The Collide

by Kimberly McCreight

  “Either way I need to know. And I want to tell her that I’m sorry.”

  Gideon’s fingers move quickly over the keyboard, opening the Gmail account he set up at Elizabeth’s house. Two new messages from LizzyBusy123, but sandwiched between them is a third, which I instantly don’t like the look of—the sender’s email is just a series of numbers and the subject is blank. Spam, maybe. But the awful spinning in my gut seems to already have rejected that possibility.

  Gideon starts with the message from Elizabeth that was sent before Oshiro was shot. He’s protecting me, in case Elizabeth’s most recent email is bad news.

  EndOfDays was started years ago in Germany. It was abandoned for two years before it was reclaimed nine months ago by a totally different ISP in Massachusetts. (That happens with abandoned blogs all the time.) It stayed quiet, though, until posts started up in Florida six months ago. Then two months ago, it jumps from Florida back to all around Massachusetts. Including Framingham and Watuck. Even Newton: a couple were posted from 412 Juniper Street.

  Hope that helps. If he posts again, I’ll let you know right away so you know where he is.

  xx Elizabeth

  My eyes stay fixed on 412 Juniper. I keep hoping I’m imagining it—but no, it’s definitely right there.

  “What’s wrong?” Gideon asks.

  “That’s Jasper’s address.”

  Jasper, who appeared in the hospital right before that baby showed up. And not long before Teresa died. Jasper, who has somehow been everywhere anything important has happened throughout this entire thing. But no. No. That doesn’t mean he’s involved. That is just what someone wants me to think.

  “Jasper?” Gideon asks, in true disbelief himself. “He’s EndOfDays?”

  “He’s not,” I say as I search myself for doubt. But there is none, not a trace. It’s a setup to make Jasper look guilty.

  “Could it be somebody he lives with?”

  “Jasper’s brother is pretty out of it. And his mom—I don’t think she even has a computer.”

  “But doesn’t that just leave Jasper?” Gideon feels sorry for me. So, so sorry. Like he did before, outside Delaney’s. Except this is worse.

  “It’s not Jasper,” I say sharply, then lock eyes with Gideon. “That’s not wishful thinking, either. I know he didn’t post them. And no, I don’t have another explanation. Maybe we should just—let’s look at her other email.”

  The second message from Elizabeth was written only an hour ago, after we found Oshiro:

  Evan is going to be okay. Don’t feel bad. He wanted to be there, helping you. But you should come home. Right now. It’s not safe out there. He wanted me to tell you that, too.

  xx Elizabeth

  I let go of the breath I’ve been holding, making a sound loud enough that the librarians look our way. I keep my eyes on the computer.

  “That’s good news about Oshiro,” Gideon says.

  “Definitely.”

  “She’s right about going home,” Gideon says.

  “Can you open the last message?” I ask, ignoring him. “The one in the middle.”

  Still, I have that terrible feeling about it, even before Gideon clicks on it. And then there it is, up on the screen:

  Hurry. Your dad is running out of time. The EndOfDays is nigh.

  My heart is beating so hard it rocks my body as Gideon and I stare silently at the screen. But no matter how long we stare, that’s the whole message. No explanation, no introduction. Nothing to take the threat away.

  “Hurry where?” Gideon asks quietly.

  “I don’t know,” I say, though the email definitely does feel like a trap.

  “How can it tell us to hurry and then not tell us where to go?” Gideon asks, like this is the one and only injustice of this entire situation.

  “Write back,” I say. “Ask where.”

  “Five minutes until closing!” one of the librarians calls as Gideon types.

  “Now, look up Sophie-Ann quickly,” I say. “We can’t leave here without that.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Gideon says, trying to focus as he types the reply, then opens up a new search. “Okay.”

  Within seconds, a list of articles about the accident pop up: “Sophie-Ann Payne, a resident of neighboring Framingham, was struck and killed on the edge of a nearby highway while walking late at night.” There is a judgmental tone, though, somehow. A question hovering between the lines: What was Sophie-Ann doing out there at that time of night? And a girl like her? What did she think was going to happen? In some of the articles, it’s more text than subtext. One of them even cites a “confidential source” who apparently said Sophie-Ann’s partying was what probably made her “stumble into traffic,” a source that sounds a whole lot like Mrs. Porter.

