The Delphi Resistance (The Delphi Trilogy Book 2)

by Rysa Walker

“By military technology, do you mean something that could cause the type of activity they’ve been repor—”

  “That’s all I can say at this time.”

  Breyer rolls her eyes. “This is far from the first instance Senator Cregg has teased the media with ludicrous allegations in order to draw attention to his campaign. Tell me, Senator, do you also have information connecting the government to the Illuminati? Or maybe you’ve uncovered new information about the aliens at Area 51?”

  The Senator’s eyes flash, but he covers quickly with his usual smile. “If I did have information on any of those things, it would be classified, and not something that I could share outside of committee. You’ll just have to keep an eye on the news like everyone else so that you’ll know when I have more information.”

  “Ooh, burn,” Taylor says as she switches off the TV. “You’re just a measly governor. I have access to information you could never even dream of.”

  “He’s bluffing, though. Right? I mean, why would he reveal anything about the Delphi program. If they dig too deep, won’t that just point toward his son? And eventually toward him?”

  “Maybe,” she says. “He’s a slimy devil, though, and he’s very good at misdirection. Most of what he just said was false, but . . . he drops in little bits of fact, too. For example, if I didn’t know he was lying through his perfectly capped teeth about Daniel working for Cregg, I’d probably believe him.”

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  November 3, 2019, 3:40 p.m.

  Aaron casts a wary eye toward the building. “Yeah, I know it’s an elementary school, but it’s still a school. You think fifth-graders in detention don’t have anger-management issues?”

  I laugh, even though I can tell he’s only half teasing. “I don’t think detention is even a thing in elementary school. And the kids have already gone home.”

  “Not all of them . . .” He looks glumly off to the right where a few dozen kids in the after-school program are playing kickball and climbing on the playground equipment. They seem fairly carefree, but judging from Aaron’s expression, one of those little tykes has a mean streak.

  I glance back down at the information sheet on Pruitt, even though I’ve pretty much committed the details and her photo to memory. She’s forty-three, African American, married. Her husband has been deployed to the Mexican border for the past few months. One kid is in high school and the other is enrolled at a local community college. She’s been teaching for nearly twenty years at various schools around the country.

  Aaron glances over at the picture. “She looks like there are many, many places she’d rather be.”

  He’s right. Pruitt’s expression is only a notch above a scowl, and my hope that we’d be interviewing a teacher who had only her students’ best interests at heart fades a bit.

  “Maybe she has bad teeth and doesn’t smile for pictures?” I suggest.

  Once again, I raise the cheap binoculars we picked up earlier today, and watch. A few minutes later, the side door to the school opens, and another cluster of teachers straggles out. This is the third wave of employees, and at first I think we’re going to be waiting a bit longer. But Pruitt catches the door with her shoulder just before it closes, holding it open for another teacher. They chat for a moment. Pruitt grins and throws her head back, laughing at something the other woman says. So much for my theory about bad teeth.

  Aaron starts the car, and we follow when she pulls her black SUV out onto the street. It’s clear that he’s tailed a car more than once. He stays back, never close enough to spook Pruitt, although it doesn’t look like she’s paying much attention, anyway. She keeps gesturing with her hands, so she must be talking to someone on her car phone.

  About three miles from the school, Pruitt pulls into a shopping center. We park a few spaces away and approach her as she closes the hatchback of her car.

  “Are you recording?” Aaron asks.

  “Not yet.” I click the voice memo and then tuck the phone back into my skirt pocket, reminding myself that this really is legal in North Carolina, even if recording someone without her consent feels wrong to me.

  “Ms. Pruitt?” Aaron says.

  “Yes?”

  He does the introductions, following Magda’s script. Bernadette Pruitt’s eyes were guarded from the moment she saw us, but the gates come all the way down as soon as Aaron says the word students.

  “I told you people last year, I’m not sharing information about my pupils or their families. If the government wants that information, they’ll have to get a warrant. If my supervisor tells me to talk to you, I will.”

