Butterfly in Amber (Spotless Book 4)

by Camilla Monk

  And I’m alone, the table is moving, sliding into the scanner’s mouth where bluish lights glint all around me. The suffocating fear is back. I feel the spider in my head, picture it crawling through my brain, frantically wondering if they can see it too. I hear Viktor tell me to calm down and lie still through a speaker. I will myself stiff and dead like a branch on the ground.

  When it’s over, I don’t even wait for them to come for me; I jump down from the table, the tile floor icy under my soles, and hurry to the door. March opens it and tries to take me in his arms. There’s a moment when my body wants this, seeks his warmth instinctively, but the fear is stronger, and I recoil. “I want to see the images,” I say in a brittle voice.

  Viktor points to the examination table standing in the middle of his office. “You go sit there, golubushka, and I’ll show you everything.”

  Nadia goes to smooth a length of paper sheet over the table and crosses her arms, waiting for me. I walk to the table and sit under March’s anxious gaze.

  I see Viktor grab a sleek touch remote on his desk, and on the wall closest to the table, a panel slides up to reveal a large TV screen. After some amount of fumbling with the channels and a few seconds of Romanian pop, followed by soccer and a blue screen, the 3-D model of a human brain appears on-screen. My brain.

  My chest constricts as the spider is now revealed in its terrifying details. The “body” is actually very flat, hardly bigger than an SD card, resting at the base of my skull, right above the first vertebra, like Isiporho predicted. The long wires reach deep, into the medial temporal lobe. Where my long-term memory should—used to?—reside.

  Viktor’s fingers glide on the remote to rotate the model. “Very nice, huh? Look at that level of detail. It’s not even on the market yet, but Viktor has it!”

  I can’t find the strength to congratulate him for his state-of-the-art technology, but March’s stony face does the job nicely. Viktor sobers and clears his throat. “So, what this is . . . well . . . I don’t know.”

  My face bunches, but I bravely resist the urge to burst into tears.

  He sees this and waves his hands at me. “No, no . . . what I mean is I’ve never seen anything like it. I didn’t say I don’t know what it does.” His fingers tap on the remote repeatedly and a window pops up on-screen over the brain model, containing what looks like an EEG.

  “Is that mine?” I ask.

  “Yes and no. There’s yours”—he taps once, and most of the chart flashes blue—“and there’s a little extra.” This time, another part of the chart flashes red, with perfectly regular spikes and waves, unlike the somewhat more random electrical activity of my own brain.

  “These are very low-current electrical impulses. You don’t even feel them,” Viktor explains, “and they target centers in your brain that you need to access your long-term memory. The signal messes with your brain’s activity and inhibits it.” He nods to himself. “Your doctor did a wonderful job.”

  I go rigid on the examination table, sitting so straight my spine hurts. He probably doesn’t even mean any wrong: I’m just another medical curiosity to him. He doesn’t understand the magnitude of what I’ve lost.

  March’s voice is low, laced with warning as he reminds Viktor, “That woman erased her memories . . .”

  The interested party seems unaware that he’s seconds away from getting punched. “No, they’re not really erased like data. Rather, if someone can light up the path neuroelectric impulses take in your brain to access your memories—which is fairly doable nowadays—they can block that path. She didn’t completely empty the warehouse; she closed the roads.”

  A bubble of hope swells in me, soon overcome by fear. “Then how do you intend to fix this . . . reopen the roads?” I ask.

  “We dig in.” Viktor shrugs. “We open; we extract the device.” Blood drains from my face, which Viktor seems to barely notice as he goes on. “Once it’s done, we inject specific proteins into your brain to help neurons do the job, heal and restore connections between your cortex and hippocampus. But I’m not venturing any guess about what will be recovered. God only knows what else they pumped into your brain to screw your LTP.”

  I touch my nape reflexively, my stomach sinking at the very idea of anyone touching my brain again. “LTP?”

  “Long-term potentiation. Synaptic activity in your hippocampus enables storage and access to memories. That’s where the fun happens.”

