Incognita

by Kristen Lippert-Martin

  “The Feds are letting you just take me away like this?” Thomas bursts out.

  “Of course. They’ve given me carte blanche. Do you know what that means, Angel?”

  I just clench my teeth in response. I’m done playing along with this showboating villain monologue. I’ve let him talk long enough, and all the time it’s bought me hasn’t done me any good. I need Velocius.

  I fist my hands and kick the coffee table over, causing Claymore to step back to get out of the way. He gives me a disapproving look. Like I have no manners at all. Mikey quickly sets the table upright again without taking his sights off me.

  “It’s a French term,” Claymore goes on, ignoring the interruption. “It literally translates to ‘white or blank paper.’ It means that there are no written rules about what I can do, and hence, no limits. It means that in exchange for neutralizing a threat on the government’s behalf, I can do whatever I want. With you as well as with Thomas. Though I believe they’re under the impression I’m simply going to kill you.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a pretty logical assumption on their part. Why aren’t you going to kill me?”

  “Because you’re far more valuable to me alive.”

  I try to stand up, but Mikey shoves me back down onto the sofa before I can even lock my knees. “You think we know where Larry’s data is? You think you can get me to lead you to it? Well, we don’t.”

  Claymore just smiles. I don’t know what it means. I can’t tell if he’s being condescending or if he’s genuinely amused.

  “You’re the prize we’ve been after,” he says. “I own what’s inside your mind. I paid for it. I’m excited to see where our next step leads once we read Dr. Ladner’s list of words to you. I wonder what else you can do or what else you’ll tell us.”

  I start to shake. I’d thought the mental clues Larry left me were just meant to lead me home, but what if Thomas was right—what if there really is something out there that I’m supposed to find? Something buried in those words Larry wrote down.

  Not passwords. Trigger words. Just like my mother’s name once was.

  Claymore thinks that he can read these words to me, and that it will unlock some memory and I’ll lead him to his treasure like I’m some sort of hound on a leash, finding an invisible scent trail.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You can read those words to me and maybe I’ll remember something that Larry wanted me to know, but you can’t compel me to tell you anything. I’m never going to tell you where those backup data files are. Thomas wouldn’t want me to tell you either.”

  “You still aren’t getting it,” Claymore says, looking up at the ceiling now, a look of exasperation on his face. “I don’t care if there are no computer files, no research notes, no instructions for the pharmaceutical compounds that turned you into what you are today. If all of that really did go up in flames back at the hospital, that’s a shame. But I didn’t spend a billion dollars on research projects to let my only living success walk around Manhattan, cowed by federal authorities into remaining a lowly, unremarkable peasant. No, we don’t want you to lead us to any data. My dear, you are the data.”

  Chapter 26

  I wish I could smack the look of false pity right off Erskine Claymore’s face, but I can’t. Not with my hands cuffed together.

  He wants me as a test subject?

  There’s no way I’m going to let that happen.

  “Just remember, Angel—your cooperation guarantees Thomas’s safety.”

  I look over at Thomas. By now he’s strapped down on the gurney, and Claymore’s men are pushing him toward the double doors. It’s like Claymore is undoing all the connections that we worked to build, that we earned with our pain and courage and patience these last few months. We tried to do everything right. We listened, we played by their rules, we did what they asked of us. And this is what we get for it?

  Thomas is whisked out of the room. I watch through the glass doors as the guards ease him past the reception desk. A moment later, the elevator doors open.

  Claymore’s project once took away my past. Now he’s taking away my future.

  I twist around to look at Mikey, willing him to find a way to help us—a way to fight the instructions coded into his brain. Claymore catches me, though.

  “I wouldn’t bother appealing to Mikey. Even if he wanted to help you, you shouldn’t ask him to. You hold his fate in your hands as well.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say sharply.