  “We’re not with the government, Ms. Pruitt.”

  She gives us both a head-to-toe assessment. “That might be the first true thing you’ve said. But if so, what I told you goes double. You need to get back in your car and leave me alone.”

  “We’re prepared to offer a three-thousand-dollar reward if you have . . . useful infor . . . mation.”

  Aaron trails off as Pruitt’s eyes narrow to thin, dark slits, just before she turns on her heel and marches off toward Food Lion.

  “We’re trying to get some help for these kids and their parents,” I say, hurrying to catch up with her. “Aren’t you worried that more children will disappear?”

  I really hope that the question will tap at Pruitt’s conscience. But when she turns back to face us, it’s clear that it had the opposite effect. She glances down at the badges around our necks and snatches her phone from her purse.

  Fortunately, we’re ready. Magda has a recording enabled on the other end, and a live person who will confirm our cover if anyone clicks through the automated options. So Aaron just smiles and holds his badge closer so that she can see the phone number at the bottom.

  “I don’t blame you at all,” he says. “You should verify our story.”

  “Sugar, I don’t give a damn about verifying your story. That’s not my job. You’re harassing me when I told you under no uncertain terms to leave me alone. On top of that, you just tried to bribe me. So I think I’ll let the police verify your story.”

  A woman who’s loading her toddler into one of those fire-truck grocery carts casts a nervous glance in our direction. She’s too far away to hear what we’re saying, but Pruitt’s body language is conveying her anger loud and clear.

  “And,” Pruitt says, “given that we had six kids up and vanish in the past week, I think they’ll be very interested in what you have to say.”

  I take an involuntary step backward as Bernadette Pruitt presses the button on her phone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  November 3, 2019, 4:18 p.m.

  “Let’s go,” Aaron says softly. I start to follow him, even though I’m certain that Pruitt will complete the call either way. She’ll tell the police what we look like. The car we’re driving. I certainly would if I were in her position.

  Daniel zooms to the front of my head so fast that I nearly trip over my feet.

  Let me nudge her.

  I want to tell him no. I don’t like his ability on general principle, and I definitely don’t like the idea of giving him control. And we haven’t tested this. Yes, I picked up Jaden’s visions when I picked up Jaden. I also had the abilities of Oksana and the Furies back in the lab, until they jumped ship. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Daniel will be able to work through my body to “nudge” this woman. All of the others were dead. Daniel is not.

  On the other hand, Pruitt is calling the police right this minute. I’m not sure we have another choice. And since I’m certain that Aaron wouldn’t be cool with his brother walking off with my body, I slide back. Although, to be honest, it feels more like I’m sucked back by the sheer force of Daniel rushing forward.

  “Hang up.” The voice is still mine but somehow deeper. More commanding. “You made a mistake.”

  A muscle twitches in Pruitt’s face, and her thumb clicks the screen to stop the call. “I made a . . .
mistake.” Her voice is flat.

  “We’re trying to help. You’ll come with us and tell us what you know.”

  She nods. “You’re trying to help. I’ll . . .” The twitch hits her face again, and I can tell she’s fighting it.

  “You’ll come with us.” Daniel stresses the words this time.

  “I’ll come with you.” No twitch, but her voice rises slightly at the end, like she wonders why in hell she’s agreeing to this.

  And I understand how she feels, completely and totally, because Daniel’s words echo in my mind, and I find myself thinking, I’ll come with you.

  Ha. As if I have a choice. I try to shake my head to clear it, but nothing actually moves since Daniel is now in control of my motor functions.

  Daniel takes the woman’s arm and leads her toward our rental car. His gait is almost as unsteady as hers, however. I feel a bit like I’m walking in stilettos, something I’ve done exactly twice and never for more than a few minutes.

  Aaron just stands in the middle of the parking lot, mouth open.

  “Are you coming?” Daniel asks, glancing back at him. “I mean, I’d be happy to handle the questioning myself, but you have the car keys. So either hand them over or get moving before we attract even more attention.”