  Then comes the toxicology report. It’s in the most recent article, from only that morning. The headline: “Is Sunset Highway Teen Another Victim of Rising Opioid Epidemic?” And the subhead: “Framingham Teen Had Morphine in Her System.”

  My eyes stick on the word “morphine.”

  Just like they were going to use on the girls in the hospital. On me, too, I suppose. This is not a coincidence. I know it’s not.

  According to the article, Sophie-Ann—high to the point of confusion—had indeed wandered into the road and was struck and killed. No excuse for the driver leaving the scene, of course. But Sophie-Ann—a troubled foster child with a history of behavior problems, so high that she could barely see straight—was also at fault.

  But there’s one line of the article that really jumps out: “She died on a lonely stretch of Sunset Highway, past mile marker seven, near what was once the Watuck Soldier Research Facility.”

  “The facility,” I say, putting my finger on the screen, before sending the article to print. “That’s probably what Mrs. Porter was talking about: the facility where they work. Watuck Soldier Research Facility. Google that.”

  I half expect to find no mention of the place. But within moments, we’ve found out quite a lot. Once a government facility where cutting-edge research on everything from treatments for PTSD, to cyberwarfare to psychological interrogation techniques was conducted, the WSRF was taken over by a private contractor called Compass Industries three years ago, then closed shortly after. The WSRF sounds untraditional by military standards, a place where research about the Outliers would fit right in.

  “So that’s where they work,” Gideon says, with a heavy sigh. “A place that is supposedly closed. Well, that’s not suspicious or anything.”

  “Search for Quentin and the WSRF,” I say, the burn of disappointment already at the back of my throat.

  Gideon tries several variations of Quentin’s name and the Watuck Soldier Research Facility but comes up empty. He then tries just Dr. Quentin Caton and gets a couple mentions—all quotes by or related to our dad, mentioning Quentin as his excellent research assistant. Because Quentin Caton did not exist before he met our dad, not by that name. I already knew that. But seeing all those articles with my dad praising Quentin still makes me feel sick.

  “How about WSRF and Senator Russo?” I say, glancing over at the librarians, who are already switching off lights at the far end.

  The search yields just the one link—an article from three years earlier, with only a single reference to research approved by the Armed Services Committee relating to PTSD. Senator Russo is quoted as saying, “Research is absolutely central to the health of our soldiers, and to the safety of our country. With the help of cutting-edge facilities like the WSRF, the military is constantly innovating.” And at the end there is another name listed among the doctors on staff at the WSRF: Dr. Cornelia.

  I lean over and Google Russo and Cornelia together, to save Gideon the discomfort of even having to type Cornelia’s name.

  A beat later there it is: a repurposed photo from a Compass Industries retreat twelve years earlier, apparently before Riel’s grandfather even was a senator. The article is about Dr. Cornelia, related to a book published
in the late nineties. Beneath it is a caption: Compass Industries Board Members David Russo and Dr. Peter Cornelia.

  WE DRIVE FAST on Sunset Highway toward the WSRF, hoping to find the spot where Sophie-Ann was killed. It feels with each passing moment like we’re running out of time. I did consider insisting that we head straight to the WSRF to look around—but even I know that’s too dangerous to head straight where we know the Wolf will be.

  I pull out the copy of the article I printed out at the library and read aloud: “‘She died on a lonely stretch of Sunset Highway, past mile marker seven, near what once was the Watuck Soldier Research Facility.’”

  Sure enough, up ahead, there is mile marker six, clear as day. “Wait, slow down.” I point to a spot where the shoulder curves into a dirt oval. “Pull off over there.”

  Gideon pulls the car onto the gravel and looks nervously in the rearview, but says nothing. He feels some version of I don’t think this is a good idea, though. I know that he does. And it makes me wonder again whether any of this is really fair.

