The Collide

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Teresa?” I ask, feeling light-headed. “Kind of small with really big glasses?”

  “Could be,” Mrs. Porter says. “Now you’re looking for her, too?”

  “I want to see her, yes. Teresa lives here?”

  “She not here anymore either.” She screws up her face. “But I told child services when she ran off just like I was supposed to. And that was weeks ago.” Mrs. Porter shakes her head. “I swear they still call about her. Least Teresa could have done was go down to the office and get herself officially emancipated like Lethe did. One of her last days here, Lethe had some other girl up here, got her high as a kite. That’s my point: these girls breed badness. Little bacteria.”

  “You’re a terrible person,” Gideon says. And like he didn’t even intend to. The words just popped out.

  “Maybe,” Mrs. Porter says. “But I am a terrible person with a shift to go to. My son got me a good new job at the facility up the street, and I am not going to lose it on account of you two assholes.”

  There’s a noise behind us then, the floorboards creaking. A person. The terrible someone I felt was in the house. Right behind us now. The hair on my arms has lifted.

  “Oh, there’s Freddy now. That’s my cue. Like I said, I ain’t gonna be late.”

  As I turn slowly in the direction of Mrs. Porter’s son, the world stutters to a stop. Breathe, I tell myself. But it is no use. There he is, right there, only inches away. The Wolf. The guard from the hospital who wanted me dead. Now, he’ll finally have his chance.

  “It’s hot in here, Gideon,” I manage in a whisper. “So, so hot.”

  TOP SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL

  To: Senator David Russo, Armed Services Committee, Research Chair

  From: WSRF, Special Projects

  Re: Protocol X/Utilization of Special Population

  May 22

  Per the findings at Watuck Soldier Research Facility, we propose additional research into how these abilities may be affected by stress, hunger, pain, and other forms of discomfort. However, blocking seems most fruitful avenue for further research. We believe we have already developed several crucial alternatives that should prove almost impossible to detect.

  JASPER

  IT’S DARK WHEN JASPER OPENS HIS EYES. PITCH-BLACK. HE’S ALMOST CONVINCED his eyes are still closed until he blinks a few times. Where the hell is he? And what the hell happened?

  Jasper tries to move but his arms are pinned behind his back. He wriggles left and right but can’t get them free. His wrists and shoulders have begun to throb.

  He thinks back: Chance, then the bike, and then in his room. He was so dizzy on his way to the bed. He must have passed out? And now this.

  Jasper uses his shoulders and body to rock back and forth, the bed or cot he’s laid out on creaking loudly underneath. When he’s finally pushed himself up to sitting, his head throbs. And the harder he stares into the darkness, the blacker it becomes. He keeps waiting for his eyes to adjust, but they’ve got nothing to get a foothold on. Finally, Jasper pushes himself to stand.

  The claustrophobia sets in fast, not from the smallness of the space—that Jasper doesn’t know—but from the pressure of the unknown.

  He needs to stay calm, though. To keep it together. He can figure this out. He will. But his head feels so cloudy, like he’s coming off something. Like he’s been drugged.

  “Hello?” Jasper calls out. Not frantic or loud. Just a normal voice. He hopes it’ll make him freak out less to sound calm. His voice is hoarse, though, and his throat burns, like he’s been out much longer than he knows.

  When no one answers, Jasper shuffles slowly forward, turning to the side, hoping his shoulder will make contact with whatever is in front of him first. He needs to know the contours of the space he’s in. Finally, he hits a wall. One that he can put his back up to. One direction at least no one can sneak up on him from.

  The walls are cool and rough, cinder block, maybe, except for one side, which feels like wire fencing. The air feels damp, too. A basement. That would explain the darkness. It isn’t until the very last wall that Jasper finally feels a door. He turns to feel for the knob with his bound hands. But when he finally gets his hands on it, it won’t budge.

  “Hello?!” Jasper shouts this time, kicking at the door.

  Silence.

  “Somebody?!”

  Silence.

  “What the hell is this?!”

  More silence.

  “Fuck you!”

