by Rysa Walker
The fourth person is a woman. Again, I don’t get a name or an image, it’s more his feelings that come through, and they’re complicated. Love, anger. I don’t think it’s Ashley, but I could be wrong.
And I’m certain that the last one is a kid. There’s that same sense of responsibility that Daniel felt toward his family, mixed with love and . . . fear, but it’s a different kind of fear. Daniel’s feelings about the kid . . . and I’m pretty sure it’s a boy . . . are shot through with the same red-orange as his fear about death. The color of fire seen through the windows of the lab at The Warren as Deo and I ran . . .
Bwee-om. Run, Anna.
The kid in Room 81?
My focus is pulled in two directions at once—as Daniel realizes he’s inadvertently let something slip, and as Taylor realizes I haven’t exactly been paying attention.
“Sorry, Taylor. Kind of drifted off, I guess. Could you repeat?”
“Who. Is. Ashley? I want to know what Daniel did to piss her off so badly that she snuck into the hospital to kill him.”
I already know this part from when Daniel first came on board.
“Daniel said she didn’t have a choice. You guys saw her at the hospital—she was an emotional wreck. Ashley had to video the whole thing so that they could see that Daniel was actually dead. Otherwise, they were going to kill her . . . sister.”
As I say the last word, it hits me.
That’s the woman I sensed, isn’t it? Ashley’s sister?
That was private, Anna. You had no right.
It’s hard not to laugh out loud at the irony—no, the outright hypocrisy—of that statement.
You’re in my head. You pick up on my thoughts, my feelings, interrupt me at every turn. And now you’re claiming a right to privacy?
There’s a very long pause, and when he finally answers my question—which admittedly was kind of rhetorical—he’s clearly annoyed.
Fine. Yes. I was thinking about Ashley’s sister. But it’s none of your business. So unless you want me poking around back there in the corner marked Myron—
Stay away from that corner, Daniel Quinn. You have no idea what you’re messing with. This matter isn’t open for discussion or debate. Keep the hell away.
Just in case Daniel didn’t get the point that he needs to steer clear, I do a little mental redecoration. Myron’s corner is no longer drab gray brick with a simple label. It’s now draped in barbed wire and emblazoned with a biohazard warning sign, along with, a skull-and-crossbones. Danger, Keep Out, No Trespassing, and STOP in red neon letters.
Okay, okay. I get the point. But, you need to get mine, too. What you saw a few minutes ago is none of your business. And it’s definitely not Aaron and Taylor’s business. Just as everything I now know about you—your stray thoughts, your occasional fantasies—is none of their business. If I ever get out of here, I’ll keep your secrets, Anna, but only if you keep mine.
“Are you okay?” Aaron asks. “You look upset.”
“I’m fine,” I say, although I would give anything to have Daniel Quinn fully corporeal and outside of my head long enough for me to punch him. What he just said is nothing short of blackmail. It’s not as though I’ve thought anything all that horrible, at least not that I can recall, but no—I wouldn’t want to have my private thoughts laid bare in front of Aaron and Taylor.
Fine, Daniel. You win.
But then Aaron asks the logical follow-up question to the information I just gave them about Ashley.
“Why was her sister there? Was she one of the girls they brought in? One of their guinea pigs?”
Yes. Ashley joined Python and got herself assigned to the Delphi Project to try and get her sister out of there.
I pass along Daniel’s response, even though I can tell that’s not the full story. It’s partly his tone, but there’s also the fact that I didn’t sense a girl. This was a woman. An adult. Midtwenties. Daniel’s age, maybe a bit older.
“Do you think Cregg kept his deal with Ashley?” Taylor asks. “Do you think he let her sister go?”
I don’t know.
Despite his best efforts, Daniel can’t mask the flood of emotions behind those three words. He may not know, but he definitely fears. And what he fears is that they’re both dead. Ashley and . . . Sariah. Her name is Sariah.
