“Really,” she said, quiet. “Was my offer really so horrible?”
Artur smiled. “I preferred the alternative.”
Her expression darkened. She picked up the black bag and dumped its contents on top of Artur’s body. A one-piece jumpsuit tumbled out, as did a pair of leather gloves and socks. Artur listened for a story. He heard nothing but the gentle thoughts of the woman who had prepared the ornate red room—and beyond her, the manufacturer, an Asian woman in a sweatshop, back aching, stomach growling for the promised bowl of mi Fan …
Nothing about where Artur was being held captive. Not anything he had touched so far contained that one piece of crucial information, something to place the facility within the real world. His stolen memories contained no windows, phones, or connections. Everyone brought here was kept hooded and sedated, tethered and misdirected. The money was good and the employees had nothing to lose: reason enough to give up freedom. Even the scientists did not care. The work they were doing was too compelling. If the corporation wanted to play the top-secret spy game, let them.
Corporation. Now that was interesting.
Graves frowned. “Something surprised you. Strange. You could not have found anything useful from those clothes. They were screened just for your benefit.”
How one could screen clothes for him was a mystery, but Artur did not remark upon it. Too much was already a mystery; dwelling on the small details would make him insane. Again.
“I was momentarily overcome by my appreciation of bondage,” he told her, tugging on his restraints. “I am sure you have experienced the same feeling.”
Her mouth twisted. “I should never have complimented your sense of humor.”
“You should never have kidnapped me. Alas, hindsight.” Artur glanced down at the clothes. “Am I to dress myself while restrained?”
“What a trick that would be. But no, someone will be in to undo your restraints. Eventually. I simply wanted to speak with you first. Hear your impressions of the place.”
“I think it is a madhouse,” Artur said. “I see no direction or purpose, save to harm others.”
“Harsh words.”
“Honest words.”
“Oh, God save us from honest men.” Graves paced to the end of the table, standing so close to Artur’s feet he could almost touch her with his toes. Artur strained, and—
“Nice try,” she said, swaying just out of reach. “Seriously, though. Tell me your thoughts.”
“I prefer questions,” Artur said. “Such as why you allowed me to wake up, naked, in a room that required I walk through your base, soaking up your secrets? It does not seem like good planning. I am already a liability, as you say.”
“Call it an experiment. I wanted to see if all that stimuli would short-circuit your brain. Weaken it.”
“Weaken it for what?” He waited, but the answer already burned inside that empty place in the back of his head that had radiated a digging, prying pain.
Graves gave him a disdainful look. “Do not pretend with me, Mr. Loginov. You know very well for what. You must, since you removed it.”
No, I did not. Artur wondered if Graves knew of Elena’s role in destroying the worm, saving his life. He said, “You underestimated me.”
“Yes,” Graves agreed. “And you are the first to ever have the privilege of saying so.” She crouched beside the table so that she sat just below Artur’s eye level, like a skeleton, tapping her long white nails on the floor. “The Consortium still wants you, Mr. Loginov. Not just for your power, but for your knowledge.”
“You want Dirk and Steele. You thought I would be an easy way of learning its secrets.”
“Secrets are power. You know that. And how could we resist, especially when we learned of your background? Former Russian Mafia, a man who has killed for his supper. It was as though you were made ready-to-order, just for us. A perfect candidate for temptation.”
“On the surface, perhaps.”
“No. Every man can be tempted. Every man has his price. I simply made the mistake of believing yours was just money.”
Once upon a time, money would have been enough. No questions asked. Artur said, “You cannot buy me.”
“And what of your so-called friends? Perhaps they will have a different opinion.”
“I doubt that.”
“Such a pessimist. So very contrary. You are an unnatural man, Mr. Loginov. Disturbingly so.”
“Please, no more compliments.”
