"I don't understand," Tia said flatly as the video continued to play. "Why is your arm around Irene Duncan?"
Chris didn't explain. His daughter was in a state of confusion, and he wanted her to find her own way out of it.
She continued to watch, and it wasn't long before three kids, one of which was Tia, bounced excitedly into the room to meet their new nanny. Tia pointed at herself on the screen. "That little girl looks like me." She turned from the video. "Why does she look like me?"
Chris reached out and placed his hands on Tia's arms. "Because it is you."
Tia laughed. "No," she said, pulling herself away from Chris's hold. "I don't believe that. The Discord must have . . . manipulated this video—the same way they put that virus into Irene's memories. They want to undo what I've accomplished. They want to ruin me and my reputation."
"Tia, no one from The Discord could have accessed this building. You're going to have to face the truth. You've been processed and manipulated. And your mother is Irene Duncan."
Tia swiped her hand through the hologram, causing it to disappear. "Where is my real mother," she cried, bending over. "I want to see my real mother." She peered up at Chris with swollen, tear-filled eyes. The make-up she'd earlier taken such care to keep in place was now streaming down her cheeks. "Why did you do this?" she screamed.
Chris rested his hand on her back to provide some comfort. "You needed to see the truth for yourself."
Tia pointed at the space where the hologram had been projected. "You and Irene Duncan are—"
"Married," Chris said as calmly as he could. "And you are our daughter. We had two other daughters: Vanessa and also Emma, who was the youngest."
Tia gulped. "Are they still . . . alive?" she asked with alarm.
Chris wrapped his arms around her. "They're alive. They're all alive." He pulled her in close, rocking her as he laid out the true story of their lives.
Chapter 27
Chris sat on the floor alongside his daughter just as they'd done so many years before when he would tell her a bedtime story. He remembered she would often listen intently to the details of his made-up fairy tales. But unlike those stories, this one was true. "So that's how your mother—your real mother—convinced me that The Firsts are not who they claim to be."
Tia wiped her face with her hand. "I'm so glad you told me this, but I'm still not sure I understand how you remembered your past after being processed."
"I can't say that I understand how it happened either. But I tend to think it was a miracle—a way to bring us back together again as a family. We were blessed in that way." Chris paused for a moment, wondering if his daughter was ready to hear the next part. He concluded that she was. "But . . . I think we can offer that same blessing to others." He looked about the room. "We could share these memories with those who've lost them."
Tia looked blankly at him. "Does mother remember me?"
Chris pulled back, a bit surprised by the change in subject. "Well, yes."
"So that was all an act when she was at my house?"
Chris placed his hand on her arm. "We knew you weren't ready to hear the truth yet."
Tia shook her head. "How is that possible?"
"What?"
"Mother was processed without the option to keep her memories. How is it possible that she can remember? Does she have your ability to remember as well?"
Chris grinned, still feeling a little pleased with himself that his intricate plan had worked. "It only appeared that she'd been processed."
"How did you manage that?"
"I had a little help."
Tia leaned forward. "Who helped you?"
"Ah, a few buddies from my military days."
Tia's eyes widened. "Do you mean Ollie Crowder, Vince Taltson, and Kip Anderson?"
Chris cocked his head slightly. "How did you—"
Tia slowly got to her feet, using the column behind her for balance. She wiped her face again, but this time, she did a more effective job of it. "You have been very bad, father."
The two guards from out front, along with Wallace, strode into the room. Tia walked over to Wallace and kissed him affectionately.
Chris stood but remained in place, seeming unable to move.
"You're in shock, father," Tia spoke the words mechanically as if she'd been pre-programmed to say them. "That day when Irene came to my house, I felt as if there was a connection between you and her. But I couldn't quite put it into words until I explained how I felt to Wallace." She put her hand on Wallace's chest, who seemed to breathe in a breath of satisfaction. "That's when Wallace told me everything about my past—my real past."
