by Jodi McIsaac
When I came up from the basement, he was sitting in the living room, his face in his hands. Tears squeezed between his fingers. A suitcase was splayed at his feet. I moved toward him, but he growled at me like a wounded animal. I backed away before moving gingerly forward again, this time toward the chair on the other side of the room.
“I’m sorry,” I said fervently. “I was wrong. I know you hate doctors; I should never have let them take you. It’s just that they said you could help find a cure for Gaspereau, and—”
“Don’t make excuses for them,” he snarled. “Or for yourself. All you are is selfish.”
I winced, hearing my mother’s words in his mouth. How many times had she called me selfish for wanting to come and go as I pleased, for wanting to throw off the shadow of my brother and live my own life? I understood now that her words had come out of a place of anger, frustration, and helplessness as she watched her family fall apart—but the wounded young girl inside me had never forgotten.
“I want to help you,” I said, pushing down my anger, trying to be the grown-up. “But we need to get out of here. You say you don’t like flying—fine. But if you stay here, they might come for you. And you can be as pissed off at me as you like, but if they come back here with the National Guard, I’m not going to be able to stop them. So it’s your choice. Let’s get out of here while we still can. Come stay with me, at least until this all passes over.”
“And will you still skip town if I decide to stay?” he asked.
At this, my stomach rolled. “No,” I said through gritted teeth. “If you stay . . . I will stay. I won’t leave you.” Panic whirled in my head, and my heart strained against my rib cage.
“Are you okay?” Wes asked, pulling me back into the present moment. His fists were still clenched, but his eyes had widened in concern.
“I’m fine,” I said, straightening up. Breathe. Control.
“Well, I’ll go, then,” he said.
I stopped breathing. “What?”
He stood up, hauling the suitcase with him. “Let’s go. Let’s see if we can beat these motherfuckers.”
I glanced at him uncertainly but decided not to question him on his change of heart. That conversation could happen when we were safely thirty thousand feet in the air—or better yet, after we’d landed.
He threw our bags into the backseat of the car while I locked up. A pang of regret made me hesitate. Should I call Kenneth and tell him what we were doing, insist that he and Maisie come with us? But he’d made his decision. And it was better if he didn’t know. Plausible deniability.
Sirens screamed in the air as I drove away. I sped up and turned onto a seldom-used side road.
“Do you think they’ll come after us?” Wes asked, glancing behind us.
I tried to quell my own paranoia. “I don’t know,” I answered, hoping I was right about the back roads. “Normally, they can’t force you to stay in the hospital against your wishes. But I don’t know what they’ll do. It’s different now; the government has more powers.”
My cell phone rang, and I fished around for it in my bag. It was Dr. Hansen. Shit. I considered letting it ring, but there was no way they could know I had Wes—and I might find out more information about what they had done to him. “Hello?”
“Ms. Campbell, it’s Stuart Hansen. Is Wes with you?”
“No, of course not. You wouldn’t even tell me where he is,” I retorted.
“I need you to be honest with me, Clare. This is a very serious matter.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You came and took him. Are you telling me you’ve lost him?”
There was silence on the end of the phone. “He is no longer in our care,” he said eventually.
“Is that what you’re calling it now? Care?”
“You don’t seem too worried to hear that your brother is missing. Did he contact you?”
“I’ve spent most of my life not knowing where Wes is. He can take care of himself. And no, he hasn’t contacted me. He hates cell phones, computers, and anything that’s not a carrier pigeon.” I shot an apologetic look at Wes.
“Where are you now?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business. You abducted my brother, Dr. Hansen. And now it seems he’s escaped, and I’m glad. I’m the last person who would help you find him.”
“It was hardly an abduction, Miss Campbell. You were right there beside me.”
I didn’t respond. I felt sick.
“Look at the big picture,” he continued. “You know I believe your brother can help us cure Gaspereau. A lot is at stake here.”
I hesitated. What if Dr. Hansen was telling the truth? What was I doing? “You said it was just a theory.”
He sounded frustrated when he answered. “The more I study your brother, the more I’m certain he is the key. You must bring him back, Clare.”
I’d heard enough. I’d made my decision. “Listen, Doctor, do your experiments on someone else. You might be with the CDC, but I get the feeling your bosses don’t know what you’re up to. I don’t know what you want with my brother, but until you can give me something more substantial than a bunch of vague statements that may or may not be true, I’m not letting you near him—if he does get in touch with me.” I winced, hoping I hadn’t given too much away.
There was another pause. “We’re all taking risks here. But we have a chance to end this thing. That, to me, is worth taking a few risks.”
“Look, there are plenty of people with schizophrenia. I’m sure some of them would be happy to help you. Wes does not want to be involved; he made that pretty clear. Go find someone else.” Why was he so fixated on Wes?
“You’re right, Clare. There are others who might be able to help us study the similarities between the effects of Gaspereau and schizophrenia. But I have reason to believe your brother’s case is . . . special. The way his brain works is unique.”
“How?” I demanded. So Kenneth was right: something else was going on.
“If you and Wes would just come in, I’d be happy to sit down and explain it to you. Show you, even.”