  He rams his shoulder against the door. And it feels so good he does it again. And then again, thinking each time how much he wants to kill whoever put him in here. But pounding his shoulder against the door goes fast from feeling good to feeling really, really bad. And soon his shoulder is throbbing so bad that Jasper worries he’s seriously messed it up.

  Wylie. This must have to do with her and the Outliers or her dad, right? All roads that start with being grabbed or locked up seem to end there. But that’s it. That’s all Jasper can guess.

  Eventually, he sits back down, and then a while after that, when there is nothing else to do, he lies down. And focuses on the in-and-out of his breath. Tries not to feel choked by the silence and the dark.

  IT’S A NOISE that wakes him, the door opening. And so much light flooding the room it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Quickly, Jasper takes in the room—small, square, concrete walls, wire fencing on one side, metal shelves along the wall beyond with file boxes stacked high.

  And then there she is, walking in the door.

  Lethe. Jasper feels a stupid split-second jolt of relief—like, oh my God, Lethe is here, now everything will be fine. But that’s ridiculous. Lethe isn’t tied up. She looks different now, too, older, wiser. More satisfied. She’d had a bit of an edge before when they met. Now that edge is a blade.

  The cookies. Of course. That’s what made him pass out.

  Jasper doesn’t bother to ask himself how he could have fallen for Lethe’s act. He wanted to buy it—that’s how. He needed to. That’s always his bottom line.

  “Untie me,” he says. “Now.”

  “Yeah, sorry, but no,” Lethe says. “I’d like for my limbs to stay intact. You’ve got some serious rage issues, my friend. I say that, and I have spent time with some pretty terrible people.”

  “What is this?”

  “A house,” she says, motioning above her. “The basement of a house. Don’t worry, we didn’t take you far. And thank you for leaving the door to your room unlocked. Could have caused all sorts of problems if we’d had to break in.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You should have led with that: like, ‘Oh, wow, who are you, really?’ Surprised but, you know, curious,” she says. “Starting with all that anger is so off-putting.”

  “Who are you?” Jasper asks again. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “Honestly, in a way, you ended up here because you are so obsessed with Wylie,” she says.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I was going to get close to you, get you to tell me where Wylie is casually. Keep you out of it,” Lethe says. “But you’re so obsessed with her, I couldn’t even get you to pay attention to me for more than five seconds. So we had to move to plan B. Brute goddamn force.”

  “I’m not obsessed,” Jasper says, even though he knows that’s hardly the point.

  “You may believe that’s true, Jasper. But the thing about being an Outlier,” Lethe goes on, turning to look straight at him, “I can read all your feelings, even the ones you don’t know you have. Trust me: you’re obsessed with Wylie.”

  “So you’re an Outlier,” Jasper says. He wishes now that he had listened more to Wylie when she told him about blocking. But he’ll try what he does remember. He’s supposed to picture a box. . . .

  “Don’t bother,” Lethe says, kind of exasperated. “You won’t be able to block me. I can feel you trying. I’m too good and you have no idea what you’re doing.” />
  “What time is it?” Jasper asks. “How long have I been here?”

  “Only a couple hours,” Lethe says. “It’s about eight p.m., I think. I was sure you’d be out for much longer with how much shit I packed into those cookies.”

  “Why do you want Wylie?” Jasper asks, trying again to pull his arms apart. Even with them tied, he could knock Lethe out of the way and run past her.

  “I’m not alone, by the way,” she says. “Before you start thinking escape. He’s just outside, and he’s way more nervous than me. Even took a kitchen knife from upstairs. Between you and me, he is kind of useless, but with your hands tied . . .” She shudders. “Anyway, all we want is to get something Wylie has in her possession. We won’t lay a hand on her. We just need to find her.”

  “Go to hell,” Jasper says. “I would never help you.”

  Lethe looks mystified and kind of pissed. “Wow, you really can’t stop protecting her, can you? That’s not love, you know. It’s stupidity.”

  “I have no idea where Wylie is anyway. She broke up with me.” Jasper tries to swallow back his hurt before Lethe has time to enjoy it. “I haven’t seen her.”

  Could Jasper rack his brain for some possibilities about where Wylie could have gone? Maybe. But he won’t even let his mind go there. Lethe will follow.

