by Anna Durand
He sighed and said, "So you're from South Africa. I had no idea the induction program had gone global."
"Induction?" Nkosi's confusion seemed genuine.
David still had to play it safe. "How did you get here?"
The other man shrugged. "I was backpacking with my brother when men raided our camp. They wore black clothing and helmets that covered their faces. These men attacked while we slept, and by the time we knew what was happening, they had already tied us up. Once they determined our identities, they shot my brother in the head."
David jerked his head up and stared at Nkosi. The man stretched his fingers out, then curled them tight. His upper lip curled in disgust.
"He was of no value to them," Nkosi said. "They wanted me, not my brother. I watched him die before they injected me with something that put me to sleep. I woke up in a place much like this, but in Siberia. I didn't know where I was at first, and only later discovered how far they had taken me from my home. Then two months ago, they shut down the Siberian facility and brought me here." Nkosi shut his eyes. "They killed everyone at the old facility — except for me. I don't understand why I lived, when so many others died."
Nkosi's pain seemed real enough that David felt like a heel for doubting the man. Still, he must doubt. He must be suspicious, of everyone. He knew of just one person in the entire world whom he trusted with no reservations or doubts.
Grace.
He had to get out of this place and get back to her.
David studied his cellmate for a moment. Nkosi had opened his eyes, but he stared down at the floor. His shoulders drooped. He did not move, except for the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed.
"Tell me," David said, "why do our hosts want you so badly?"
"They want me to give them something, but I don't understand what it is."
"What do they say to you?"
"They speak of Golden Power and transference of psychic energies. They force me to watch as they torture my cellmates, all the time demanding I help them acquire this Golden Power they crave. Only when my cellmate dies do they relent."
David knew he had to ask one question, even at the risk of exposing the depth of his suspicion. "Why do they torture your cellmates and not you?"
"They tried in Siberia. It did not work." Nkosi gave him a weary look. "I am not stronger than other men. I simply do not know what they want me to tell them. They used several means to encourage me to cooperate, but I could not. If I had the information, I would've given it to them. Believe me. I am not a superman."
The shame in his voice and on his face triggered a wave of sympathy in David. He knew what it felt like to struggle against Tesler's methods. In his case, however, he would die before talking. If he broke, Grace would be the one to suffer for his weakness.
Nkosi had endured the torture not out of moral conviction or love for another, but simply because he knew nothing about the Golden Power. Assuming he told the truth. Assuming he hadn't cracked. If David believed the man's tale, Nkosi let his cellmates die because he had nothing to give his captors, no way to save the others' lives.
If David believed him. If he could trust anything or anyone in this place.
Nkosi had just tried to sneak into his mind after all.
The other man twisted around to lean sideways against the wall. A beam of weak light flashed over his head and neck, revealing a network of thin scars that slashed across his throat. In a tired voice, he said, "They always leave us alone for a few hours, then they return to begin the questioning."
David glanced at the door. A couple hours. He must get out of here before then. Under no circumstances would he betray Grace again, wittingly or not. But if he died…
He would not leave her alone. Some way, somehow, he must get back to her.
Grace roused in stages. First, the coolness of the air-conditioned environment kissed her skin. She wiggled her fingers, and her nails scritched across the chair's leather. Next, she tasted sour acid and sniffed spicy cologne. Finally, she parted her eyelids and blinked away the bleariness. Dim lighting eased her vision out of sleep, into awareness.
Amador crouched in front of her, his face creased with lines of worry. "Are you feeling better? What can I do?"
She recalled the suffering, the soul-rending certainty David was dying. Then, after she passed out, a warm serenity flowed into her, carrying with it reassurance and… love. The kind she luxuriated in whenever David drew her into his arms. Real, pure love.
David penetrated her psychic fortress. For a few long seconds, she wondered how he'd done it. But of course, he accomplished the same feat earlier today, when he poured his emotions into her with all-consuming kiss hotter than any they'd shared before. Though her firewall must've prevented him from traveling to her, it permitted him empathic communication.
"You are smiling," Amador said. "The pain is gone then?"
She touched her lips, which were slanting upward. David's phantom embrace lingered around her, and a ghost of his lips tantalized hers. She cleared her throat. "Uh, yes. No pain."
"Are you injured or ill?"
"Neither. It wasn't physical pain." But it sure as hell shredded her insides like the real thing. "I'm fine, I swear."
Amador eyed her for a moment, lips tight, and then nestled a hand on her knee. "You do look less pale than before you passed out. Perhaps I should call Wickham and have him fetch a doctor anyway. To be certain."
"No no, I'm fine." She noticed he hadn't carried her to a bed or a sofa to make her comfortable, or waved smelling salts to awaken her, or dabbed a cool cloth on her forehead. So far as she could tell, he'd knelt there staring at her until she revived on her own. Creepy.
Without getting up, he grabbed the phone off his desk and dialed a number — an extension within the house, most likely, since he dialed just three digits. "Wickham, please bring some juice and a small snack for our guest. She's feeling peaked."
