Delgado nodded again. “Thank you, sir."
Cath sniggered. Del looked at her steadily, and after a moment she shut up and looked away, the chains on her leather pants clicking as she shifted uneasily.
The General swept for the door. Halfway there, he paused. “Delgado?"
"Yessir?"
"Good work. I had no idea you were so patient."
Left alone with Rowan, he paced to the side of the bed. It took a moment to peel the plasilica off her wrist, but the sedation meant she couldn't feel him. It also meant he couldn't feel her, but that was a good thing. He paused, looking down at her sleeping face. She looked as if she was barely breathing. When she woke up, she was likely to be disoriented from the drug and shock, not to mention mistrustful of him.
"I'm sorry,” he said to her weary, sleeping face. “I'm sorry. I'll take care of you."
Chapter Twelve
"Good morning,” he said quietly.
Rowan blinked. She had been dreaming of something very important—a green hill? No, something else.
"There's breakfast. And coffee.” He ran his hand back through his short dark hair. The light was brighter and showed a scar on his chin, white against his dark-stubbled skin.
Rowan jerked up to a sitting position, bracing her hands on the mattress. The quilt slid off her shoulders. Her mouth tasted dry and odd, and her head felt fuzzy. Her throat ached, and her arm too.
Rowan hitched in a breath, feeling as if she would scream again.
Delgado held out a coffee cup. The familiar electric prickles ran over her skin. He was looking at her. Really looking at her. “Here, have some. It will help you feel better."
That made her laugh, a dry, awful sound. Her throat was on fire.
The room was small, and the curious dead quality to the air told her she was in the same place he'd brought her to last night. Wood paneling, a bed, two chairs, a small table, and a rug—no plants, no bookcases, not even a painting on the walls. Rowan took this in, and then she looked at the fireplace, which was merrily burning a cement log. Gas. It was a gas fireplace. The place was like a tomb.
"It feels funny in here,” she said huskily, and took the coffee cup with trembling hands. Her bruised arm twinged.
"That's the dampers and the shielding. Keeps us safe from the Sigs and also blocks out all the noise of so many people thinking.” He hadn't shaved, but he was wearing a fresh T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. His coat was gone, and so was the gun.
Daddy, she thought automatically, and the memory of her father's heavy body, the last chilling gurgle as he died in her arms, rose again.
She stared down into the coffee cup, her hands trembling even more. The terrible feeling of nakedness was still there, too. “I don't feel good,” she whispered. “I want to go home."
"It takes a little while to get used to the dampers,” he told her. “And if I could take you home I would. I don't like this. But if you went home, or back to your job, or even stayed in this city for very long, Sigma would pick you up. They use people like you as weapons."
"People ... like me?” She managed a scalding gulp of coffee. Even though it burned her throat, it did help her feel a little better. Daddy's dead, she thought, and the rising wave of unreality swamped her. “But I'm not anything special."
"You're a psionic, Rowan. We don't know what you can do yet, but you're so powerful Sigma probably doesn't care.” He picked up another cup of coffee. The mugs were blue lacquer, and very pretty. He carefully settled down in one of the chairs. “The bathroom's through there, if you need it. Want some breakfast?"
"Who are you?” she asked. “You've been following me."
"I was trying to find a good way to make contact with you. Then the Sigs moved in. I'm sorry."
She watched him over the rim of the cup. “So you spied on me."
"Would you have preferred me abducting you in a parking lot? Or shooting your family? I didn't want to frighten you. I still don't.” His eyes were narrow and flat. The electricity humming over Rowan's skin had settled into a steady, prickling buzz. Why was he looking at her like that?
"Who do you work for?” she demanded, wincing as her throat reminded her she'd been screaming last night.
"The Society,” he answered patiently. “We won't force you. You can work with us if you want, but you don't have to. I'm going to be your mentor. Teach you how to control what you do."
He sounded so matter-of-fact Rowan was almost convinced. “You mean other people ... You mean it's real?"
"Of course it's real."
"So you're saying you're psychic. Can you read my mind?"
"If I wanted to, probably,” he said quietly. “But it hurts. My talent's not gentle, Rowan. The people I use it on usually die or go mad."
It wasn't his words that convinced her. It was his quiet tone of finality. She believed him. She looked back down into her coffee cup, the thick black liquid reflecting a shimmer of light. “I can't go home?” Even to herself, she sounded wistful.
"We can't stop you,” he said. “But listen, Rowan. If you go back to that house, Sigma will waste no time scooping you up."
"What about my f-f-father? And Hilary? A f-f-funeral—” I sound like an idiot, Rowan thought grimly, and took a deep breath. This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy.
"We'll do what we can,” he said practically. “For right now, though, you should have some breakfast. We're getting ready to leave the house, and you might want to meet some of the others. They're probably very curious about you, too."
"You mean you've done this to other people too?” She vaguely remembered an older man and a punk-rock girl from last night, but she hadn't looked at either of them. Last night was a confused patchwork of terror, screaming and cold—and this man's flat, dark eyes.