Graves did not smile. “Something went wrong with you. All our plans, awry. Until we know why, we will simply have to go about this the old-fashioned way. Methods, I’m sure, you are well acquainted with. Mother Russia trains her wayward children well.” She leaned close. Her breath smelled like mints, her body like lilies. “It isn’t too late, Mr. Loginov. I will give you another chance.”
So many chances, so many unrealized threats. Artur did not understand why she had not killed him already and moved on to another of his colleagues. He did not understand why she continued talking, when the doctor was probably frothing at the mouth for a chance to stick him with sharp objects.
“You are desperate and afraid. You kidnapped me because you thought I was your best choice, but you do not dare take another of my friends until you know more. Until you are sure you will not be caught. You know nothing about us, do you? Absolutely nothing.”
“We know enough to be dangerous.”
“Dangerous, but not lethal. You cannot destroy us. You cannot even make some juvenile attempt to expose us. Our reputations would not allow it. The preconceived notions of the public would not allow it. Psychics—true psychics—working in tandem toward a common goal? Who would accept that, ever?”
“We could kill you. Bullets are cheap. Easy.”
“Again?” Artur smiled. “No, Ms. Graves. I do not think you want to kill me. I do not think you want to kill any of us. You are not that wasteful.”
Graves stared at him. “You’re wrong about one thing, Mr. Loginov. I do want to kill you. Either that or fuck you. I can’t decide.”
“I prefer the killing.”
“I’ll try not to be insulted.”
“No,” Artur said. “Feel free to be insulted.”
Diamond-hard, her eyes glittered with a cutting light. “Be careful what you say to me, Mr. Loginov. I could have the doctor turn you into a woman.”
“What a waste that would be,” he replied.
Her gaze wandered down Artur’s body to the area between his legs, hidden by the clothing. “Yes,” she said. “A waste.”
Artur smiled. “It must be difficult, not being able to touch something you want.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To have me touch you. To have me soak my secrets into your skin.”
“The thought holds some attraction for me,” Artur said, though truly the idea made him want to cringe. Information, however, was key in this place: the motives and dreams of the captors. So much unknown, beyond imagining …
But imagination is one step removed from reality. And every little fact about this place will lead me closer to the truth.
The truth was the only thing that would give him enough power to fight. This was a place steeped in lies—lies for the sake of lying—lies to break the mind and heart. Artur would not suffer any more of it.
Graves said, “Perhaps I can arrange another kind of touching, Mr. Loginov. Since you seem so … eager.”
She walked to the door and opened it. The doctor stood just outside, holding a stainless steel pan with a pair of tongs hanging off the edge. Artur wondered how long he had been waiting there. He wore an expression that reminded Artur of a little boy afraid of causing trouble with his mother. It was amusing to see: the pitiless old man, trying to stifle his unease. A Mengele, chained.
There were two other men behind him; one had blood spatters on his white pant leg. They entered the room with the doctor. No one spoke; the men began pulling electrodes and wires from a small panel set in t
he MRI machine. They applied the sensors to Artur’s chest. The glue felt cold. They wore latex gloves, which kept him from absorbing anything beyond shallow surface memories—fleeting, available only because they had touched the gloves to put them on. They still had cheetahs on their minds.
“Your heart rate is going to be important,” said the doctor. “We don’t want you to have an attack and die.”
“Not yet, anyway,” said Ms. Graves.
Not until you get what you want. Not until you discover everything I know. Not until you make me say yes.
“Are you ready?” Graves asked the doctor.
“Quite.” He still held the metal tray. Artur could not see what lay inside it. The doctor gestured for the men to leave the room. When they were gone, the door shut behind them, the old man picked up the tongs.
He pulled out a rag. A red rag, stiff with old blood. He moved close to Artur, peered down into his eyes, and said, “Watch your tongue, dear boy. Be careful not to bite it off.”
The doctor dropped the rag on Artur’s chest—on his chest—on—
Water. Calm blue water, floating like a ghost in the sea.