He hung up, plunking the phone back into its cradle. His attention centered on her once again.
She fidgeted, the solace David imbued her with diminishing. He might've communicated his okay-ness to her, but she needed confirmation. She dug her phone out of her purse, flipped it open, and frowned.
"Is something wrong?" Amador asked.
"No signal. I need to call David." An edge of panic sharpened her voice. Damn. She hated sounding weak in front of Amador, but she couldn't help it.
He snatched the receiver from his desk, offering it to her. "Please use my phone. I insist."
Of course he'd insist. He probably recorded every phone call made from his home, or at least the ones made by guests. He could've jammed cell signals too.
She must hear David's voice.
Her shoulders hunched as she accepted the phone. "Thanks."
Amador nodded. He did not back away to grant her privacy.
After dialing the number for David's cell, she clutched the phone to her ear. One ring. Two. Three. She drummed her fingers on her thigh. Four rings. Five. Six. His voicemail picked up the call. She hung up and dialed her own cell to retrieve any messages. One voice mail awaited her, timestamped twenty minutes ago. Her fingers trembled as David's anxious voice spoke to her from the past. The tension in his tone infected her, and she gripped the phone tighter. Her frantic mind processed his words in snippets.
Tesler. Coming for you. Get out. Your psychic firewall is —
The message cut off. Ringing deafened her. Numbness tingled down her scalp, into her face. She hauled in a breath, and the another. The ringing and numbness faded, but a frozen ball of panic congealed in her gut.
Her psychic firewall was what? Working great? About to collapse?
She redialed David's number, and got his voice mail again. "David, please call me as soon as you get this. I heard your message and — " Amador was scrutinizing her, no doubt paying rapt attent
ion to her words. She performed a quick mental edit of what she wanted to say. "I think we should discuss the possibility before taking any action. I'm away from home, so call my cell. Love you, honey. Bye."
The last part she added for Amador's benefit. His hand still warmed her knee with a discomfiting familiarity. A niggling at the back of her mind compelled her to remind him she was taken.
She started to hand him the phone, but froze. Grandpa. He was clueless about the danger. "May I make another call?"
"As many as you like."
And he'd observe and eavesdrop on every single call. Stifling a grumble, she dialed her grandfather's number. He answered on the second ring.
"Grace, I'm glad you — "
"Hi, it's Grace Powell. I'm afraid we'll have to cancel our meeting for this evening. Something's come up."
A pause. A gruff sigh. "You're in trouble. And you're not alone."
"Uh-huh. I'm sorry I have to flake out on you. The house is being fumigated, so I don't think we'll want to be in there for a few days at least."
"Fumigated?" He repeated the word slowly, as if puzzling out her meaning. "You mean it may be bugged."
"Worse than that. Some kind of black fungus is invading the place."
"Black — holy heaven, Grace. Are you talking about Tesler's commandos?"
"Yep. Don't put off your vacation on my account. We can catch up next week."
He said nothing for a few seconds. "I will not leave town without you. Tell me where you are, and I'll come get you."
"No." She nearly shouted the word, and Amador's mouth quirked in confused amusement. "I mean, uh… " She floundered for a way to convince him without Amador catching on. Oh screw it. "Please do as I ask. Please."
"Grace… "
"Please." She made no effort to conceal her pleading tone. "I promise I'll make our next meeting."
"All right. I'll go to our backup location. But if I don't hear from you by morning… I don't know. I'll find you somehow."
"Thank you." She disconnected the call. He would be safe, which gave her one less worry to gnaw at her gut.
Passing the phone back to Amador, she scooted sideways in the chair. Her butt had started to ache, thanks to the rock-hard seat. Though she'd fainted moments ago, energy pulsed back into her, on both a physical and psychic level. Her connection to David hummed in the background, easing some of her tension.
Amador's hand caressed her knee.
She gripped the arms of the chair. "Tell me how you know about Tesler."
Amador observed her for a moment, eyes half closed. Then he bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I know of Tesler because I've met him. I spent time at a facility in Siberia where Tesler detained a number of travelers. It was not an enjoyable time."
Grace couldn't decide whether to believe him or not. The tightening of his features, the slight frown on his lips, the hunching of his shoulders — those things suggested the memory distressed him. Yet she didn't know him well enough to distinguish between real pain and great acting.
"The Siberian facility is shut down," Amador told her. "I managed to escape before the guards murdered me, as they did all the others."
Time for a strategic revelation on her part. At least she hoped it was strategic, and not plain stupid. At some point, she had to reveal a little in order to test his knowledge.
"I have some of JT's files," she said, "from the Mojave Desert facility in California. They name the travelers held at all the sites. Your name is not on that list, Mr. Amador."
"My friends call me Biel."
"We're not friends."
"Not yet."
He spoke with such complete certainty about the promise of their future friendship that she almost laughed. Almost. His certainty also struck her as arrogance, a trait she never trusted in anyone. "Whatever. The point is, your name appears nowhere in the database of travelers' names."