But he’s pretty sure that the kid from Room 81 isn’t dead. No name comes through. Daniel just thinks of him as The Kid. And he’s not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing that The Kid is alive.
What?
Daniel ignores my question.
That’s why we can’t go back to Baltimore. Tell them that, okay? Cregg must know by now that I’m in a coma, not dead. If he didn’t know it before, he’s got that Snoop kid poking around, so he’ll probably pick it up. If I’m alive, that means Ashley failed, and I can’t imagine him letting that slide . . . although I guess there’s some chance he might let her and Sariah live if he believes I never handed over the password. But if I suddenly wake up, how long do you think it will be before he gets one of his people into the hospital to have another go at me? Or at Mom? Taylor? Aaron?
Ashley knew you were awake, though. Couldn’t you have already given the password to your mom?
Could, but didn’t. Ashley straight-up asked. It was one of the first things she said when she came through the door, and thinking back, I’m pretty sure she already had Cregg on the line. I was still so out of it from surgery, I didn’t think anything of the question—I just said no, there hadn’t been time. But . . . you see what I mean, right? As much as I would love to get out of here, we’re all safer if I stay put for now.
I can’t argue with his logic. And when I explain things to Taylor and Aaron, neither can they.
The conversation shifts to more practical matters—what Daniel learned during his months at Delphi and then logistics about the investigation we’ll need to launch once we arrive in North Carolina. I dutifully ferry Daniel’s answers to Aaron and Taylor, but my mind keeps going back to a scrap of sentiment I picked up from Daniel that bothers the hell out of me.
How could it possibly be better for that kid in Room 81—or any kid for that matter—to be dead rather than alive?
CHAPTER FIVE
Somewhere in North Carolina
November 2, 2019, 1:22 p.m.
Aaron was up at the crack of dawn. I don’t think he slept well. He came to bed long after I did, and he tossed fitfully, either trying to get comfortable enough to sleep or wrestling with the same thoughts I was. Part of me wanted to snuggle up next to him, but that felt awkward enough even before he learned that his brother is inside my head. So I just hugged my pillow and pretended to be asleep.
On the plus side, the magic pills Kelsey prescribed did a decent job of keeping the Molly dreams at bay for once. I had only one dream that I can remember, and it didn’t end with the sight of Dacia Badea swinging a baseball bat toward my head. It definitely started in the basement with Dacia, but Deo wandered into the dream about halfway through, and then Dacia morphed into one of his Marvel characters. She-Hulk, I think. And then Deo and I were running toward the deli where I used to work, with Dacia Hulk hot on our heels. We’d almost made it—I could see the front door and even smell Joe’s cheddar-jalapeño bagels—when I jolted awake.
Dacia is creepy as hell, but to the best of my knowledge, she doesn’t swell to twice her normal size and turn bright green when she’s angry. If she could do that, I’m pretty sure she’d have flipped into Hulk mode when she saw Lucas lying in a pool of blood on the floor of the lab.
So even though my heart was pounding when I woke up from the dream, I wasn’t screaming in terror, and it was much easier for me to fall back asleep afterward. Partly because Aaron was sleeping on the other side of the bed. But it’s also because Molly’s final moments are beginning to merge with my usual dreamscape. I know from experience that this means that the dreams will start tapering off. And if the dreamscapes merge, I’m much happier seeing a Dacia/She-Hulk
mash-up than Cregg morphing into Myron and back.
Thinking of Cregg immediately starts the tickling sensation on my forehead. I’m almost certain it’s my imagination, but that doesn’t make it any less real. And the fact that I was thinking about Myron just now makes me even more paranoid. I don’t want Cregg anywhere near those thoughts, so I push them away.
But they don’t stay away.
A text comes in on Aaron’s phone when we’re maybe twenty miles northwest of Fayetteville, but there’s no name attached. I tense up automatically, but Aaron shakes his head.
“Not him,” he says after glancing at the screen. “Too many digits for a US number. Must be Magda.”
I press the button, and a computer voice reads, “Pin drop your location to meet courier at two p.m. EST.”
