“Miss Nadia picked a family to adopt him,” Maisha said, looking at me kindly. Her eyes grew distant and a faint smile came to her. “She wouldn’t even tell Dr. Dean or Dr. Evie which family the boy went to ’cause she knew he’d be safer that way. Not even I know.”
“Would Nadia tell me?”
The question wasn’t meant for Maisha, but she answered anyway.
“That’d be a matter best taken up with Miss Nadia, but I jus’ don’t know.”
“Momma needs to know, right?”
“Honey, that baby boy has only known one momma his whole life, an’ Miss Allison has only known you as her baby for all these years. A truth like that can set a whole lot of lives on end.”
Maisha’s words flooded me with sadness, but I knew she was right. Momma has had enough to wrestle with in the last few years. Adding another missing baby to her burden would be mean.
I half-heartedly peppered Maisha with questions about how she and Nadia had pulled off such a switch as they did with Momma’s real baby boy and me. I thought the knowledge might make me feel less like Momma’s child, but Nana would call it a fool-headed notion. Maybe someday Nadia will help us track the boy so we can meet him, but I don’t want to cause him trouble.
When Maisha’s eighth version of “ask Miss Nadia” finally sunk in, I thanked her for sharing the memory and withdrew from the dream. Wishing I could talk to Nadia, I rekindled the search for my family.
Chapter 15:
Scattered Part 3: Cora and Dustin
ITEM 198: Jillian’s 98th post-kidnapping journal entry
Item Source: Jillian Blairington
Mr. Jones’s memory told me I’d been searching for Cora and Dustin in the wrong place. Since they had started by going west toward the same destination as Dr. Devya, I figured they ought to be somewhere along that route like Dr. Carnasis and Nadia, but I was wrong. When I redirected my search north toward where these men were taking me, I found Cora.
Since I wasn’t sure how long she would stay asleep, I gathered the most interesting looking memories from the last couple of weeks and returned to my head to sort ’em. Dr. S. ain’t here to give me that arched eyebrow look that says I should elaborate—that means give her more details. Still, I can imagine the look well enough.
Nadia pictures memories as crystals in giant chandeliers, but I’ve come to see ’em more as endless walls of mini-movie screens. I guess they could answer to any mold I wish to make ’em mind. Since everybody’s head feels different, the analogies sometimes need to change.
Cora kinda scares me, so keeping her memories in impersonal boxes is probably what Dr. S. would call a defense mechanism. When quickly gathering memories in a broad sweep, I find it useful to order ’em with key words. People’s heads get filled with every possible detail you could ever think of, including number, color, and type of objects surrounding ’em. For Cora, I focused on the words Dustin, Devya, danger, location, and enemies. If I thought hard enough, I probably could come up with a half-dozen more, but since these words caught about 74,000 memory pieces, I had enough to make a solid start.
As I began the sorting process, I wished I’d searched with the phrase “white truck” as well. Taking me seriously, the pieces mentioning “white” and “truck” separated from the others. I worked until my body shifted levels of sleep when the SUV slowed to a stop. Wanting to be alert when the men opened the door, I rushed through the rest of the waking process.
Disappointment and relief rushed through me when I realized we’d not yet reached our destination, only a Wendy’s.
Mr. Jones’s companion spoke to me for the first time.
“What do you want?”
I stared at him ’cause it was kinda a dumb question. At the time, I wanted a great many things and not being kidnapped was pretty high on the list.
“To eat,” Mr. Jones clarified.
“I dunno,” I answered, “but I gotta use the restroom.”
“Take her in and let her order something, but do not lose her. Block the door to the Women’s room if you have to,” Mr. Jones instructed the driver. Turning in his seat, Mr. Jones leveled a serious look at me. “If you—”
“I won’t run,” I promised, reading the threat in his eyes. He’d spotted the lady with two small kids same as I had.
As I finished the necessaries, I remembered my cell phone crammed in my back pocket. It’s an older phone, not a fancy one with a touch screen or nothing, but it makes calls and sends texts if I’m patient enough to hit a button three times for a “c.”