  “Before his injection, he was briefed on his mission and the expectations we had for him. His job was to make certain you didn’t contact my son or his caregiver, or approach any local authorities—and to ensure that you didn’t make any other unwise decisions, such as, say, trying to make a run for the Canadian border. So right now, if he were to assist you in escaping, or hinder our plans in any other way, he would be overcome by the desire to harm himself. And you’ve got to ask yourself, Angel, do you want to be responsible for that? I realize he’s not as special to you as Thomas, but I think you do harbor some fondness for him. Would you really let this boy kill himself so you can go free?”

  Mikey’s eyes are filled with confused, desperate shame that I know all too well. I know it’s not his fault, but I can’t help being angry that he was the lure that helped steer me into this trap. And I can’t help but notice that however bad he feels, he doesn’t lower his pistol even one inch.

  “Ah, Angel! I can see you’re not happy with him about this. I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but you’re very judgmental. And yet I’d imagine you’ve left a string of disgruntled people in your wake yourself, haven’t you? People who didn’t appreciate the way you used them.”

  He can see, in the rush of blood to my face, that he’s scored a hit.

  “Consider that, before you’re so quick to condemn us. And now, perhaps you’ll learn what making a sacrifice—a true sacrifice that hurts every single day after you make it—is all about.” Claymore glances at his wife—I’m not sure why.

  “I want to make it clear to you that there is an alternative,” he goes on. “We’re about to embark on an amazing new phase of this project, and it’s our hope that you’ll work with us instead of against us. Working against us would have grave consequences, of course. For both you and Thomas.”

  Claymore waves his hand, as if trying to rise above such unpleasant things.

  “I believe—my whole research team believes—that you’re capable of amazing things. Perhaps you’ve even stumbled on a few of them already, even if your federal handlers have discouraged you from using your abilities.”

  Claymore goes over to stand behind his wife, putting his hands on her shoulders. She keeps her glassy-eyed stare toward the window. I think I sense a small shiver of revulsion at his touch but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “We have an opportunity, Angel. The Feds wanted you eliminated. Dead. That’s what they thought would solve their security concerns.” He shakes his head. “Such a waste. I’m giving you a second chance. I think we should discover your potential together.”

  He looks down at his watch and sighs. Perhaps he’s realizing he’s let himself talk for too long. He’s let himself say too much.

  “I really need to get home to change into my tuxedo soon. I have yet another social engagement tonight. It never ends now, does it, Sarah?”

  He takes and kisses her hand, then places it gently back on the arm of the chair. As he moves away from her—toward me—she gets up and hobbles over to the window.

  “One last thing before we head down to the parking garage, Angel. I know—of course I know—how difficult you are to kill. But I will make you this promise: if you even attempt to get away, Thomas will die.”

  He throws his hands out and shrugs, as if these consequences are all beyond his control.

  My eyes drift to Mrs. Claymore—my grandmother. She’s still staring out the window. She presses her fingertips to the glass, lightly at first, and then hard
er, like she’s testing the bars of a cage.

  That’s when we hear multiple sirens accompanied by the deep bass of a fire truck honking. All of it seems to be converging nearby. “Erskine, darling, what’s going on outside?” asks Mrs. Claymore innocently.

  Claymore crosses the room with the energy of a man half his age. Whatever he sees down on the street below triggers a look of searing irritation. This is not part of his plan.

  It’s part of mine.

  An internal security alarm starts going off. Ironically, that seems to help Claymore recover his composure. “Everything will be fine,” he says to his wife. “Don’t you worry.”

  He walks toward the door in no particular hurry, and he says quietly to Mikey, “Let me see if I can do some damage control and send these folks on their way. Keep that pistol pressed to the back of her head. I’ll call you when we’re ready to move her.”

  As soon as Claymore makes his exit, Mikey walks around from behind the sofa.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.” He sounds like a little boy. I sigh.

  “Mikey. I get it. I know what it’s like to have no control over your own brain.”