And then a brush against his leg, like a feather. Another, another, and below him the sight of something large and dark and—oh, my God—a fin, striking sun, striking—pain—hot, a cloud of red streaming like wet smoke in the water, and oh, the fear, that stinking, shit-loosening fear, as—Ken—lost control of his bowels as he lost his legs, the—crunch, snap, dangle of bone reverberating—as he got dragged like a doll, pulled below a cold ocean wave, swallowing water as he screamed—endless—
Artur died for a very long time.
Chapter Seven
After Rictor returned Elena to her cell, she sat down on the foam mattress, leaned against the wall with her legs outstretched before her, and thought about death. Her own possible death. Artur’s near death. Rictor’s promised death. She thought about the Quiet Man, who reminded her of death. Death walking, with a smile.
She thought about her mother. Her mother’s face: a specific face, at a specific moment, wearing an expression that still pained Elena. A pale face, drawn and hard, with years of rough living carving the youth from Ronnie Baxter’s hollow cheeks.
“Bad girl,” she had said, all those years ago. “God, you are such a freak. Put the rabbit down.”
A tiny rabbit, just a baby, a sweet little thing. The orange tabby had torn its stomach into ribbons. Dying, bleeding, going into shock—and Elena did not care if it was against the rules, that her mother thought it dirty and wrong. She had to help. She had to do something.
And her mother had watched. Looking at her face was like seeing death in motion, as though Elena were the embodiment of a zombie’s kiss: horrific, strange—I knew you were a freak even in my womb—and Elena would never forget how her mother’s gaze darted to the ax leaning against the woodpile—it is in her hands—how her grandfather came running out of the house to stand between Elena and her mother—and her mother, turning away, turning, sunlight glinting off steel….
I still love you, Elena thought. Or at least, she thought it was love. It had been a long time since she had contemplated the emotions attached to the memories of her mother, whom she had not seen in almost two decades. Perhaps the current circumstances made Elena more sympathetic. Willing to forgive. Maybe desperate. It was easy to come to terms with the bad times when she might be close to losing her life.
Elena fell asleep thinking of her mother. She did not want to sleep, but her body was exhausted. She could not keep her eyes open. Fighting for consciousness, jerking awake after scant seconds, made her sick.
Mommy, she thought. Lay me down. Take me someplace safe.
Elena dreamed. She dreamed she was back on the farm in her sunny kitchen with its bright blue cabinets and cracked green walls, old linoleum peeling up at the corners. The radio played a fast song from the eighties, and she smelled lasagna in the oven. Warm, sweet, homey goodness.
Artur sat at the table. He was still naked. He did not look well.
It did not matter that it was only a dream. Elena sat across from him. Reached out and touched his hand. “What’s wrong?”
He stared at their joined hands. A fine tremor ran through his body. “They are torturing me. I must have fallen unconscious.”
Elena said nothing. She knew it could not be real, but his voice was so solemn and quiet, the shadows gathered thick beneath his dark eyes. Her dream Artur looked like a hurting man, and she could not imagine why her mind would be so cruel to someone she barely knew.
“This does not feel like a dream,” Artur said, as though he could read her thoughts. He turned his hand so that their palms nested together, holding warmth. “I can sense you, Elena.”
“Cool,” she said, without having any idea what he was talking about. “Don’t get too excited. This is my dream.”
“Of course.” He did not look terribly convinced. “And why do you suppose I am in your dream?”
“Because I think you’re hot.”
“Really.” He looked amused. “Hot?”
Elena pushed her finger against the table and made a hissing sound. “Sizzling. Smokin’. Top dog of the pile.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I feel better already.”
Elena laughed. She liked this dream. She pulled her hand away—surprisingly difficult, as though their palms were glued together—and stood. Walked to the oven. Got some hot pads and took the lasagna out. She needed a decent meal, even if it were all in her head. Good dreams meant simple pleasures.