I debated myself over whether to call somebody or not. When that question was settled, I needed to decide who to call. I didn’t have a lot of time. There aren’t that many contacts on my list, but Nana would only worry, Jimmy couldn’t do much, and Varick never answers. Calling home would hurt Momma and my New Daddy, but like Jimmy, they probably couldn’t help me. I tried to remember Danielle’s class schedule. Her daddy’s a lawyer. With my brain so out of sorts, I couldn’t recall what type of law Mr. Matheson practiced, but I thought he’d know somebody good enough to help Momma.
Selecting Danielle’s number, I made the call, frantically trying to think what to say. Trapping the phone between my neck and shoulder, I absently washed my hands and dried ’em on my shirt. Nana woulda scolded, but I couldn’t use the loud air blowing thing. The man waiting by the bathroom door would know I’d finished. The phone nearly slipped through my damp fingers when Danielle’s sister answered on the fourth ring.
“Jillian? Is Danielle with you?” Katy’s wobbly tone told me a whole heap and raised about two dozen questions. “Is she all right?”
My heart dropped to be on level with my ankles, and I leaned heavily against the sink to keep my balance.
“I don’t know, Katy, but have your momma call mine. Please. It’s important.”
“What about Dani?” Katy’s question sounded frantic to the point of angry.
A lady barged into the restroom letting the man catch sight of me with the phone thanks to the mirror mounted in a poor position. He held a grease-stained bag with our food, and his expression said this would be the last call I’d ever make with my phone. Knowing I was beyond out of time, I finally answered Katy.
“I will find her.”
I wanted to stay on the phone and reassure Katy properly, but no amount of words could help. Besides, the man waiting for me looked ready to murder everybody in the eating area if I didn’t come out soon. I stunned him by handing over my phone as I left the Women’s room. The walk back to the black SUV was long and cold.
The grilled chicken wrap I’d ordered didn’t hold much appeal, but I ate it anyway ’cause it would help me work later. I ignored the two men as the driver tattled about the phone. Mr. Jones paused his eating long enough to remove the phone’s battery and toss it out the window. A mile later, the rest of my phone met the same fate. The demonstration was more for my benefit than actually necessary.
“Nobody can help you,” said Mr. Jones.
His tone told me he wanted a response. Crumpling up the wrapper and tucking it in a pocket, I leaned against the door and went to sleep.
Shuffling through Cora’s memory fragments proved soothing. In short order, I assembled enough pieces to let the memory play. My impatience caused pieces to continue snapping into place as the scene unfolded. It was like watching a holey movie screen getting patched as you go. Two seconds convinced me I had the right memory, so I skipped ahead to the emotional spike.
“Something’s wrong, Mum,” Dustin announced.
Before Cora could comment, the truck braked hard enough to throw her against the seat belt. Reaching up, Cora activated an intercom.
“Andre? Is everything all right up there?”
Shouts from two different men carried through the speaker next to Cora’s head, but they were too confused to hear actual words.
“We’ve got to help him, Mum,” Dustin cried, squeezing Cora’s left arm. “They’ll kill him.”
; Cora freed herself from the seat belts and opened a sliding panel next to the intercom. Drawing out a handgun, she double checked that it had bullets before snapping it back together and pulling back the metal piece on top. A quick glance around revealed precious few hiding spots. Coming to a decision, Cora collapsed the gurney, crouched down behind it, and ordered Dustin into the tiny space behind her.
Three gunshots striking metal caused Cora to flinch. Slowly, the doors swung outward, revealing two men. Both appeared angry, but the front one with raised arms also seemed scared. The man standing behind the hostage tapped his shoulder as a signal to speak.
“Cora!” The man called her name through clenched teeth. “If you and Dustin don’t surrender right now, these men will kill me!”
“Did you sell us to them?”
Cora’s question caught the first man by surprise. His pupils dilated, but before the shock could set in, I saw guilt and so did Cora. She fired twice.