“It’s 1:27,” Aaron says. “Find someplace we can reach before two. Ideally, someplace with decent food. I’m tired of burgers and pizza.”
After a brief search, I send Magda the coordinates for an Asian place. Daniel, who spent the better part of a year in the area during his military training back in 2014, swears the food is good.
The road leading into Fort Bragg is pretty much nonstop strip malls, with the occasional fast-food restaurant and hotel to break things up a bit. The restaurant Daniel recommended has the same slightly run-down industrial vibe as everything around us.
“You sure about this place?” Aaron asks as he pulls the RV toward the back of the lot.
“Not in the slightest. Like I said, it’s Daniel’s recommendation.”
He grimaces, probably not happy with having to take advice from his brother. But the aroma wafting out of the restaurant when we step outside supports Daniel’s thumbs-up rating.
“I’m going to check on Deo real quick, and then I’ll be right in.”
“Sure,” he says. “I’ll step in and test the atmosphere. We might need to eat outside.”
I’d assumed he was worried about the quality of the food, but I realize now that he’s probably equally concerned about the size—and maybe the mood—of the crowd inside. It’s just after the lunch rush, but the place still has about a dozen cars in the lot. “I have no problem with dining alfresco,” I tell him.
Aaron glances around and laughs. “Not sure that term really applies to this parking lot, but okay.” The smile he gives me as he enters the restaurant is still not as open and trusting as it was this time yesterday, but it’s infinitely better than the look in his eyes last night when he first learned about Daniel.
Taylor is already bounding down the steps of the RV when I reach the door. I’m very glad to see that she’s abandoned the foil cap.
“Deo’s asleep,” she says. “I looked in maybe five minutes ago. Gave him some of the Gatorade and more Tylenol around noon. He sat up to drink this time. Even got out of bed to pee, although he was kind of shaky. But the room still smells like a lightning storm just hit, so it’s probably best for you and Aaron to both steer clear. I left a note for him, in case he wakes up.”
“Thanks.” I follow Taylor into the restaurant, feeling oddly deflated. I am thankful for Taylor’s help, but I also feel like she’s doing my job. Deo is my family, my responsibility, and the idea that he’s somehow poisonous to me, at least for the time being, twists my gut.
That doesn’t keep me from eating, however. Daniel may be a pain in the ass, but he’s got good taste in Thai food. Aaron even seems relaxed once we’ve eaten, possibly because the crowd has thinned out a bit.
A young woman enters while we’re waiting for the check and the large take-out container of soup that I ordered just in case Deo’s appetite returns. After a quick glance down at the clipboard in her hands, she peers around the room. The business suit she wears looks oddly formal here—aside from the servers and the three of us in our jeans, almost everyone else is wearing some variant of camouflage.
It’s called an ACU. Used to be BDUs, but they changed the name and fabric a while back.
Jaden sighs.
Now see, man? That’s exactly the kind of trivia that did not merit an interruption. I swear, you need to get a filter in the worst kind of way.
I push Daniel and Jaden to the back, with a silent reminder that they need to stop the rapid switch-offs if they don’t want me to hurl.
“Aaron Quinn?” the woman asks as she approaches.
“Yes . . .”
“Delivery. I’m gonna need to see ID.”
The girl smacks her gum as she scrutinizes both sides of his license, stares at his face, then back at the card. Apparently convinced, she tosses a box onto the table along with Aaron’s ID and then shoves the clipboard into his hands.
“Signature at the bottom to indicate acceptance, please.”
Once she’s gone, Aaron opens the box, and we peek inside. There are a bunch of documents, along with a stack of twenty-dollar bills, an envelope marked Skolnick, three credit cards, a plastic bag containing about a dozen clear sample collection tubes and packets of needles, a car key, a fake driver’s license for Aaron, and two identification badges on black lanyards. Bingley, Darcy, and Wickham, Attorneys-at-Law is emblazoned across the bottom. The one with Aaron’s face reads, William Collins, Associate. On the other one, below the photo taken last year for my student ID, is Elizabeth Bennet, Intern.
