands her a credit card, his eyes still fixed on the couple. A few seconds later he breathes a sigh and his shoulders relax. Whatever their disagreement was about, they seem to have decided to hug it out rather than fight.
He glances toward the bar, where the waitress is ringing up our check. “Is it an extra ten-percent or fifteen-percent tip to apologize for being a jackass?”
“Depends. Are you paying with your money or Magda’s?”
The drunk on the stage has now reached the chorus again, and he’s confessing that he likes his women on the trashy side. Aaron shakes his head and sighs. “Man, I really know how to pick the romantic spots.”
When the waitress returns, he apologizes profusely. He overtips. And then he apologizes to her again on our way out.
As we stand in the doorway pulling on our coats, I realize that’s what I love most about this man—his inexplicable kindness. Aaron has spent his entire life bombarded by the violent and angry thoughts of others, but he steadfastly refuses to let it shape him. Sure, he gets grumpy sometimes, but if he hurts someone with a harsh word, he apologizes. He makes a concerted effort not to do it again. Rather than follow the lead of the angry parade of voices in his head, Aaron chooses to be kind, understanding that kindness is a sign
of strength, not of weakness.
A cold drizzle is falling as we head out into the night. We run for the car, and he opens the door for me, but before I get in, I pull him close for a kiss. “Do you think there’s a hotel in this town?”
“Probably,” he says. “But . . . we need to talk. I don’t want to—”
“We can talk at the hotel.” I smile as I tug the phone out of his back pocket and slide into the car. “Okay, Google, find me a hotel room.”
Ten minutes later, we step inside a jacuzzi suite at a small hotel just down from the Walmart. The décor is a decade or more past its prime, but it beats the hell out of the back seat of Sam’s Kia.
When Aaron’s hand, still cool from the rain, brushes the skin of my back, I arch toward him.
We have every intention of warming up in a hot bath. We have every intention of talking, of making sure this is the right time, the right place, the right decision. That this is what we both want.
But there is no question in my mind that this is right. I am no one’s vessel. This is my body. My decision.
Our intentions wind up in the same heap as our wet clothes.
Moorefield, West Virginia
April 26, 2020, 6:10 a.m.
A door slams, followed by footsteps and the sound of luggage rolling down the hall. Someone is getting an early start to their day. Aaron stirs restlessly, his arm tightening around my waist. I watch as his breathing deepens and he slides back into sleep.
He wanted me to sleep, too, and for a few minutes there, I thought it might be possible. But I’ll rest more easily back at the cabin.
Staying awake is really only a precaution at this point. I’m less worried about Cregg taking control than I was even a day ago. My thoughts about sleep no longer make him happy or eager. With the exception of that brief flare-up last night, the meds are working well. The light-headed feeling hits me less often, and I haven’t sensed Cregg lurking at all since we stepped into this hotel room, something for which I will be eternally grateful.