Both men shouted curses, but the man behind also moved. He shoved the hostage aside and ducked. To my surprise, the man laughed.
“You sure know how to pick feisty women, little brother. So much for your genius plan. What do you want to do now?”
Andre coughed and spat out road dust.
“Send in your guys.”
“I’m not sending in my guys to get shot because you didn’t clear the rig,” argued the other man.
“Use the riot shields.”
“They’re not bulletproof.”
The men glowered at each other from their roadside seats. Cora couldn’t see ’em, but I could tell the situation amused Andre’s brother despite his anger over the plan not working.
“Talk to her,” suggested Andre’s brother.
Andre looked like he’d rather eat the spiny part of a cactus. Forming a fist, he smacked the bottom of the truck, and whined.
“Aw, come on, Cora. You know you can’t escape.”
After a few beats of silence, Andre’s brother tried his luck with talking Cora down.
“Look, lady, I’ve got nothing against you or the kid. Me and my guys were hired to deliver you alive and well, and that’s what I’m trying to do here.”
“Kill your brother.” Cora’s statement reminded me why I find her scary.
“What?” asked both dumbfounded men.
“If the money for our surrender is good enough, Kyle, surely you can do this one thing for me.” Cora spoke reasonably like someone explaining a simple math sum.
“Whoa! Don’t listen to her, man!” cried Andre. “She’s messing with your head. We can get her. We just need to wait her out.”
“We don’t have time to wait her out,” Kyle grumbled. I didn’t need to look to see that his gun was loosely pointed in his brother’s direction. “How does she know my name?”
“The kid must have told her! I said he was scary.” Andre instinctively raised his hands to ward off his brother’s gun. “You’re not actually thinking of doing it, are you?”
Kyle’s expression confirmed that he was weighing the option.
Cora’s voice broke through the tension building around the brothers.
“He would do it if I chose to pursue that end. I thought you both should know what greed does to men’s minds.”
The brothers sprang to their feet, carefully avoiding each other’s gaze. Kyle pointed his gun at Cora who stood at the truck’s edge with her own handgun held loosely at her side.
The rest of the capture happened like I expected it would. Kyle barked for Cora to drop the gun. She climbed down, put the weapon in Andre’s waiting hands, and let him fix her hands behind her back and escort her to a white van. Two men, who hadn’t spoken a word, scrambled into the truck and forced Dustin to the floor so they could put plastic ties around his wrists and ankles.
I couldn’t get a sense for where they were taken ’cause I’d either not collected that memory or not put it together yet.
Guess it doesn’t matter now anyway. I’m headed for the same unknown place.
Chapter 16:
Connoisseur of Crazies
ITEM 199: Danielle’s fifty-sixth letter
Item Source: Danielle Matheson
Dear Dr. S.,
If my career as a psychologist or psychiatrist fails, I could always write a book comparing the crazies I’ve met over the last couple of years. Troy and Samantha Aiello suffered from severe self-centeredness to the point where people became commodities. Christy’s aunt and uncle let their grief fester to an unhealthy point. Now that I’ve met Lanier, I must say Devya’s actually a relatively mild flavor of crazy. Maybe it’s simply a matter of the grass being greener on the other side or preferring the known evil over the unknown one. If I think of more clichés to throw your way, I’ll do so. I haven’t much better to do.
Dr. Caleb Lanier is like Devya-lite. I’ve only met him once, but his dress slacks and crisp, business casual shirt screamed “admire me, I’m a hot-shot scientist saving the world.” The statement might have come more from his square glasses than the clothes, but I count the full effect together. He keeps his dark brown hair neatly combed except for a few carefully selected strands which curl casually over his forehead. In other context, I’d probably find him handsome for an older guy, but I’m going to side with Grams here on the notion of inner darkness sullying outer beauty.
