by Rysa Walker
Magda halts midsentence when Aaron turns the camera my way, and then says, “Actually, that police sketch bears only a passing resemblance to Anna now. I’m impressed.”
“Taylor has hidden talents,” I say.
“Indeed. You usually don’t want to attract attention to yourself in these situations, but since the sketch is of a rather nondescript girl, this new look is probably a better option.”
“I’m glad you approve.” I smile sweetly, ignoring the fact that I’ve just had my usual appearance dissed by a woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Miss Trunchbull in Matilda.
Magda continues to complain about our abrupt exit for a few more minutes, and we let her vent without interruption. Aaron even tosses in an apology, although if Magda is a halfway decent judge of human behavior, she realizes it’s not exactly a sincere apology. He was as eager to get out of Sandalford as any of us, maybe more.
Magda winds down eventually. Before she hangs up, she orders us to text twice daily with our location and an update on Taylor’s progress.
Once we’re on the road, I turn on one of Aaron’s stations, and Cage the Elephant fills the cab. Then I start work on our daily news roundup. For the past few weeks, it’s mostly been me and Aaron scanning through the news—both the real news and the conspiracy stuff—out on the deck after breakfast. Neither of us is as media savvy as Taylor, but she’s a bit preoccupied at the moment trying to track down Bree, and there’s a lot to comb through.
It’s become an increasingly disheartening task. There’s just so much out there that’s ill-informed and ill-intentioned. And Cregg is more than happy to exploit it.
It’s the ill-intentioned types that worry me the most. The things I’ve been reading stirred up a memory from my former hitcher Bruno, who once had a protracted debate with another homeless guy when they were sleeping beneath the same bridge. Bruno couldn’t remember the guy’s name—he just thought of him as That-Jerk—but his mind would often drift back to their conversation in the years before his death.
Their debate centered around the question of what would happen when the aliens finally let everyone here on earth know that they exist. That they’re watching. That they have peaceful intentions, but they’re actually smarter and more powerful than we mere earthlings.
This is one of Bruno’s memories that I probably got more nuance from than he did. Bruno wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree. His views on aliens were almost like a religious faith—he had his beliefs, and he stood by them, regardless of any evidence others might present. (Although, to be fair, there wasn’t much actual evidence on either side.) He told That-Jerk without hesitation that everyone would welcome the Grays, with their peaceful intentions and advanced intelligence, and they would then share their technology, and soon no one would be hungry or sick. They’d cure cancer, which made Bruno happy because his mom died of cancer. And maybe they’d even take some volunteers back to Zeta Reticuli. Bruno really hoped they’d pick him.
The other guy, who was considerably smarter than Bruno, disagreed. He said that the aliens’ arrival would result in an upheaval of massive, maybe even apocalyptic, proportions. Contact with the Grays would call into question the religious beliefs of many people, especially the idea that we were the center of God’s focus, and that would make them angry. But more importantly, humans would have to view themselves as lesser than. Inferior to these aliens with their advanced tech. We wouldn’t be top of the heap anymore. That-Jerk was convinced that things would get really nasty, really quick. There might be a few people, like that kid in E.T., who could see past humanity’s limitations and imagine the possibilities of cooperation. But for the most part, if the Zeta Reticulans didn’t watch their scrawny gray backs, humans would end them. Humans would end every single Gray they could find.
The discussion never erased Bruno’s desire to meet the Zeta Reticulans. But That-Jerk’s comments did unsettle him. They gave him nightmares for weeks.
The Delphi adepts aren’t aliens, but public reaction so far is tracking closely with what That-Jerk predicted. The reaction has been almost universally negative, with the exception of the people who still aren’t buying it, who refuse to believe until they see proof in person with their own two eyes. A new editorial appears almost daily about the consequences of tampering with nature, with many of the authors arguing that the government must track down and tag every person who was connected to the project, along with their offspring. Most believe we need to isolate them from the rest of the public. Some say this would be for their own good. Others don’t even sugarcoat it. They just say the government should lock ’em up. And on the few occasions when I’ve ventured down into the comments section—something I should really know better than to do—I’ve found that the individuals chanting lock ’em up are actually the moderate voices.
What really scares me is that I’m hearing a slightly subtler version of that sentiment from senators, representatives, and witnesses appearing in the Delphi Hearings. Many of the witnesses are simply offering objective testimony about the program. But plenty of opinions have been entered into the official record, not just by the witnesses but by the members of Congress asking the questions.
So far, we’ve heard from victims of the original Delphi subjects, the men whose brains were so addled from the serum that they killed dozens of people. We’ve heard from law enforcement officers who worked those cases, and a half dozen or so individuals who were part of the initial testing at Fort Bragg. As of now, however, none of the individuals who moved on to the next stage, when the Delphi Project became property of the CIA, have been called to testify.
The witnesses for the past few days have been more science focused—psychiatrists, neuroscientists, and physicists, among others. Some took the stand to proclaim the impossibility of psychic phenomena, and some to proclaim the opposite. A member of the latter group set up a demonstration by putting electrode caps on members of the commission to show that they could transmit short thoughts back and forth via computer. I’m still not entirely sure how that was relevant, since Delphi psychics aren’t connected to wires and computers, but I guess it takes baby steps to convince some people that telepathy and other psionic abilities are possible.