“You hungry?” she asked Artur. When he did not say anything, she turned around. Stifled a gasp. He was already beside her, quick as thought, a shocking presence. He felt very tall and very warm and he smelled very good. The red-checked tablecloth looked nice around his lean waist. Little white ducks appeared from the air and waddled around their feet, singing backup to a radio version of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” Elena found herself humming along with them. For once she was not tone-deaf.
Artur said, “I am worried about you, Elena.”
Elena said, “You should be more concerned about yourself.”
He shook his head. “They know the worm is gone. So far they seem to be blaming only me, but that could be a trick. If they find out you saved my life, that you destroyed their trap, they might come for you next.”
“They already have me,” Elena said. “They can’t do much more than that.”
He touched her shoulders; she felt the heat of his hands sink through her clothing into skin; hot like his urgency, the insistence of his dark gaze. “They can hurt you, Elena. They can hurt you like they are hurting me. Please, you must listen.”
“This is just a dream,” she said, but she touched his chest and felt her spirit sink through his imaginary flesh, deep and …
She felt pain.
“Artur,” she said, struggling to breathe.
“Do not,” he said. “No, Elena. It is hurting you.”
But she could not stop. She flowed into the lee of his body, maximizing the contact, pushing hard until she found his shining mind. No fissures, but parts of it burned red: hateful, angry. Not his emotions, but from some exterior source. She could not block it. Could not ease the suffering.
“Your head.” Her hands slid up his chest to his face and neck. “What are they doing to you?”
“I am not in pain. I am unconscious. Dreaming. Remember?”
“No,” she breathed. “This is not just a dream.”
Artur gathered her tight against him. Flesh was not as close as the spirit; Elena felt herself slide sweetly into his soul, perfect, like coming home. Her heart stopped hurting. That ache, which had so quickly become a part of her soul, dissipated like the worm, the edge of a bad dream.
“I wish it were a dream,” Artur murmured. “Oh, Elena.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, caressing his mind with her spirit. “I can’t fix this. Nothing is broken. Nothing … permanent.”
“It is all right, Elena.”
“No, it’s not. How are they doing this to you?”
“I am unable to touch anything or anyone without hearing its story. Some are … worse than others.”
Elena pulled back just far enough to look into his eyes. A little distance meant nothing; a part of her still rested inside his body, and unlike their first meeting—that first healing—there was still enough of Elena rooted inside her own flesh to avoid losing herself. Like a rope around her waist, strong and singing with tension.
I am safe, she thought.
Yes, Artur said a moment later. For now, with me. You are safe. I will not allow you to lose yourself.
“And what about you?” she asked, disturbed by the intimacy of speaking mind-to-mind. “How do you keep from losing yourself? Because that’s what happened, isn’t it? You almost lost yourself. Your brain almost died because they took all your protection—your clothes. Made you feel too much.”
“I have endured more than I was given,” Artur said. “But I was weak. The worm. My age. I do not believe men like me are meant to live a long time.”
“But I fixed it. I healed the cracks in your head.”
“You did. You saved my life.” Artur reached out to touch her cheek. His hand felt good. She leaned into his palm, and after a moment he drew her back into the circle of his arms. Elena pressed against his body and looked down. The ducks were still grooving. Jackie Wilson, this time. Love was lifting them higher. Literally.
“Are these ducks yours?” Elena asked Artur. She watched them swim through the air of her kitchen, bobbing their heads in unison, singing high.
“Ah, no.” Artur stared at them. “At least, I do not think so.”
“Oh. I guess part of this really is a dream.” A thought came to her, a realization. She stepped out of his embrace. “When you touched my hand—here, now, in this dream—you said you could sense me. Earlier, when I healed you, I was all over your body. Did you …” Elena had to stop, swallow hard. “What did you see?”
His gaze became so very solemn that at first she felt afraid. But then he reached out and cupped her face in his large warm hands, and said, “I saw a good woman. A good heart. Which is rarer than you know. You have nothing to hide from me, Elena Baxter.”
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