As far as facilities go, Devya’s got Lanier beat in nearly every category. The main mansion might be the only place where Lanier wins. If Maisha’s cooking is four stars, the stuff served here gets about two stars. I almost miss Devya’s cozy rooms with their high-tech locks. The prison section here was likely designed by blind interior decorators about eighty years ago. There, I had a real bed. Here, I’ve got a stolen hospital cot with a thin blanket. I think I even prefer metal handcuffs to plastic zip ties. Who knew there was a higher class of captivity?
Sorry, my sarcasm levels are soaring pretty high today.
Thankfully, the injection only knocked me out for a few hours. Ethan didn’t bother with restraints until we were about five minutes from our destination. I’d been sleeping because we had driven through the night with only one pit stop at a 24-hour diner. The feeling of a strong, plastic loop cinching my wrists together woke me up with a heady rush of adrenaline. The clock said 6:36. We must have been driving for over six hours at that point.
“Isn’t it a little late for that?” I asked, fixing Ethan with a what-gives look.
My college kid impersonating captor had the decency to look embarrassed.
“I was supposed to do that hours ago,” he mumbled.
“What difference does it make?” The question wasn’t really a complaint. I actually wanted to hear his answer.
“Dr. Lanier has strict protocols on prisoner transportation,” said Ethan, pulling back onto the road.
I wanted to ask if Dr. Lanier made a habit of taking prisoners, but I was too busy searching my brain for the name. Jillian has probably mentioned it in some context or other, but the fading adrenaline made my brain mushy.
The rest of the ride passed uneventfully until we pulled into a gravel driveway and got buzzed past an impressive gate. Ethan drove into a three-car garage, climbed out, and came around to help me out of the passenger seat. I managed to pop the seat belt release tab, but Ethan had secured my wrists long after I’d had the seat belt on, effectively lashing me to the car.
Grunting annoyance, Ethan used a switchblade to expertly slice through the old zip tie so I could continue exiting the car. I frowned down at my wrists which bore distinct rings to mark the zip tie territory.
When Ethan reached for my hands again, I reflexively hugged them closer to my body.
“Can we skip that part?”
“Sorry, but no, the protocols clearly define the—”
“Fine. Get it over with.” I held my wrists out and closed my eyes, not wanting to watch the zip tie slide into place. It pinched some, but I was able to twist enough so that my wrists were somewhat comfortable.
/> Gently grasping my right arm, Ethan escorted me through the spacious garage and several impressive rooms to a huge library filled with everything from science magazines to leather-bound books to modern paperbacks. My parents would have fallen in love with the room on sight.
The large, businesslike desk chair and the fancy desk complemented each other well, standing in front of a wall of shaded windows. I tried to imagine the amazing view of the surrounding mountains that would exist without those shades. A pair of dark leather arm chairs sat in front of the ornate desk. A tasteful Oriental rug ran under the desk and chairs, leaving only a thin strip of polished wood in front of the bookshelves. Only the simple wooden chair looked out of place.
Ethan let me gawk for a minute before directing me to sit in the wooden chair. I should have made an argument for one of the nicer chairs, but being my compliant self, I sat where I was told to sit. Ethan’s got nothing on Cora in terms of intimidating presence, but he seemed the sort to take poorly to anything messing with the precious prisoner protocols.
The ten minutes between our arrival and Lanier’s entrance were quite awkward. There aren’t many good ice breakers for working through the captor-captee brand of verbal walls. About the only thing I ventured was a plea for Ethan not to hover over my right shoulder. When he ignored this, I exiled the creepy feeling to the back of my mind and focused on ordering the list of questions I had for this Lanier guy. Even before I met him, I could tell he had a Devya complex.
The fancy desk sported the same disastrous state of clutter as Devya’s desk. A stack of old research papers bearing Devya’s name sat in one corner like a shrine. I half-expected to find a framed portrait of the man amongst the pens, scraps of paper, and used coffee mugs. Even the Oriental rug could have been a close cousin of the one in Devya’s main office.
“Sorry about the mess. It’s been an exciting week. How was your trip?”
Varick's Quest (Devya's Children Book 4) Page 9