“Well, I guess we know Magda’s favorite book.” I’m surprised that Aaron and Taylor both give me blank looks. “What? You never read Pride and Prejudice?”
“I watched the zombie version,” Aaron says. “Does that count?”
“No. It does not. Anyway, she made you the bad guy.”
“Which character am I?” Taylor asks. “And why bother with a car? We have the truck.”
“I don’t know. And I don’t see any other—” Aaron’s phone dings with an incoming text. We all tense up, but it’s Magda again.
Courier confirmed delivery of packet. Car is rented for a fortnight but can be extended if necessary. Truck far too conspicuous for our purposes.
Taylor drops her jaw dramatically and turns to look out at the parking lot. There are three pickups among the seven or eight vehicles parked outside, including one in an adjoining lot that’s pretty much an exact duplicate of Porter’s F-150. “Magda really doesn’t have a clue about where we are, does she?”
A second ping, and then:
Working on documents for the children, but these should suffice in the interim.
It takes a second for me to realize that by children, Magda doesn’t mean the kids we’re trying to locate. She means Taylor and Deo.
Taylor got that too, and she looks like she’s going to blow a fuse. “Anna and I are the same age.”
I feel kind of bad for her, because she’s right—technically, we’re both seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks, and Taylor has eight months to go, but it still doesn’t seem fair. “I’d be happy to trade places, but it’s my face on the ID, so I don’t think we have a choice.”
The phone pings again.
Documents in packet combine my files with those your brother collected. Link follows to submit recording. First interview with Skolnick on enclosed printout is scheduled 11/2 @4PM. Compare the photos; if they match, give him the envelope.
A location pin pops up for a coffee shop in downtown Fayetteville, followed by the promised link.
Taylor is still stuck on Magda’s second text. “What does she expect me to do, just sit in the camper all day? Watch YouTube and babysit Deo?”
Okay, I don’t feel so bad for her anymore. “Deo doesn’t need babysitting . . . at least not when he’s well.”
“Really? That’s hard to believe, given the way you hover over him.” The words are barely out before she says, “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just pissed. You wouldn’t like it either if they benched you. And who the hell does she think is going to use those needles?”
Arguing with Taylor is about as productive as kicking a wasp’s nest, so I ignore her. But as I look at the next item Aaron pulls out, I’m tempted
to tell her that I’d be more than happy to hang in the camper with Deo. The document is a spreadsheet, with the name and photo of each “adept” we’re seeking, along with the addresses, telephone numbers, and pictures of people we’re supposed to question in regard to that adept. I’m surprised to see that about half of them are teachers, but I guess teachers are more likely to witness odd behavior by kids than anyone aside from parents.
In addition to the spreadsheet, there’s also a list of the questions she wants us to ask, the specific protocol we need to follow for making contact, and a deadline for submitting reports from each interview. There’s even a handy little column at the far left where we can check off each item as completed. All in all, it’s an excruciatingly detailed exercise in micromanagement, and I’m very tempted to make a reference to Lady Catherine de Bourgh. But since I don’t know if that character was even in the zombie version of Pride and Prejudice, I keep the observation to myself.
Aaron taps the top item on the list and then looks back at Magda’s text. “Okay, it would have been nice if Magda had given us a little more notice. In less than two hours, you and I are expected to”—he glances around, and even though we’re down to just us and the restaurant staff now, he lowers his voice—“impersonate attorneys.”
I grin. “Nope. Just you. I’m only required to impersonate an intern. But I doubt they’ll even believe that when I’m dressed like this.” I flick my hand at my jeans and sweater.
“Yeah. I don’t have anything either.” He curses under his breath and then peels a couple of bills off the stack in the envelope, handing them to Taylor along with a credit card and the keys to the truck. “I hate to dump this on you, but I don’t think the restaurant is going to appreciate us leaving the RV here and blocking a quarter of their parking lot.”