She pointed at the column that had earlier projected Beatrice’s memories. "Unfortunately for you, that video was a rerun for me because I'd already viewed it, but that rerun served me well. It got you to confess that you blackmailed others so that Irene wouldn't be processed." His daughter strolled back to him. "My being in love with someone other than Wallace seemed to reassure you that I could be reached and eventually turned. But you see, the problem is, viewing a life is much different than feeling and experiencing it. I have no feelings for Irene Duncan. She is a stranger to me. And soon, I will be a stranger to her—as soon as she is processed for real."
Tia's words ricocheted through Chris's mind. He looked over at Wallace, who grinned. At that moment, all Chris wanted to do was knock that grin off his face.
He charged past his daughter and slammed Wallace into a nearby column. The impact gave Chris just enough time to strike him in the jaw. Wallace ran his hand to his face as the two guards seized Chris's arms.
Opening and closing his jaw with his hand, Wallace gave Chris a sideways glance. "The 'yes, sirs,' went away pretty quickly, didn't they?" Wallace stepped forward, possibly seeing that Chris was well in hand. "I suppose soon you'll need to replace it with 'yes, son.'" He patted Chris lightly on the cheek.
Chris hauled the guards around to face his daughter. "Tia," he uttered, nearly unable to keep his emotions in check, "this man is a murderer."
Tia slinked over to him. "It's not murder if you do it for the cause."
Her words seemed to stream through Chris's body like poison. He dropped his head in defeat. His daughter was gone. The only hope he had left was that his wife would be able to do what they'd planned to save their other two.
Chapter 28
As much as Irene disliked carrying out Nick's errands, it did provide her with an opportunity to get out of the office, and on this particular day, that was what she needed most. At first, Buck Tanger, one of their delivery drivers, just frowned at her when she asked if she could ride along with him. He didn't seem to understand the point of it. But once she explained how seeing where the supplies were delivered would help her appreciate the bigger picture of their logistics operation, he shrugged and pointed up at the passenger side of his cab. "I guess I could use the company."
Their first few stops involved dropping off paper supplies at offices within Mayfield City and delivering items to restaurants in various other cities.
Their final delivery took them to a city with a thick steel gate accompanied by a gaggle of security guards. Other cities had possessed such entry points, but this one was much more impressive. Coming closer, Buck pressed on the brake and rolled down his window as a guard approached.
"Pass, please," the guard said.
Buck handed his pass to the guard, who looked at the photo and then at Buck. He did this twice. "What is the nature of your visit?" the guard asked. "Are you delivering or picking up? What are you carrying? What is your expected time of departure?"
Buck answered each question efficiently, as if it was routine, adding that the extra passenger in the truck was for training purposes.
Ending his inquiries, the guard gestured at another guard who began examining beneath the truck with a mirror on a long handle.
As the guard returned Buck's pass, the gate opened. Irene breathed again and allowed the anticipation she'
d denied herself to take hold.
As they traveled past the barrier, Irene saw why this location was placed behind such an obstacle. The city was much grander than Mayfield City—almost a utopia.
"I love coming here," Buck confessed as he drove beyond the entry point. "It's quite something." He turned the wheel unto the main route. "Perhaps if I do my job just right, I'll be able to live here someday."
Irene knew Buck's wish would never come true—not within The Firsts' society anyway. But she kept that to herself.
After making a delivery to an upscale restaurant downtown, Buck traveled west toward what Irene knew, from the delivery schedule, would be the library. This was where her youngest daughter, Emma worked. Earlier, Chris had told her Emma's location as well as where Vanessa was living.
"I'm sure everything will work out with Tia," he'd begun, "but in case it doesn't, you'll be able to gather Emma and Vanessa and head back to the old city. Find some place to hide near the city’s center. I'll work my way to you."
"I have a much better plan," Irene countered and told him about the piece of paper Roger had once given to her. "An address was written on it, but Roger told me not to use it until I truly needed to do so. I think now is that time, since Kingston's mansion is probably still being watched."