  There’s no push this time, no coercion when he speaks to Aaron, but his—my? our?—tone makes it clear that Daniel is losing patience.

  Aaron follows, still with that look of shock. And even though I can’t help thinking, Way to screw up my love life, Daniel, I also know that’s really not the most important thing right this minute.

  My reflection in the car window ripples as we approach. One second it’s me holding on to Pruitt’s arm, and the next it’s Daniel. He’s wearing his uniform from The Warren—his Fudd uniform, as Jaden would say.

  This isn’t new. I saw Molly this way on several occasions when she was strongly present. When she was angry, or upset, or just close to the front of my mind. I also remember vividly the shock of seeing my nine-year-old face morph into that of a woman in her eighties when I saw Emily in the mirror once. There were random glimpses of a few of my other hitchers, too. And I saw Myron in the mirror more times than I care to remember.

  Pruitt slides into the back seat without any sign of resistance, and I catch one more glimpse of Daniel’s face in the window—dark-blond hair, his square jaw clenched.

  How long can you do this? Control her, I mean.

  Not nearly as long as I could in my own body. Stop distracting me.

  Oh, that is rich, coming from the guy I’m currently allowing to borrow my body. But I retreat a bit further, back toward the mental cabinets that house the memories of former tenants.

  Jaden is back in the cobwebby corners, too. It’s the first time I’ve been inside my own head when I was carrying more than one hitcher, and for some reason, I imagined I’d just hear him and kind of sense his movements, the way I do when I’m in control. But I actually see him. It’s weird. He looks the same as he did when I first saw his body in the lab—same blood-drenched clothes, same bullet wound on the side of his head. The only difference is that his eyes are open now and his face is no longer slack and expressionless.

  Hey, if it’s weird, that’s on you. Your head, your rules. Maybe you’re one of those visual learners. Need to see a picture.

  I am, actually. But I think we both could do without seeing you like this.

  Made my peace with it already, Anna. And it’s kinda like drivin’ an ugly car, anyway—it’s mostly everyone else stuck lookin’ at it. My question is why you don’t see Daniel in a hospital gown, or all bloody from getting shot.

  The question takes me aback, because I’m not sure why that’s the case. But I can’t stop to puzzle things out right now. The waves of annoyance flowing from Daniel suggest that our conversation is distracting him, and while I kind of like having him discover exactly how annoying that sort of distraction can be, I know his focus needs to be on getting answers from Pruitt.

  Aaron pulls the car over to the far end of the parking lot, away from potentially prying eyes.

  Daniel stares intently at Pruitt. “You’re going to answer my questions, okay? Because you want to help.”

  Her eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no twitch this time. She just nods.

  “Our questions,” Aaron says. “I’ve got a whole list of things that I’m supposed to ask.”

  I feel my eyes roll, and then Daniel says, “Fine, Aaron. But I don’t know how many times I can . . . convince her. So I’m telling her to spill what she knows. If there’s anything she misses, and if we have time, then you can jump in.”

  Aaron agrees, although he doesn’t seem especially pleased with the arrangement.

  Daniel turns back to the woman. “So, Mrs. Pruitt, I need to know about some of the children you’ve taught. Specifically, the ones who can do things they shouldn’t be able to. Everything you can remember, from the beginning. When you first noticed what they could do, whether the school administrators and military leadership are aware of what these kids can do. And this conversation is entirely private. No one will ever know you’ve spoken with us.”

  There are a few beats of silence, and then Pruitt begins talking at a rapid clip, as if she wants to spill everything as quickly as possible so that this will end sooner. I’m perfectly okay with that, since I’d rather not prolong the experience either. As was the case when Molly took over, it’s like I’m watching everything and listening to everything through a sheet of plastic. Only, it seems worse this time. Whenever Daniel sends another mental nudge Pruitt’s way every few minutes, to redirect her or keep her on track, I feel it. Blocking Daniel’s mental manipulation with my walls was fairly easy when I was on the outside and he was in his own body. Now that we’re squished together in a single package, however, not so much.