"I was recruited by Henderson. You'll meet him. Cath and Zeke were rescued—kind of like you—from holding tanks in a Sigma installation. Yoshi and Brew were recruited right out from under Sigma about two years ago—they were part of another team until recently. You'll see.” He seemed utterly calm, sitting in the chair, sipping his coffee. He wore boots, and he stretched his legs out as if he wasn't used to sitting for very long.
"You were recruited?” Rowan took a scalding gulp of coffee. The hot liquid burned all the way down into her stomach. “What do you mean, recruited?"
"Henderson found me and told me about the Society. I decided to join up, haven't looked back since.” His eyes narrowed. She got the idea there was more to that story.
Rowan started to shiver. The prickles intensified, running down her arms, and she had to close her eyes to shut him out. I could reach out and touch him, she thought, just like I do with the patients. “You say other people can do ... these things?"
"Probably not to the same extent that you can. You work at Santiago County, don't you?"
"So?” Plenty of people worked at the mental hospital. It proved nothing. She kept her eyes closed, the warmth of the coffee cup sinking into her hands. She was beginning to feel as if she might be alive.
Why do I feel so numb?
"Did you know that your hospital has statistically less violence than any other mental hospital in the country? Especially your ward? Despite the fact that some of the most violent offenders in the western half of the U.S. are housed there?"
She could tell he was looking at her. Staring at her.
He knows, she thought miserably. He knows what I can do, that I'm a freak. Dear God.
"We have state of the art techniques for—” she began.
"Ninety percent,” he said. “Ninety percent, Rowan. And that started the exact month you began working there. Think about it. If you can pacify an entire hospital of mentally ill patients, think of what you could do with a Super Bowl crowd. You could incite riots, or stop them. You could start revolutions."
"Is that what you want me to do?” Her throat threatened to close with panic.
"No,” he said. “The Society wants you to do what you want with your
gifts. We'll help teach you to control it, so it will work for you instead of screwing up your life and crippling you with fear."
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You know I am.” He set his cup down on the table.
"How long have you been spying on me?"
"Two days,” he answered promptly. “Since you blew the circuits on our security perimeter at the house that night."
"I did what?"
"You shorted out all the security equipment,” he said patiently. “Henderson thought you were an excellent candidate for recruitment. I was supposed to watch over you and make sure the Sigs didn't snatch you."
"How would they know where to find me?” she challenged him.
"Because of us. I'm sorry, Rowan.” He even sounded faintly sorry.
"They killed my father. Did you know they would do that?"
"No, I thought they'd try to kidnap you again. If I had known they were that desperate ... I thought they were just sloppy the first time. If I'd known, I would have tried to save your father."
His eyes met hers. Rowan's back roughened with goose flesh. His gaze was dark, level, and utterly focused. She wasn't used to people really looking at her. Most people's eyes just slid past her, judging her as pretty but brainless. It wasn't bad. She preferred being ignored and concentrated daily on making herself invisible.
"I defied direct orders to stay with you and keep you safe,” he said softly. “Henderson ordered me to get out of there. I didn't want to. I wanted to stay and make sure you were all right. I won't let anyone force you into anything."
"Why?” She glared at him, lifting her chin. This is insane. This guy is telling me the government's chasing me because I'm psychic? And that he's part of this secret society that wants to “save” me? Good God.
He shrugged, then stretched, the stretch turning into a graceful movement that brought him to his feet. She noticed abruptly how smoothly he moved—no wasted motion, every gesture economic and efficient.
She took another deep, jagged breath and finished the coffee in two hot gulps. “Justin?” she said, tentatively. “That's your name, right?"
He went absolutely still, looking at her. “They call me Delgado here."
"Okay,” she said. “Delgado. Those ... those men in black. The ones that killed my father. They were in the kitchen. How did we get past them?"
His jaw set and his eyes glittered. “I killed them both,” he informed her bluntly. “Look, I'm going to go find you some clean clothes. The bathroom's in there, and there's breakfast on the tray. I'll be back.” He swung around and stalked across the room to a big, heavy wooden door.
She sat there, stunned, while he opened the door. He vanished, but he didn't close the door behind him. He left it open, and she heard his footsteps going down the hall.
It was that single thing—the open door—that suddenly convinced her he was telling the absolute truth. If they wanted to keep her captive, he would have locked the door, wouldn't he?
But then again, maybe she couldn't escape the house. And if what he said was true, where would she go?
His voice echoed in the air. I killed them both. He said it like it was no big deal. Like he did it every day. For all she knew, he did.
Rowan dropped the empty cup onto the bed. Jesus. It was as if the entire world had twisted off its axis, all because she'd been curious about lights in the windows of the Taylor house. I thought there were a bunch of teenagers messing around in there, she thought. If I would have just left it alone, maybe Dad and Hilary would be ... alive.
She buried her face in her hands. Her father was dead. Hilary was dead.
And her? She might as well be dead too.
Chapter Thirteen
When Delgado came back, he heard the shower running. She'd made the bed, but she hadn't touched any of the pastries on the tray. He laid the clothes on the bed and poured himself another cup of coffee from the thermal carafe before it occurred to him that she might not want to walk out into the room naked.