The need to seek out that address had grown even greater that morning. Chris hadn't shown up with Tia at their agreed-upon time and place. He'd told her if that happened, then something had gone wrong, and she'd need to carry out their plan B.
Deciding to run had been excruciating for Irene. She had to choose between Tia and Chris and her other two daughters. She stood in the alley, delaying her decision for nearly twenty minutes, just to make sure Chris hadn't been simply delayed. Finally, she gave in and made her way to the loading docks, where she'd caught a ride with Buck, which was their alternate plan.
Parking the truck at the back of the library, Buck insisted Irene take a break from helping him unload and pick out a book from the library. "When I’m in this city, I usually take my mid-afternoon coffee break at the coffeehouse across the street. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes?"
"Sounds good," Irene said as she jumped out the door. After Buck had strolled away, she popped on a baseball cap. Her cheap disguise was complete when she added the fake, metal-framed glasses. She'd purchased the items not to draw unnecessary attention from those who may recognize her as Irene Duncan.
Entering the library through the front, she fiddled with her cap and lingered at the front entrance positioned high above the bookshelves that appeared to be located on a lower level. From this vantage point, she attempted to spot Emma going about her daily routine.
"May I help you?" asked a middle-aged woman from behind the circulation desk. The woman's strained tone suggested that Irene's loitering was highly irregular.
Not wanting to stand out, Irene approached the counter. "Yes, I'm looking for Emma Russo," she told the woman, knowing from Chris that The Firsts had only changed Emma's last name after she'd been processed. "The last time I was in here, she was very helpful in picking out a book for me."
"Is that right?" the woman asked. "Well, it's always nice to hear good things about our workers." The woman folded her hands on the counter in front of her. "But I'm afraid Emma is on break. I can assist you."
Irene shut her jaw tight. The last thing she needed was this snooty woman hovering over her as she waited for her daughter to come off her break. "No, that's okay. I'll just browse."
"Very well."
Irene took to the steps that led down to the lower level. Making her way to the bookshelves, she began scanning the titles, doing her best to make it appear as if she were genuinely interested in them.
As she read the spines, she noticed most were about The Firsts. How The Firsts Saved My Family, The Firsts and Their Plans for a Better Future, and the most disturbing, We All Love The Firsts were just a small sampling of the titles available for the populace to read.
Pulling a thick volume from the shelf, Irene caught a glimpse of a seating area near the large windows that overlooked a grove of trees. Sitting on one of those seats was a young woman with blonde, curly hair similar to Irene’s hair. Her breath caught.
The effort, the pain, and the fear that had brought her to this point were finally paying off. Joy and anticipation flowed through Irene. Her initial plan had been to pretend to be an old acquaintance of her daughter's, a teacher maybe, to build trust. Feigning such a thing now seemed even more difficult now that she'd seen Emma.
But Irene needed to do whatever it took to get her daughter into that truck. She jammed the book she was holding back into place and circled the bookshelf to get a better look.
"She tends to stare out the windows a lot during her breaks," said someone behind Irene.
Irene whirled about to see a woman pushing a library cart toward her.
"Oh?" Irene said as she returned her attention to her daughter, who appeared to have grown into a young woman but maintained the distinctive features that visibly linked her to Irene: blue eyes, slender figure, and of course, her blonde hair.
"She's a lonely soul," the woman said as she guided a book from her cart into one of the nearby shelves.
Irene offered a courteous smile as her heart sank at the thought of her daughter being in such a state.
As the woman rotated her cart about and wheeled it back down the aisle, Irene moved closer. It took willpower not to cry out her daughter's name loudly. "Emma?" she said quietly instead, controlling herself. "Emma," she repeated as she removed her baseball cap and glasses.
Emma looked from the windows to Irene. "Mom?" She jumped from her seat and ran to Irene, embracing her tightly.