  “To be clear, I don’t know what I’m looking for here. Just that I should look,” I say. And that is the truth—it’s no simpler or more complicated than that. I look over at Gideon, bracing myself for objections or concerns or questions, but all I feel is understanding and compassion and love, so much it takes my breath away.

  “That’s okay.” Gideon nods as he reaches into the glove compartment for a flashlight. He smiles grimly as he looks around at the dark. “Because our best-case scenario is that you’re wrong and there’s nothing to find.”

  WE WALK IN silence toward mile marker seven. The night air is eerie—warm and heavy. The mist so thick it clouds the light from a nearby streetlamp. There is hardly any shoulder, so we walk single file on the edge of the road. Because it does feel like a car could come out of nowhere at any moment, like maybe there’s one somewhere waiting to do just that. I am relieved when up ahead there is a cluster of three trees, and beyond them, mile marker seven.

  “That’s it,” I say, making a beeline for the trees. “This is the spot where it happened.”

  Fear. I feel it even before we reach the spot. But there is no sign of an accident, except a few tiny fragments of glass on the edge of the road, which could be from anything.

  “Come on,” I say. “We should keep going.”

  We walk on again in silence until eventually I find myself drifting off the road and through a different break in the trees. Back there, with the streetlights eclipsed by trees, it’s suddenly very, very dark.

  “Here, I’ll shine the light,” Gideon says, pointing the flashlight in front of me. “You lead the way.”

  We search on, walking deeper and deeper into the woods, through some fields and into trees again. Gideon is behind me the whole time, moving the beam of light back and forth. I pick up a long stick at one point, brushing the ground with it, hoping to hit—I don’t even know what. But all I find is dirt and rocks and leaves. Every once in a while, I look over my shoulder back the way we came, to make sure we haven’t yet lost our way.

  About five more minutes later, the light in front of me suddenly disappears, and I am plunged into darkness.

  “Wylie,” Gideon says, his voice weird and strangled behind me.

  When I turn, I can see he has the flashlight pointed to the side. The light is glowing over some tall grass to our right, where the field gradually blends into marsh. Pools of water stretch between the grass. But I can tell by the way Gideon is frozen that he is looking at something specific. And I can feel that he is scared. Completely and totally terrified.

  “Gideon, what is it?” I ask, heart thumping, hands trembling. “I don’t see anything.”

  Wordlessly, Gideon moves the flashlight around like he is highlighting something. “There,” he whispers, stepping closer behind me to point the light more precisely at three different spots in the grassy water. Three specific places he wants me to look. “And there. And there. Something in the water.”

  I squint harder. And then, finally, I see it. Or rather, I see them: hands. Three hands. So far apart that none could possibly be attached to the same body. Three hands for three different people.

  No, not people. Girls. Three different girls. Outliers. Already I feel so completely sure of that most awful fact. The bodies of girls sunk into the marsh. Girls who were killed. Outliers left for dead.

  JASPER

  JASPER KEEPS HIS EYES CLOSED. TRYING TO STAY CALM. IT’S NOT EASY IN THE dark with his body vibrating. And with the noise. It’s so damn loud in there.

  Lethe and Quentin shoved Jasper in the trunk after he told them the general location of the warehouses. The plan is to get Jasper out once they’re close, so that he can show them the rest of the way. Jasper tried to get them to untie him first, but it was no use. Lethe can read too clearly how much Jasper wants to kill them both.

  At some point, with all that vibrating and his eyes closed, Jasper falls asleep. He wakes to the sound of car doors slamming. They are nearing the end. Soon Quentin and Lethe will know that even if there were pictures in that file box, there’s nothing left now but ash. Jasper has been careful not to think about that, so Lethe won’t know. And getting to the warehouses was at least a way to get out of the basement, a temporary solution. Jasper doesn’t have the rest worked out. He’s been hoping some great idea will come to him, some great escape. But nothing has.

  The trunk finally cracks open and the light inside goes on, plunging the figures outside into darkness. “We’re close,” Quentin says. “Get into the passenger seat and show us the rest of the way.”