The session I’m reading about now, which was held yesterday afternoon, has moved on to the psychologists who worked with the original Delphi subjects. As I scroll down through the summary posted on the New York Times, a photograph pops up on the screen that startles me. Even though his hair has grayed and there are a few wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, he hasn’t changed much since the pictures in the papers around the time of his trial.
Aaron glances over at my sharp intake of breath. “Something new?”
“Yeah. The Senate committee heard testimony yesterday morning from the lead psychiatrist who treats my father. The doctor who wouldn’t talk to Kelsey. The chair of the commission is demanding that Pfeifer be brought in to answer questions, even though his doctor says that’s a bad idea. Senator Cregg seconded that, saying that it would be—and I quote—‘too taxing given the patient’s mental history,’ but he was overruled.”
“So your dad will be testifying before the commission?”
“Looks like. But they haven’t decided whether he’ll testify in person. They could also do a video deposition.”
I continue reading through the other accounts, sharing anything of particular interest with Aaron. The one that catches me by surprise is an article in the LA Times about public protests in front of three state capitol buildings demanding that those who participated in the Delphi protocol, along with their children, be included in a national registry along the lines of those required for sex offenders.
He gives me a pained smile. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“No kidding. Get this. ‘Senator Ron Cregg spoke to the protesters gathered in Harrisburg late Monday afternoon, noting that he shares their concerns for public safety, and that those concerns would certainly be a key focus were he to be ele
cted next November.’”
“How very convenient that one of these three spontaneous protests just happened to be in the Senator’s home state. And how very convenient yet again that he just happened to be at the capitol building in Pennsylvania at that very hour to address them, after a busy day of congressional hearings in DC.”
“I know. He’s clearly using this situation for political gain. That’s been true from the beginning. It’s just—how can he believe that digging deeply into Delphi won’t end up pointing back to his own family? There must be dozens of people who know that his own son was involved with the program after it ended up with government contractors. It reminds me of the old adage about riding a crocodile across the river.”
“I’m not familiar with that one . . .”
“The point is, the croc might get you where you want to go. But there’s an equally good chance you’ll get eaten when you get there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Waltham, Massachusetts
December 17, 2019, 6:24 p.m.
“You think they’re home?” Aaron asks as we pull into the driveway.
None of the lights seem to be on inside the Park residence, a small white split-level in an older neighborhood near the center of Waltham. The house is decorated for the holidays, but the strings of lights that someone hastily wrapped around the bushes at the front of the house aren’t on, and a battered air-blown snowman decoration is collapsed in a heap in the yard. An aging Honda Civic is parked in the driveway, blocking the one-car garage.
What do you think, Jaden? Is anyone home?
Yeah. They both should be. Two cars are here, or there wouldn’t be one in the driveway. I can’t believe they still have that Frosty decoration. Mom hates that thing. She said she was gonna make Dad throw it away last year.
You ready?
Yeah. Ready as I’ll ever be.
Jaden started getting cold feet right after we crossed the Massachusetts border. I could feel his anxiety as soon as I pulled the sheet of paper with his parents’ home address out of my backpack. He was the one who gave me the address, and I’m sure he was listening in when I asked Sam to run a background check to be sure they still lived there, so there was nothing new on that sheet of paper. Maybe the whole thing just didn’t seem real until we were nearly here.
As we continued north, Jaden developed an entire shopping list of reservations. Was it fair to open up a wound that might have begun healing? Was it fair to take away their hope that they might find their only son one day? On the other hand, was it fair for them to keep hoping, to keep looking for him, expending resources and energy on the search, rather than getting on with their lives?
I didn’t get involved. Better just to stay out of his internal decision-making, even if it was draining my ability to concentrate on anything else. He ran through the entire gamut of options several times, always returning to the belief that this was, after all, a good thing. Or at least a necessary thing.
It didn’t stop him from worrying about his mom, though. She’s the one with the military background. She lived in Maryland for a while, too, so he’s not sure whether her involvement continued after the CIA took over the program. Jaden doesn’t want her to feel guilty about what happened. But then she probably already feels guilty. She must realize that Jaden’s psychic abilities were connected to her time in the program, even though she never talked to him about it.
Aaron walks with me to the front door, although I guess I should say walks with us. Jaden is waiting near the front, and I plan to slide back and let him take over once I’ve explained why we’re here. This is his good-bye. Not just his parents’ chance for closure, but also his own, and I don’t want to get in the way.
No one answers the first time I ring the doorbell. Jaden thinks they could be down in the basement, so I give it thirty seconds and ring again.
This time, the door opens. I can see the man’s face through the chain lock, and my first reaction is that he looks a lot like Jaden.
Yeah. My mom always said . . .
Jaden’s thought trails off when his dad flicks on the porch light and we see his face more clearly. It’s red and puffy, especially around the eyes.