  You feel that, Jaden? Or is it just me?

  Yeah. I feel it all right. Don’t especially like it, either. You okay?

  I nod and fall silent, trying to follow the conversation on the outside. While I know that I can always listen to the recording later, I want to stay aware of my surroundings. I trust Daniel—okay, I mostly trust Daniel—to give my body back. But I really, really hate not being in control.

  Pruitt gives a rapid-fire overview of her time with the Department of Defense schools at Fort Bragg. The first year she was at Fort Bragg seemed pretty routine, except for a few odd stories she heard among the teachers. The second year, however, she had a kid named Javier Perez in her class.

  “Nice enough kid,” she says, “but he had what they call impulsivity issues. He’d blurt things out, disrupt the class. Only after a while, I realize he’s not just blurting random stuff. He’s blurting out what other kids are thinking. Sometimes, it’s things I’m thinking, like this one time my bra hurts, and I want to take the damn thing off and shove it in the trash, and he broadcasts that to the whole class. You know how long it takes to restore order when someone says bra in a fifth-grade classroom? When I asked him about it, he said he couldn’t help it. Said I was just thinking too loud.”

  I definitely sympathize with this Javier kid. I know exactly how hard it can be to shut off someone else’s too-loud thoughts inside your own head.

  “Did you report it?” Aaron asks.

  “No. I wanted to keep my job. I just tried to steer clear of him when I could. Tried to get a song running through my head any time thoughts of a personal nature popped up. The kids talked about him, though, about what he could do. Then a month or so later, someone I don’t know—someone from the military—stops by and starts asking questions about the kid’s so-called impulsivity. And the next thing I hear, Javier is being homeschooled. Which I thought was a good idea, only . . . we started hearing that excuse a lot.”

  My phone vibrates to signal an incoming call. I guess Daniel forgot it was in my skirt pocket, because he startles.

  Pruitt gives him an odd look before continuing. “The next year, I got a firebug. Vanda Ca
rter set her own sleeve on fire while taking an end-of-year exam—worst case of test anxiety I’ve ever seen.”

  “Vanda . . .” Aaron glances back down at our list. “That’s one of the kids who’s missing, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly,” Pruitt says. “Of course, the principal claimed publicly that the girl used a match or a lighter, but she didn’t. I was watching her. One minute she’s chewing on the end of her eraser, and the next minute she’s on fire. A week later, we hear that her parents have decided to . . . you guessed it, homeschool. Got so bad we used that as a code word for kids who had one of these psychic talents . . . we called them homeschool candidates. Only there were rumors that the kids weren’t being homeschooled at all. That the authorities were keeping those kids in a separate school somewhere on Bragg where they couldn’t hurt anyone or attract media attention.”

  After she was laid off from the school on Fort Bragg, Pruitt thought maybe that would be the end of it. She tried to look on the bright side—wouldn’t having a classroom full of normal kids be worth the salary reduction? Only she soon realized that the problem wasn’t confined to Fort Bragg. There weren’t as many of the bizarrely gifted at Baker Elementary, and most of the teachers simply laughed the stories off as urban legends if anyone asked—since they knew that everyone unwise enough to pursue the issue in the past no longer worked at Baker Elementary.

  “One thing was different at the public school. Two years back, a whole slew of investigators swooped in and started asking really detailed questions about classroom behavior. Claimed they were from a foundation that provided financial assistance for families of children on the autistic spectrum. But the actual autistic kids never seemed to qualify for that program, only the kids on the psychic spectrum. Even then, interest faded if it was low level—a boy who would occasionally turn in an assignment that hadn’t even been assigned yet, or a basketball that seemed to veer off course just enough to swish through the net almost every time this one girl attempted a shot. That kind of stuff. Anything that ended up in the papers, though, like that Bieler kid—”