  “Jasper, seriously, I can feel you again trying not to think things. It’s sweet, but so totally goddamn obvious.” Lethe shakes her head. “If you don’t care about keeping yourself from getting hurt, maybe we should hurt somebody you care about instead? Like your mom, maybe?”

  “My mom?” Jasper asks. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, Jasper. I am,” Lethe says. “Unfortunately, this is that important. All we need are some pictures Wylie had. As far as I’m concerned, Wylie gives us the pictures and you and she can go ride off into the sunset together. She’s a nice girl, and bygones or whatever. I just want to go on living. And I need those pictures for insurance. Otherwise, I’m the next head on the chopping block.”

  It isn’t until then that Jasper sees the infinity tattoo on Lethe’s wrist. It had been covered by a leather cuff both times Jasper saw her before. He hears in his head Wylie’s voice in that alley behind Delaney’s. She’s got this tattoo on her wrist. That’s who Lethe is, the “fake Kelsey” Wylie talked about from the hospital. The third original Outlier. God, he really is a dumb-ass.

  “I saw some pictures once, before Wylie was arrested. But I have no idea where they are now,” Jasper says, scrambling to think of things he can say that are true. That could make it seem like he’s cooperating without risking Wylie. “We had them at one point, but then we had to swim somewhere, so Wylie left them. She must have. She didn’t swim with them.”

  “Left them where?” Lethe asks. She is suspicious. But at least Jasper really is telling the truth. She must feel that. “Where did she have them?”

  “At some house on Cape Cod,” Jasper says, and it seems safe enough to tell her that much. “Senator Russo, that was the guy’s name.”

  “Shit,” Lethe says.

  The door to the room opens then for a second time. When Jasper turns, there is someone he recognizes in the doorway, but his brain refuses to see. And then a wave moves through him. Fear, fueled by rage.

  Quentin. He’s right there. Only inches away. The person who killed Cassie, who would have killed Wylie. Jasper is going to kill Quentin. Right now. He feels a sick rush just thinking about it. It’s hard to breathe.

  “Did he just say Russo already has the pictures?” Quentin asks. “Now what the hell are we going to do?”

  Quentin looks shrunken, like somebody’s let all his air out. Easy to take out. Or easier. Jasper’s fists clench as he imagines Quentin’s neck beneath them. Jasper is going to kill him, for sure. He just needs to stay calm enough to get the chance.

  “What are you doing, you idiot?” Lethe shouts at Quentin. Then she turns back to Jasper. “And whoa with the rage, big guy. Remember the part about him having a knife? I wasn’t making that up. None of us want anyone to get hurt here. Not when we still need you.”

  “You’re not dead,” Jasper says to Quentin.

  “Wylie didn’t tell you? She knew. I saw her in jail.” Quentin smiles dickishly, then shakes his head. “That girl and her secrets.”

  Jasper feels stupidly hurt and he can’t even bother to try keeping it from Lethe. Why wouldn’t Wylie have told him Quentin was alive? Luckily, Lethe doesn’t poke at Jasper’s hurt feelings; she’s too busy glaring at Quentin.

  “I’ve only been in here for like three fucking minutes,” Lethe snaps, arms crossed. “And we were making progress before you barged in and made this all about you.”

  “What progress?” Quentin says. “You heard him: Wylie doesn’t even have the pictures. This whole thing has been a useless waste of time.”

  “You know, half the time I can’t remember why the hell I decided to let you glom on to me.”

  “Glom on?” Quentin snaps. “We need each other, remember.”

  Lethe’s nostrils flare as she looks down at the floor, considering. She calmly holds out a hand to Quentin. “Give me the knife. We’ll get rid of him and figure something else out.”

  “Seriously?” Jasper shouts. He doesn’t want to be panicking, but he is. “You’re going to kill me? They will figure out it was you.”

  Though really Jasper’s not sure how.

  “Nothing to figure out. Not if they find you here in Wylie’s basement,” she says. “With her track record of bumping people off, they’ll think it was her.”

  Wylie’s basement. Jasper looks over at the rack on the far wall and reads one of the labels: HEP Run September 10. Dr. Ben Lang’s files. Lethe isn’t wrong that they’d suspect Wylie. They already do.