  “But . . . the wires are inside my brain. Won’t it be dangerous if you like . . . pull them out?” I’m picturing bits of gray matter being dragged along, and nausea rears its head, clutching at my stomach.

  Viktor strokes his lips with his forefinger. “There’s always a risk. In fact, there’s a risk the moment we inject the anesthetic: that’s how surgery works. But you’re still young and healthy: you have no idea the things people can recover from. I could carve out half of your brain, and you’d walk out of here on your two—”

  March’s hand slams on a steel tray standing near the table, making me jump out of my skin, much like Nadia, who steps away with a yelp. His nostrils are flaring, and his features seem paralyzed by a mask of barely contained rage. “Please be mindful of what you’re saying, Viktor.”

  I sit still, cold and terrified by that dark side of him as much as by Viktor’s dubious treatment plan.

  Viktor shakes his head, unruffled. “Interesting. Are you always this angry? Any palpitations, tremors? Got your serotonin level checked lately?”

  March breathes out his temper. “Let’s focus on helping Island instead . . . please.”

  “Yes, of course.” He returns his attention to me. “So, if you don’t want surgery yet, we could start by neutralizing the device’s effects with something less invasive.”

  I bite one of my nails, considering him warily. “Like?”

  “I’m thinking I could inject a modified podoplanin-based protein that will stimulate your hippocampus, after the ECT, of course.”

  I freeze. “ECT?”

  “To fry the device and interrupt the signal.”

  March’s eyes narrow. “Do you mean some form of electroshock?”

  “We prefer to say Electroconvulsive Therapy these days. But don’t worry; it’ll only be a very brief, targeted discharge meant to deactivate the device, not even enough to induce a seizure. It’s harmless fun, and she’ll be anesthetized anyway.” An ominous grin cracks through his beard. “We’re not savages.”

  At last March appears to grasp the full implications of Viktor’s offer: his expression turns guarded. So I’m not the only one who gets that a mad scientist who sells discount crowns with a revoked license wants to inject unknown substances into my brain and fry the spider with electroshocks. With no guaranteed results.

  I’m waiting for March to voice an objection, for a sign that he’s not actually considering going ahead with this madness. But they’re both staring at me, Viktor like I’m a fascinating toy he’s about to disassemble, March with a mixture of doubt and expectation. My stomach knots. He said it, back at the airport . . . that he wouldn’t let me go. They’re still looking at me. Fear creeps under my skin and becomes terror, fueled by the sick certainty that the choice won’t be mine.

  I can’t focus on anything other than the blood drumming in my temples, harder and harder, until bright spots dance in my vision. A cold sweat makes the gown stick to my back. I can’t see the door, but I know it’s there, a few feet behind me. I want out. Away.

  The moment I’ve made my decision, I feel the tension accumulated in my muscles explode in a burst of adrenaline. In a split second, I grab the instruments tray closest to me and hurl it toward March and Viktor with all my strength. March catches the tray midair—Sweet Jesus, that man is scary—just as I hop down from the table. My palms and knees meet the cool tile, and all I know is that I need to make it to that door. I scramble up and run, fueled by the panic swelling in my chest. From the corner of my eye, I see March leap to stop me, and Viktor shouts for him
to get me.

  He won’t. The white padded doors are within reach, and when the doorknob turns, I feel wings sprouting in my back. They’ll never catch me. No one is going to touch me anymore, play with my brain like Play-Doh, lie to me, or cage me like a fucking canary!

  I crash through the door and barrel down the hallway. There I taste freedom for all of three seconds before I feel March’s arms wrap around me from behind. Muscles clamp around me like a warm vise, pulling me backward and against his chest. I have nothing left to lose; I shriek at the top of my lungs. “Let me go! Let me gooo! Someone help me! Help!”

  But in the doorway, Nadia averts her eyes and closes the doors, leaving me to fight alone. I sink my nails into his forearm and bite as hard as I can through the wool of his turtleneck. I roar so loud that my throat hurts, and my voice eventually breaks.

  He only squeezes me harder and gets down to his knees, bringing us both to the floor. I feel his weight pinning me. Under him, I kick and convulse helplessly. “Let me—”

  “Island, please . . .”