"I adopted a pseudonym, as you did." He arched an eyebrow. "Unless your true name is Janet Austen. I hope not, though, because Grace describes you far better."
"How do you know about Janet Austen?"
"I also have some files that once belonged to JT."
"Where did you get them?"
Dark glee colored his smirk. "I stole them. From the Siberian facility."
Liar. The word flared in her mind, but she struggled to keep her expression neutral. She guarded the sole copy of JT's private files on Project Outreach, on the flash drive tucked into her bra. JT told her it was the one and copy, and she believed him — considering the number of people he murdered in his zeal to reclaim the flash drive from her. Even a psycho wouldn't waste that kind of energy on a task unless it was vital. JT lusted for the flash drive because her grandfather had copied the project files onto it right before he trashed the facility's computer system, destroying those precious files. Amador could not have the same information.
Unless someone else, like Tesler, secretly copied JT's files.
Amador's extensive knowledge about her chilled her entire body, from skin straight down to her core. He knew things JT hadn't known about, as far as she knew.
"Please," Amador said, "I speak the truth. You must believe me."
"You've been spying on me," she said. "In my bedroom. You RV'd me in my private space, and that tends to annoy me. So no, I don't have to do anything for you. Especially not believe you."
"I have already apologized. I did not realize you were alone in your bedroom until after the excursion began."
The hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. In Project Outreach, the scientists called the RV sessions excursions. Something about Amador's use of the term bothered her, an indefinable off-ness she couldn't describe.
"Will you trust me?" he asked.
She tapped her fingernails on her purse in a fast rhythm. Trust Amador? No way. But if she wanted to learn how much he knew, and what he really wanted, she had to take a few risks.
Lips pursed, she zeroed in on his dark eyes. "I'm not letting down my psychic wall just yet. First, you need to prove to me you're on the level." Snowballs and brimstone popped to mind. She kept the analogy to herself. "Show me everything you have on JT, his companies, Tesler, the facilities — everything."
"Of course."
He retreated around the desk, flipped open his laptop, and tapped keys on the keyboard. The tickety-ticking of the keys was the only sound in the room, except for the thundering of her pulse in her ears. Nobody else could hear that, though. She hoped.
After a moment, Amador spun the laptop around to face her. "Here it is. Everything I have on anything remotely related to Project Outreach. You may view it here, or I can copy it onto a DVD for you."
"How about I take a peek right now and you give me that DVD to take home."
He nodded. "I'll have Wickham prepare it for you before you leave."
"Thank you." She scooted her chair closer to the desk. Eyes on the screen, she asked, "What pseudonym did you use?"
"John Mendoza."
"Who knew your real name?"
"Only Jackson Tennant. He hungered for psychic power, and strived to harvest the abilities of travelers. And he harbored a bizarre fixation with blood."
A shiver ran down her spine as a memory replayed in her mind. JT grasping a syringe. About to suck the blood from her veins forcibly. His expression wild. His desire for power palpable. He had honestly believed that by injecting himself with the blood of a psychic, he could acquire that person's abilities. Well, at least one part of Amador's story matched up with what she knew.
If he had JT's files, though, he might've learned about the blood thing that way. She hadn't read all of JT's files, since they were extensive, which meant the notes on his blood theory might await her somewhere deep inside the data. Amador might've found it first.
"I'm acquainted with JT's obsessi
on," she admitted.
"He gave up on many travelers, when he realized the blood types were incompatible. He never gave up on you, though, did he?"
"No." She clenched her jaw. "Not until I made him give up."
"Yes," Amador said, his tone contemplative. "You killed him, didn't you?"
She froze, her fingers over the keyboard. Without looking up, she asked, "How do you know that?"
"Postcognition."
She snapped her head up to squint at him. "Post what?"
"Postcognition. I'm sure you know that precognition allows one to see future events. Postcognition is a term my captors used to describe an aspect of remote viewing that allows one to see past events. It doesn't always work, and it can be quite difficult to control. My only successful attempt occurred during an attempt to replay JT's death. I know you shot him."
"Why would you want to replay his death?"
"To know that he was truly gone." He offered her his hand, palm up. "And to thank the person who rid this world of a vile human being."
She glanced at his hand, knowing he wanted her to take it. She didn't move.
He curled his fingers shut. "You may not trust me yet, but know this. I admire you — your strength and determination, your loyalty to those you love, and your incredible psychic talents."
She focused on the computer screen, double clicking to open a database file.
"I can help you get him back," Amador said in a soft voice. "If that is what you truly want."
Head bowed, she turned her eyes to glance at him. "Get who back?"
"David. Your beloved." Amador leaned over the desk, placing his head inches from hers. He smelled of the outdoors, fresh and clean and masculine. "Together, we can find Tesler and stop him. Then David will have no reason to abandon you anymore."
"My relationship with David is none of your business." She drummed her fingernails on the desktop. Through gritted teeth, she said, "How the hell do you know so much about me anyway?"