  He puts the gun down on the coffee table in front of me but has troubling taking his hand off it. After a few seconds, he grits his teeth and jerks his hand away.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m not going to be their puppet anymore. I’m going to let you go.”

  “But you heard what Claymore said. If you help me, you’ll . . .”

  “Whatever’s going to happen to me, will happen,” he says. “I know what I’m doing. I remember what it was like when I climbed up that tower at Coney Island. If the only thing I have control over is this choice, then I’ll make it.”

  He’s crouching down and fumbling at something around his ankle. “Good thing I kept this in my sock, huh? I wanted a souvenir from my day-and-a-half as one of the good guys.”

  He holds up a handcuff key.

  Even as he unlocks my handcuffs, tension spreads through his body. When the cuffs drop to the floor, he makes two fists at his sides as if he’s readying himself for a fight. His eyes drift back to the pistol.

  “That’s a nice gesture, son, but it will do no one any good,” Mrs. Claymore says.

  Her voice is steady and certain. We both turn to her. The bright light behind her eyes has turned her gaze steely. “Even if you’re willing to sacrifice yourself, you’d be handing that other boy a death sentence.”

  Mikey shakes his head and backs away from the gun on the table, even as his fingers twitch and he leans forward. He’s resisting the pull, but how long will he last?

  “First of all, Mikey, pick the gun back up,” I say. “Just hold it, okay?”

  Mikey reluctantly trains the pistol on me again.

  “On the bright side,” says Mrs. Claymore, “Angel may not need your help to get out of this predicament, young man. The whole street is filled with police cars and fire trucks.”

  She smiles.

  “That’s going to be very vexing to my dear husband.”

  What’s going on outside is this: Tai made good on her promise.

  And then some.

  She hadn’t heard from us so she called the police. And the fire department. And apparently every news organization imaginable. Outside this nursing home—hospital, prison, secret lab, take your pick—is what I believe is known as a “media circus.” The whole street is jam-packed with news vans, their satellite dishes already deployed, their reporters already jockeying for position on the sidewalk so they can cover the unfolding story. Someone is now talking into a bullhorn, telling the reporters and other onlookers to stay back behind the police lines.

  “Erskine will definitely not be happy about all this media attention,” Mrs. Claymore says, clucking her tongue. “But it might be just what you need.”

  We turn on the television. Every local channel is covering the breaking news.

  “Angel lives.”

  “Despite vehement denials from local authorities, we have sources confirming that the infamous ‘Angel’—who was spotted late last night at the Metropolitan Museum Gala, an event attended by some of the wealthiest people in New York—is possibly behind the abduction and shooting of two NYPD officers. And the story only gets stranger from there. An anonymous source tipped police off to Angel’s attempt to break in here, a nursing home where Erskine Claymore’s wife currently resides. What Angel’s intentions are, we don’t know, but it may indicate that she’s taking her vendetta against the Claymore family to a new level. Perhaps by taking Mrs. Sarah Claymore hostage? Back to you in the studio, Ron. . . .”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I say to the screen. “He just made that up out of thin air!”

  “Oh, I doubt the reporter made it up on his own,” Mrs. Claymore says. “I’m sure he was fed that information moments ago by another anonymous tip.”

  I mutter, “I hate anonymous tipsters.”

  This hostage story is a new hurdle I’ve got to figure out how to clear. Not only does the idea that I’d threaten some innocent little old lady succeed in widely vilifying me and putting a target on my back with the police, but it also allows Claymore to bypass the local police force and bring in the same people who’ve helped him thus far: the Feds.

  I keep listening to the coverage, even though it sickens me. Piece by piece, minute by minute, the hostage theory gets repeated enough to become the accepted truth, and soon the wildfire Claymore started spreads even further. With their cameras trained on the narrow roof of the nursing home, one reporter after another claims that I’ll soon be surrendering and that authorities will be taking me away via helicopter. Because the situation is so volatile, they’ve also been warned that police can’t come through the doors because I’ve set up booby traps at every entrance. If the NYPD tries to bust in, they risk being blown up.