“Nice try,” I snapped. “Look, I really hope you find a cure for this thing. I do. It’s a bitch. But Wes’s role in your research is done. Understand?”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Ms. Campbell,” Dr. Hansen said. “We’ll be in touch.” Then the line went dead.
“Bastard,” I said, throwing my phone back into my purse.
“What was that all about?” Wes asked.
“Well, they know you’ve left the hospital, and they want to know where you are.”
“Why? What do they want?”
“More research, it sounds like.” I didn’t tell him what Dr. Hansen had said about him being special; Wes had enough delusions of grandeur as it was. “But it doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to volunteer to help them, I’m sure as hell not going to make you.”
“As if you could.”
I kept driving, my hands tight and sweaty on the steering wheel. We were just outside town. Growing up, we had often taken the back roads to my grandparents’ home about an hour away, much to my father’s delight and my mother’s irritation. Dad had loved showing us the fields where he’d worked as a young man, the old logging roads he’d driven with his first truck. Surely they wouldn’t have blocked all of them . . .
“You know, I don’t even know how to use a carrier pigeon,” Wes said suddenly.
I couldn’t help it; I burst out laughing. Wes mimed tying a letter to a pigeon’s leg. “Ow!” he said in a mock tone. “It poked me with its beak! How do you get these things to stay still?”
Our laughter died as we turned a corner on the dirt road I’d hoped would be our salvation. A military jeep sat in the middle of road about a hundred yards away. A soldier was leaning against it, smoking. On the road beside him were several barriers that had yet to be erected.
“Shit,” I said, slowing the car.
“Should we turn
around?” Wes asked nervously.
“He’s seen us now anyway,” I said. The soldier had stamped out his cigarette and was standing straight, his eyes on our car. “Just . . . stay quiet,” I said.
I rolled down my window as we approached the jeep. The soldier gripped his weapon nervously.
“Hey there,” I said, as casually as I could muster.
“The road is blocked, ma’am,” he said.
“So I see. We need to get to Bangor for my cancer treatment. I just came from the hospital; my brother and I both tested negative for Gaspereau, so my doctor said it would be okay for us to leave town. If I miss a treatment . . . well, I’ve only got so long to live as it is. I’d like to have as much time as possible.”
I didn’t dare look at Wes, but I hoped he was keeping a straight face.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to let anyone leave.”
“I understand about the quarantine, but we haven’t been exposed to anyone who has it, and like I said, we both got tested just in case. We haven’t been in contact with anyone else since we got our results. The quarantine is supposed to keep people from spreading Gaspereau, right? Not to keep people from getting cancer treatments.”
The young man looked uncertain. “My mom died of cancer two years ago. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” I nodded gravely. “And I really appreciate what you’re doing to protect our country. All I’m asking for is a little grace . . . for whatever time I have left.” Was I laying it on too thick? But then the soldier stepped back and moved the metal barriers off the road. He returned to my window.
“I hope your treatments go well, ma’am. Good luck.”
Trying to not let my astonishment show on my face, I nodded and drove slowly forward, past the jeep. I wanted to slam my foot to the floor and get out of there as fast as possible, but I forced myself to drive at a normal, nonpanicked speed.
Finally, once the barrier was out of sight, I risked a glance at Wes.
“You should be an actor,” he said. “That was fucking awesome!”
“I can’t believe it worked,” I gasped. “We got out. We might even be able to get a flight to Seattle tonight.”
I was calculating the distance to Bangor in my head when I glanced in the rearview mirror and my heart plummeted.
“Shit!” I cried. The jeep had followed us. A cloud of dust billowed in its wake as it closed the gap between us.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For a moment, I considered attempting to outrun it. But a Honda Civic was no match for an army jeep on dirt roads.
Maybe he’s not after us; maybe he’s just getting out of Clarkeston, too. But that hope was dashed when a red light flashed in his window and he called through a megaphone, “Stop the car!”
“Should we make a run for it?” Wes asked, reaching for his door handle.
“No!” I said. “If we run, he’ll assume we’re infected. He’ll chase us. He might even shoot us.” I slowed the car to a stop and put on my most innocent expression. The jeep passed us and then turned, blocking the road. The soldier got out.
“Is there a problem?” I asked, rolling my window down again.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t let you go. I called it in to my supervisor and he reamed me out big-time. He says there are no exceptions.”
“I see . . .” It wasn’t hard to look crestfallen at this turn of events. I leaned out the window and looked up at the young man. “Listen, between you and me, what if you just tell your supervisor that you sent me back. I’ll continue quietly on my way, and no one will get in trouble.”
He shook his head firmly. “Can’t do that, ma’am. I shouldn’t have let you through the first time. I’m going to have to ask you to turn your car around.”
I glanced at the road ahead. There was no way for me to get around his jeep without ending up in the ditch. And I didn’t want to do something that would get us arrested—or back in Dr. Hansen’s custody.
“Fine,” I croaked out, my throat tight. The soldier stepped back, and I executed an awkward three-point turn. The jeep followed us until it reached the roadblock site, where it stopped. But I could see him in my rearview mirror, watching us.