  “I don’t know if I’m going to be able to find it,” Jasper stalls after Quentin and Lethe haul him out.

  “You’d better,” Quentin says. “Or this won’t end well.”

  “Dude, it’s not going to end well either way,” Jasper says. “Am I right?”

  “Maybe not for you.” Quentin shrugs. “But I’ll walk away from this. I always do. And then, who knows, maybe I will even track Wylie down again.” It’s a threat.

  Jasper shoots a look at Quentin. “Stay the hell away from her,” he says through clenched teeth. Kill Quentin. Kill Quentin. It’s like a taste in Jasper’s mouth.

  Quentin smiles. “I’ll stay away from her,” he says. “As long as you get us to the warehouses and help us find those photos.”

  IN THE END, Jasper remembers the way to the warehouses pretty easily. But as they get closer and closer, he prays for some way out, that something is going to jump in and call a stop to all this crazy shit. Nothing does.

  “They’re down there.” Jasper motions to the driveway. “I think.”

  “You think?” Lethe asks as she makes the turn.

  “I’m sure,” Jasper adds, and he is. He’s also sure this is his last chance to head this situation off at the pass. “Why don’t you just help Wylie, work together to, like, protect the other Outliers or something? Aren’t you on the same side?” Jasper asks as the warehouses finally come into view. “Together you could . . .” He’s not even sure what he’s trying to say. He can’t imagine Wylie wanting to do anything with Lethe. “You could do something good with this whole Outlier thing.”

  “I tried talking to Wylie in the hospital about working together,” Lethe says. “She wanted no part of it.”

  “No part of what?” Jasper asks. “Maybe she didn’t understand.”

  “Oh, she understood,” Lethe says. “Think of an Outlier used as a jury consultant, or as a dealer at a casino. Or better yet, with a seat at a corporate negotiating table. We could make people money, a lot of money. And we’re even more valuable if we’re rare. If there are fewer of us.” Lethe shrugs. “But all Wylie cared about was ‘saving’ everybody. She won’t accept that the world isn’t going to let that happen.”

  “That’s because of people like him.” Jasper jerks his head toward Quentin in the backseat. He’s hoping he can cause friction between them. That he can slip out in the space wedged between
. “Maybe Wylie would feel differently if you hadn’t hunted down her best friend just to get to her.”

  “What?” Quentin laughs, and for real it sounds like. “No, no, no, Cassie brought me into this, not the other way around.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Jasper says. “At all.”

  “It may not make sense, my friend, but it’s definitely true,” Quentin says. “Cassie was a part of The Collective way before I ever met them. She came and found me at the lab. And she already had a plan to bring down Lang. She used my ‘enhanced résumé’ to encourage me to play along, said she would out me to Lang if I didn’t. Said she could make me an actual famous scientist if I did. But that was all bullshit.”

  “But I was there. You were the one—”

  “Listen, I’m not going to say I didn’t get carried away at the camp. Didn’t like the idea of actually being who I was pretending to. It was fun being like the main guy,” Quentin says. “But the whole plan to grab Wylie to get to Lang, that started with Cassie. Obviously, now it wasn’t just her. Not all of this. But I was only doing what she told me to do.”

  Quentin says some other things, but Jasper can’t hear over the sound of Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. He felt so guilty for what happened to her because he said all those hurtful things right before she died. About what a terrible person she was and how everything was her fault. And now, here it was, the truth: Cassie was involved from the start.

  “Come on, enough of the walk down memory lane,” Lethe says, as she pulls to a stop in front of the warehouses. “Let’s get this over with. Show us where he took the box. And who knows? Maybe you can be on your way.”

  “You are not going to let me go, no matter what you find,” Jasper says.

  “There’s a chance,” Lethe says. “And that’s a hell of a lot more than you had when you were locked in the basement.”

  OUTSIDE THE CAR, Quentin uses his phone to light their way, the pale bluish light reminding Jasper of how Wylie lit their way as they ran through the woods away from the diner. But this time, Jasper is pretty sure there will be no escape.