The shock from the reaction did little to keep Irene's emotions in check. She let out a soft cry. She could hear Emma whimpering, too, as she continued to hold on to her. "Emma, I don't understand," Irene finally said as her initial emotions faded, allowing her to speak. "How do you remember me?"
Emma pulled away. Her fair-skinned was red from sobbing. "I don't know."
"Weren't you processed?"
"Yes, and I forget everything." Emma took a step back. "But then, I saw you."
Irene gave her daughter a quizzical look. "You saw me? You mean just now?"
“No.” Emma pointed up at a nearby TV screen.
"You saw me on TV?"
Emma nodded.
"You saw me being processed."
Emma nodded again. "That's when the memories came rushing back."
"Oh, Emma." This time, Irene initiated the embrace. "You remember—just like your father."
Emma looked up at her. "Is that how you remembered . . . me?"
"No, it's a long story, but I actually wasn't processed."
"I don't understand."
"Your father and I only made it look as if I was processed." Irene twisted around to see if anyone was watching them, but no one was. "I don't have time to explain now. But something has gone wrong with that plan, and we both need to leave. There's a truck waiting outside for us."
Emma glanced back at the chair she had been sitting in. Irene got the sense that it was a place of comfort—a safe spot her daughter had carved out amid The Firsts’ society. "I know I'm asking you to do something extremely risky, but it's—"
"I'll do it." Emma shot the answer back at Irene. "I'll go with you."
Chapter 29
After leading Emma to the delivery truck, Irene made her way across the street to the coffeehouse to get Buck back on the road.
"What, no book?" he asked when she came to his table. He sipped his hot coffee tentatively, seeming to wait for an answer.
"No, I ah . . . didn't see much that caught my attention."
Buck rested his cup down on the table. "I get your meaning."
"Oh?" Irene answered, thinking of the vast quantities of propaganda that filled the library. Perhaps Buck wasn't as loyal to The Firsts as she originally thought.
"Yeah, I ain't muc
h of a reader myself."
"Oh."
"Used to be. I read a lot of comic books and action hero stuff when I was younger, but after the war, that all became silly to me."
Irene nodded and looked out the window toward the library. "Do you think we could get going?"
Buck sipped at his coffee again. "Where's the fire? I only have one box to drop off at the library, and we're ahead of schedule. Buy yourself a cup and a muffin. You can’t get either back in Mayfield City."
Irene remained in place, thinking it would make Buck feel uncomfortable enough to get him moving.
He let out a slight laugh and stood from the table. "I suppose I could get this to go." He maneuvered around her to the counter, getting a to-go cup. He pointed to the door. "Ladies first."
…
Heading across the library's parking lot, Buck increased his pace toward his truck, apparently spotting Emma sitting in his cab. "What's going on?" he said, wrenching open the passenger side door. "Young lady, get out of my truck."
Emma didn't budge. There was no need. She must have noticed Irene nestle a gun into Buck's side.
"What . . . are you . . . doing?" he asked as if his words were on a slow conveyer belt.
"Jump inside, Buck," Irene said.
"Okay, okay, don't shoot." Buck pulled himself up into the cab.
Irene followed, lowering her gun. "Emma, slide over and go around the truck to the passenger side so Buck can drive."
Emma followed her instructions, reappearing at the door in no time. When she settled into her seat, Irene tossed her cap and glasses onto the dashboard and motioned with the gun for Buck to start the engine. He clicked his tongue. "I knew I was foolish letting you ride along with me," he said as the engine turned over. "Where to?"
"Headquarters."
Buck let out a burst of laughter. "You must be crazy."
"Just drive," Emma snapped.
Buck put the truck into reverse and backed away from the library. Before long, they were on the road, heading toward the security gate. Leaving the city required nothing more than Buck displaying his pass through the window, which he willingly did while Irene pressed the gun against his outer thigh.
The Gift of Remembering Page 22