“It was a good try,” Wes said after a while. I couldn’t speak. My cheeks burned with disappointment and frustration.
“Do you think they’re after me?” he asked.
I almost said, “You tell me. You’re the paranoid one,” but caught myself. This wasn’t paranoia; it was reality. The CDC was in charge of Clarkeston now, and if they were looking for Wes, they would make damn sure he didn’t leave. “I doubt they would set up a roadblock just to find you.” I tried to sound reassuring. “They’re keeping people with Gaspereau from leaving, remember?”
“Where are we going now?” he asked.
Good question. If they were looking for Wes, they’d be watching Rob. Going back to our parents’ house was out of the question, too.
“We’ll stay with Kenneth tonight, if he’ll let us.” I pulled over and sent Kenneth a text, then waited for a response. When my message alert went off, I read his response and sighed in relief.
“What’s he say?”
“He just got sent home for some rest. He says it’s fine.”
“Where does he live?”
I raised my eyebrows as I looked at the address on my screen. “Fourteen Garden Way.” That was one street I knew how to get to. It was the street that ran beside the river, and it was home to several turn-of-the century houses I’d always envied.
Wes was tapping his steel-toed boot against the underside of the dashboard. His hands were shaking.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I need a smoke. They took mine.”
I released a sigh of exasperation. Stupid habit. But I didn’t want him any edgier than usual. “Can it wait?” I asked.
He shrugged.
I kept driving.
“Are you and Kenneth, like, a thing?” he asked.
“No,” I said with a pang in my chest. “I mean, we used to be really close friends, but no.” What if we were, though? I pushed the thought aside and tried to ignore the bump in my heart rate as we drove toward his house.
I kept seeing flashing lights in my rearview mirror, but it always turned out to be another car’s turn signal or the low-slung sun glinting off a window. Soon the houses were getting bigger and the lawns more opulent. I had no idea which one was number 14, so I slowed down and peered at the numbers: 10 . . . 12 . . . “This must be it,” I said, pointing at the next house.
I steered the car into the half-circle driveway. Kenneth lived in a white two-story Victorian complete with upper balcony, wrap-around veranda, and wood lace trim around the eaves. Bright red, purple, and yellow pansies grew in window boxes, and huge red rhododendrons beckoned from the front lawn.
“Fancy place,” Wes said.
I got the suitcases out of the back and pulled them up the driveway. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell, so I grabbed the brass knocker on the door, which was shaped like two cupids’ heads kissing. I grabbed one of the heads and banged it against the other. A second later, someone fumbled at the door, as if they were trying to open it but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Maisie!” came Kenneth’s voice from inside the house. “Wait for me, baby.” A moment later the door opened.
“Hey, Clare,” Kenneth said, his face softening.
“I’m sorry to show up like this. Can we come in?” I said quickly, glancing at Wes, who was standing on the front step.
“Of course,” he said, opening the door wider.
Maisie’s eyes grew big as she took in Wes’s hair, tattoos, and piercings.
“Thanks.” I closed the door behind us and fastened the deadbolt.
“What happened?” Kenneth said. His eyes were scanning Wes, who had squatted down awkwardly next to the little girl.
“Hi! I’m Wes!” he said, holding out a hand. Maisie stared at it.
“My dad says
I’m not supposed to touch anyone,” she said. “Not even him.”
Wes withdrew his hand and stood up. “You’ve got a good dad, then. He’s careful.”
“I like the stamps on your face,” she said.
Wes laughed. “Thanks! Maybe you can get some when you’re older.”
Maisie looked up at her dad. “Can I?”
“We’ll see,” he said, still looking worried. “What happened? Everything okay?” he asked me.
“I’m not sure.” We followed him and Maisie through a wainscoted hallway to the living room, which was lined with dark bookshelves.
“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll get us some drinks.” He headed back down the hallway.
I sank down into a tall wingback chair and watched Kenneth’s daughter, who was doing the same with me. “How old are you?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
She held up a hand, her fingers splayed out. “Five,” she said.
“Are you going to kindergarten in September?” I asked.
She shook her head, sending her hair flying. “I already did kindergarten. But Daddy says I might go right into second grade.”
“Maisie is a bit of a prodigy,” Kenneth said, coming back into the room carrying a platter loaded with three bottles of beer, a pink plastic cup with a bendy straw, and a bowl of nacho chips. “She taught herself to read when she was three. I’m trying to figure out what to do with this little genius. Skipping a grade is only one option.” He smiled proudly down at his daughter and handed her the pink cup, then passed beers to Wes and me. “I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet, but I’ve got a lasagna in the oven.”
“Awesome,” Wes said, giving Kenneth the thumbs-up. “Is it okay if we take these off for a bit?” He pointed to his mask.
“Of course,” Kenneth said. “But I don’t want Maisie getting too close to anyone . . . just in case.”
“Are you sure it’s okay if we crash here tonight?” I asked. The last thing I wanted to do was put them in danger . . . but we had nowhere else to go. And I had to admit I felt safe with Kenneth. Or maybe it was just that I felt less alone.