  How I did all this doesn’t matter. The story is so juicy, everyone is salivating for it. Claymore has succeeded in painting me as a menace to society, and they’re willing to believe me capable of anything.

  “I’m never watching the news again,” I say. “They have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  Mikey’s whipping his head back and forth, alternating between looking out the window and watching the newscast. He stays hidden behind the drapes as he peers out the window. A searchlight strafes the building, flashing momentarily into the room before moving on toward other floors.

  “Wow. They’ve got sharpshooters on the roof over there,” Mikey mutters. “SWAT teams, a couple armored vehicles. It’s pretty impressive, Angel. You should come take a look.”

  As Mikey continues to inventory all the firepower being amassed outside, Mrs. Claymore says to me, “I have to give my husband credit. He’s doing his best to turn this to his advantage. And he’ll succeed unless you act quickly.”

  “But Thomas,” I say. “Like you said, I can’t escape if I want to keep him safe. And if Mikey helps me, he’ll suddenly have the urge to impale himself on the nearest sharp object. I’m stuck.”

  “Perhaps there’s another way.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “One of my talents these last few years has been pretending to exist within a sort of living death. My mind, they believe, is gone. I pose no threat, so I’m allowed to carry on, drifting around these halls like a ghost. Sometimes the only way to survive is to make others believe there’s nothing left of you to kill.”

  She meets my eyes and I understand what she’s saying and that she must not say it out loud. Not in front of Mikey.

  Erskine Claymore is very good at boxing people into corners, marching them toward whatever end he allows them to have. But there is one place I can hide where he can’t pursue me or control me, no matter how many billions he’s invested in me.

  He assumes that I won’t go there, but I will. I’ve been close before. A thousand times I’ve reached out and touched that dark, ferocious beast. I�
��ve stroked its fur and looked into its ravenous eyes.

  I’m not afraid to die.

  Chapter 27

  I peek out the window for the twentieth time. I’m no expert on estimating crowds, but there must be hundreds of people down there now, so many the police keep using their bullhorns, angrily telling them to stay back or risk being arrested.

  I look down at my big, ugly black watch. There have been so many lies flying around me the last twenty-four hours that I’m not sure what to believe anymore. So I’m going to have to trust my instincts. Mrs. Fitzgerald might not like me, but if she wanted me dead, she could have killed me a dozen times over by now.

  Besides, it is not possible to be in more trouble than I am at the moment, so if there’s a chance that Mrs. Fitzgerald is still on my side, I’m going to grab at it.

  I press down on the watch crystal and hold it for ten seconds.

  Mikey checks his phone, as if it’s possible he might have missed a call. He’s been holding it in one hand continuously since Claymore left, his gun loosely gripped in the other.

  And then a phone does ring.

  But it’s not the one in Mikey’s hand. Mikey and I exchange baffled looks. Meanwhile, Mrs. Claymore points to a small table in the corner of the room, home to an old-fashioned touch-tone phone that looks like some old movie prop. “That phone can receive calls but doesn’t allow outgoing calls. One of my husband’s precautions. It hasn’t rung in so long, I’d forgotten it was even here.”

  She shuffles over to the table and picks up the handset. “Hello. This is Sarah Claymore,” she says pleasantly. “Yes. Of course.” She holds the phone out to me. “It’s for you.”

  I tentatively take the phone from her. I’m expecting it to be the police calling, asking me to surrender or demand to hear my terms. Instead . . .

  “Angel, listen carefully—”

  “Mrs. Fitzgerald! How did you get this number?”

  “Mrs. Claymore may have mentioned the fact that I’ve visited her several times. I need you to listen. An FBI helicopter will be landing on the roof of the hospital in twenty minutes. That’s how Claymore plans to depart, as part of a seeming hostage evacuation. Do whatever you must to avoid getting in that helicopter.”