He walked to the bathroom door. It was slightly open, and steam drifted out. “Rowan?” he called, knocking twice.
A listening silence descended on the bathroom. “Yes?” she finally said cautiously, her ruined voice echoing on tile.
"I have some clothes here. Some of them might fit you. Can I put them on the counter?"
Another long silence. “Sure,” she said, and he could tell she'd been crying again.
I'm so sorry, he thought. This should never have happened. Del clenched his teeth against the words and shoved them down.
He laid the stack of clothing on the counter, not even daring to glance at the glassed-in shower. The bathroom was clean, lit with brilliant incandescent bulbs and tiled in dark blue. It was a far cry from her neat, cozy home. There wasn't even a potted plant in the entire clean house. Nobody had the time to take care of them.
He retreated to the bedroom and settled down with his cup of coffee, vaguely surprised she was still here. He'd left the door open deliberately so she wouldn't feel any more trapped than was absolutely necessary. If she wanted to, she could probably get a fair ways through the house before he caught up with her.
The shower shut off after a short while, and he listened intently, hearing her move. He'd given her two sweaters, a pair of jeans too small for Catherine, a pair of sweatpants, and socks—he hadn't found any undergarments. They would have something at Headquarters, if she consented to going.
When she finally emerged, chafing at her wet hair with a towel, he found his mouth dry and his throat blocked. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks blotched. She was absolutely lovely. She'd chosen the red cashmere V-neck sweater, probably because it was too big for her. It was one of his, one of the few brightly-colored pieces he had. Seeing her in an article of his clothing literally robbed him of breath.
Oh, no, he thought, seeing her stop dead and stare at him, her eyes huge and rimmed with red. I am in so much trouble.
"There wasn't ... I mean...” She pushed the too-long sleeves up, her slim wrists lost in the cuffs. The jeans were rolled up and a little too loose. She was smaller than Cath.
"I couldn't find everything,” he said lamely, around the lump in his throat. “We're traveling light. But I ... you know, I just...” I sound like a total fucking idiot. You'd think over a decade of military operations would have prepared me for something like this.
If she'd been any other subject, he would have been smoothly moving himself through the stages of trust, minimizing her resistance, capitalizing on her vulnerability. The trouble was, she wasn't just any other subject. He didn't want to see her hurt. And he had almost no idea of how to shield her from the pain. It's not that I promised not to hurt her, he realized suddenly. It's not the promise at all. It's that I meant it.
"It's okay,” she said finally. “I don't suppose it matters much. If I can't go home, I probably can't use my bank card or my driver's license either. Not that I have either of them. They were in the house. I don't have anything."
"It's hard in the beginning,” he said. “But I promise, it gets easier. We'll get you a new identity, and you can draw off the Society accounts, and—"
"I don't want another identity,” she interrupted. “I want my identity."
He shrugged. There was nothing to say.
She watched him for a few moments, evidently gauging how far she could go. “You spied on me,” she said, finally. “You lied to me. You told me you were a student at a university."
"A lot of the research we do benefits the universities,” he broke in. “And we investigate parapsychological phenomena. I couldn't tell you that I was a Society member pursued by a black-sector government collection of psychos, could I?” He didn't raise his voice; she didn't deserve that. But he was perilously close.
She stared at him, the blue towel swaying in her shaking hand. “I never wanted—” she began.
"But it's happened,” he told her, trying to
keep his voice low. “I'm sorry I couldn't stop it, Rowan. I tried. But it's happened, and you'll get a lot farther if you just accept that it's happened and listen to me. I'm trying to help you."
Then he could have slapped himself. Way to go, Delgado. She's really going to trust you now.
Amazingly, she smiled. It was a weak, watery smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You're right,” she said quietly, hoarsely.
"I'm sorry, Rowan.” He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to be repeating that phrase a lot.
She nodded, her long hair, dark with water, lying against her shoulders in tangled strands. “Me too,” she said. “Me too."
After a long crackling silence, she retreated back into the bathroom, and Delgado let out a soft, tense breath. That had gone well. Almost too well to be believed.
He closed his eyes, thinking. She's remarkably resilient, he thought, trying to analyze the situation. Unfortunately, it defied easy analysis.
A cold appraisal of the situation would tell him to maneuver her as quickly as possible into a dependence on him, to ensure she didn't bolt. If she ran from the Society, she'd be scooped up by the Sigs in no time. The thought of her in a Sigma white-room, a needle dropping Zed into her veins and her head shaved, made him shiver.
And nobody had ever made Delgado shiver before.
When she came out again, she was fiercely dry-eyed. “Okay,” she said, quietly. “What's next?"
"I suggest some breakfast,” he said, watching her carefully. She didn't look like she was going to bolt. “You need to eat. Then I'll take you to meet the General."
"The General?"
"Henderson. He was in the military for a long time."
"Were you?"
He nodded. “Marines,” he said. “Semper Fi.” At least until Sigma got my transfer and started in on me.
"So Dad was right.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
The Society Page 7