“Can I help you?” Mr. Park’s voice is quiet, drained of all energy. “I’m guessing you worked with Mi-Sook. Thanks for stopping by, but . . . I’m just not ready to talk to people yet.”
Jaden, who has never been pushy, zips to the front.
“What happened?”
Mr. Park winces. “I thought you must have seen the details in the paper. We were coming out of that little pizza place she likes downtown on Sunday night, and . . .” He stops, shaking his head. “The shot came out of nowhere. I guess it was a drug thing. Didn’t even see a car nearby. One minute she’s standing next to me, and then she’s . . .” Another headshake, followed by a long silence. “Visitation is tomorrow from five to seven. We’re asking that people give to Reading is Fundamental instead of flowers.”
“She’d have liked that.” Jaden’s voice is flat and faraway. It barely sounds like me. “She was allergic anyway.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Park says with a sad smile. “Always said she didn’t want to be sneezin’ at her own funeral. Maybe I’ll see you there tomorrow, Miss—?” His voice goes up at the end, and I realize we never gave him our names.
Jaden can’t find his voice for a moment. Then he clears my throat. “It’s Anna. Just Anna,” he says as he begins backing down the steps.
Aaron takes my elbow and says, “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” Then he turns us back toward the truck.
Jaden starts apologizing before I can get my seat belt on.
Couldn’t do it. I’m sorry, but not like that. Not when he just . . . the words . . . I couldn’t find them.
Oh, God, no! Don’t apologize. Of course you couldn’t. I’m so, so sorry, Jaden.
Once we’re pulling out of the driveway and Mr. Park closes the door, Jaden and I change places.
He huddles in the back, much like Hunter did when I first picked him up. I feel waves of sympathy from both Hunter and Daniel, and my first thought is that I’m glad he’s not alone. That he’s with people who understand loss.
I’m so struck by the utter absurdity of having an entire therapy group within the confines of my skull that I half laugh, half sob.
Aaron reaches over for my hand. “Are you okay? Is Jaden okay?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m . . .” Aaron shakes his head in anger. “I’m not buying that it was an accident. You said Jaden’s mom was the one in the program, right? She gets shot, and we have Beth lying in a hospital in Silver Spring after some asshole swerves off the road to hit her.”
“I didn’t know Beth was connected to Delphi.”
“Yeah. She wasn’t one of the subjects, but she worked there. We met her and Virgie through my dad, although I didn’t really get to know them until after he died. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who funneled information to him when he was planning to blow the whistle. Two women suffer accidents in the same day, and both of them were among the maybe fifty employees connected to Delphi when it was under Graham Cregg. I can’t see that as a coincidence. Can you?”
“No.”
Aaron calls Sam to give him the news about Jaden’s mom and to check on Beth. She’s still in critical condition. We’re quiet after that, both thinking about the implications of these attacks. Are they eliminating everyone who worked with the Delphi program? Or simply everyone who has knowledge of Graham Cregg’s role in the later stages of the program? If so, that includes the four of us, Kelsey, Porter, Aaron’s entire family, Jasper Hawkins and his family, Magda, and maybe even some of the security guards, depending on how much information Magda has given them.
It also includes my father. If what Jasper Hawkins told me is true, Scott Pfeifer and Graham Cregg were basically partners. Is my father safe in the psychiatric hospital? For that matter, how safe is Daniel’s body, even with his former police co
lleagues watching him?
We arrive at the campground much earlier than anticipated, given that we were at Jaden’s house all of five minutes. Taylor and Deo aren’t in the main cabin when we enter the RV. Music blares from the back area where they’ve been working. Initially, they’d each used their earbuds because Deo was not a fan of Taylor’s music and she was not a fan of his. But they seem to have found a compromise they can tolerate.
Aaron puts the pizzas we picked up on the counter. I push the door open quietly, hoping to signal to Deo that there’s food waiting while trying to avoid interrupting Taylor’s concentration.
Neither of them notice me. Deo’s eyes are closed. I can’t tell if Taylor’s eyes are open, because her body—her very bare body on top of his very bare body—faces the other direction, toward Deo. They are both far too distracted, too caught up in each other to even hear my gasp. I step back, bumping into Aaron as I pull the door shut. One look at his face tells me that he saw the same thing I did.
TAYLOR!
Okay. That means Daniel saw it, too. It takes every bit of effort to shove him back and keep him from taking control.
Let me out. I’m going in there to kill the little son of a bitch.
Oh no you’re NOT. Back off!
As much as I hate penning Jaden up with Taylor’s vengeful oldest brother right now, I have no choice but to stack the mental bricks. Daniel needs to cool off. And I need to get out of here. I need bleach for my eyes. Or holy water. Which is beyond hypocritical, since Deo has seen me in the same bed as Aaron.
Of course, we had clothes on.
Without exchanging a word, Aaron grabs the pizzas off the counter. We exit the RV in full stealth mode, almost as though we’re in a silent film running backward, and get back in the truck. Aaron drives to the far end of the campground, maybe half a mile away, before he stops and looks at me.
“I thought Deo was . . .”
“Bi. He’s bi. Which is what I told Taylor weeks ago when she asked. Oh my God! She’s so much older than he is! How could she—”