  Quentin pulls a short kitchen knife out of his pocket and looks down at it before reluctantly handing it over to Lethe. The knife is so short, too. It would require so much stabbing to kill anyone. Lethe grips it in her hand and steps closer. Jasper has to think of some reason they still need him. And fast.

  “Wait, wait!” Jasper shouts. “I do know something, maybe.”

  “What?” Lethe asks, skeptical.

  “I saw some guy take a file box from here to these warehouses in the middle of nowhere,” Jasper says. And it might be something. For sure it could be. “He’s some kind of government agent or something. Klute, I think his name is. It could have been the pictures. I don’t know. She might have gotten them back.”

  “What warehouses?” Quentin asks.

  “I have no idea,” Jasper says. And, luckily, that’s the truth. “But Klute took the box there and set it on fire. I don’t know exactly the road names or whatever. I was following him, and it was out in the middle of nowhere. But I think I could show you the way.”

  Lethe narrows her eyes, reading him. Thank God Jasper is telling the truth.

  “Fine,” Lethe says finally. “You show us where it is. And if the pictures are there—and not totally destroyed—we’ll let you go.” She steps closer then, the tip of the knife pressed against his nose. “And if you are fucking with us, we’ll end you out there instead. In the middle of nowhere. Where no one will ever find you.”

  EndOfDays Blog

  June 12

  I’m just one man. But lit up by righteousness, one man can stop a mighty darkness.

  IT’S AN ABOMINATION, A STAIN ON THE HUMAN RACE TO RUN TESTS ON YOUNG GIRLS. IT MUST BE STOPPED ONCE AND FOR ALL. THEY MUST BE STOPPED. WHATEVER THE COST. I WILL STAY THE COURSE AND STOP IT. I MUST.

  Go in peace, everyone. To the light.

  RIEL

  MARLY IS WAITING EAGERLY WHEN RIEL GETS BACK TO HER ROOM. RAMONA AND Elise are waiting, too, sitting on the edge of the bed like little kids waiting for a circus to start. Riel tries not to get pissed they’re so giddy. They have no way of knowing why her head is spinning.

  The drug they’d been using at the WSRF to test on girls was morphine. Morphine was what they’d been
ordering to use on the girls in the hospital. Riel had unearthed that email with Wylie saying as much. Kelsey had OD’d: on morphine. It’s all way too much of a coincidence.

  Riel may not believe that her grandfather literally stuck a needle in Kelsey’s arm. But she has no doubt he is to blame for her death.

  “What’s wrong?” Marly asks Riel, because it’s obvious something is.

  But Riel just shakes her head. Not now, she means. Marly seems to get it. Meanwhile, Ramona has crossed the room to the phone sitting in the middle of Marly’s desk. She holds it up, triumphant. “This should cheer you up!”

  “What’s that?” Riel asks Marly and not Ramona.

  Riel doesn’t trust Ramona, that’s the bottom line. And, yeah, it’s because Ramona betrayed Wylie. It’s one thing to talk about a clean slate. It’s not always easy delivering one.

  “Your grandfather’s phone,” Ramona jumps in before Marly can respond, grinning with delight. “With enough shit on here probably to put his whole motherfucking plan on the nightly news.”

  “To be clear, we don’t know for sure yet what’s on it,” Marly says. “And it’s locked. But it is his actual personal phone. My guess is there is a lot on there.”

  “How did you . . . ?” Riel stares at the phone in disbelief.

  “Because we are awesome,” Ramona says.

  “And we got lucky,” Elise adds. “We left here and went straight to the Russo campaign headquarters to volunteer like you said, and then, all of a sudden, your grandfather just showed up at the headquarters like an hour after we got there, to ‘talk to the troops.’ They said he was in town for meetings.”

  “Meetings,” Riel scoffs. Her grandfather is not even bothering to hide. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”

  “Do people really buy his bullshit?” Ramona sticks her finger down her throat. “Because it is so gross.”

  “Buy it? People love it,” Riel says, and sharply. And it is important that they know this. That none of them ever forgets. “A lot of people, actually. It might feel like such obvious bullshit to you because you’re Outliers. But it’s easy for people to believe what they want.”