  I feel him curl around me, his arms, his legs. He’s caging me. “Island, listen to me.”

  I manage to elbow him, but he doesn’t even flinch; he grabs my wrist and blocks my arm. The fight is over: my body sandwiched between his and the cold, hard floor, I can no longer move. I can’t even find the strength to scream anymore; I just jerk in vain.

  One of his hands is in my hair, stroking it over and over. “It’s going to be all right. Please listen to me. If you don’t want this, he won’t do it.”

  “You’re lying,” I croak.

  He combs away tear-soaked locks from my eyes. I didn’t even realize I was crying. “I won’t let anyone touch you.”

  “Except you. You do whatever you want. Touch me, lock me up.” I sniff and hiccup, struggling to catch my breath. “I don’t want you to touch me . . . Let me go!”

  Around me, his hold loosens until he allows us both into a sitting position. I immediately crawl away from him, gathering the hospital gown around myself to preserve the remnants of my dignity. There’re tears and snot smeared on the gray tile, glimmering under the harsh fluorescent light.

  March’s shoulders slump. He too seems suddenly old, exhausted . . . He runs a hand across his face. “What do I need to do for you to trust me? How can I prove to you—”

  “Let me go,” I repeat, this time more steadily, even as I struggle up on shaky legs. Perhaps to prove some sort of point I’m not certain I fully understand myself, I add, “Give me your car keys, and just let me go. I’ll try my luck with Erwin if I have to.”

  I don’t expect much from this desperate strategy—I don’t even know if there is, in fact, a strategy. So when he pins me with that hypnotic blue gaze and hands me his keys, I’m kind of thrown off. I consider his upturned palm warily. It’s an obvious trap. The moment I try to take them, he’s going to ninja me, and I’ll be back on Viktor’s table of doom in a matter of seconds.

  I take a step back. “Not like that. Throw them to me and, uh . . . drop your gun too. And kick it away.”

  With the faintest sigh, he gets down on one knee and reaches for the gun in his holster. My fingers curl into fists. My body is poised, ready to bolt. He places the black gun on the floor with slow, controlled movements and sends it spinning my way.

  “Take it. If it makes you feel safer, you can have it.”

  My eyes never leave him as I bend to pick it up. The gun is heavy in my hand, still warm from the prolonged contact with his body. I’m surprised to realize that I know exactly what to do. Cold spills into my stomach. I’ve held a gun before . . . Who the hell am I? Like a robot, I thumb the side and find the safety lever. I flip it before cocking the hammer. I point the gun at his chest with what I hope is a menacing glare. He doesn’t seem impressed, just fricking sad. Maybe it’s because my mind is in shambles, but it gets to me, that despair in his eyes. I feel like crying again, standing in that hallway, aiming at this intimate stranger who wants me to trust him.

  “The keys,” I ask again, extending my left hand greedily. “I want the keys.”

  March tilts his head at me. “Island . . . are you sure you’re capable of driving?”

  “Watch me,” I grind out, my features distorting into a snarl.

  Behind him, I catch movement. Shit. Viktor decided March was taking too long to drag my ass back into the examination room. His brown eyes narrow as he takes in the scene before him. “Need any help with the patient?”

  March replies without looking at him. “No. It’s all right.”

  Under the silvery beard, the corners of Viktor’s mouth tug down, yet he nods once and walks back into the room without so much as a second glance at us. He must know that my chances are almost as good as a chicken’s in a nugget factory.

  March returns his full attention to me; I feel his gaze searching me, probing, raising goose bumps all over my body. “No one will stop you, but I wish you’d put on a coat before you go outside.”

  I make a show of curling my finger around the trigger. “Very funny. Give me the keys, or I swear I’ll”—I swallow, overwhelmed by the realization that I can never shoot. My stomach heaves at the mere idea—“I swear I’ll do it!”

  He gives no sign that my threat registered, his expression as soft and patient as ever. It reminds me of Stiles’s good-guy act, and I’m about to say so when he tosses the car keys my way. I barely catch them and have to lower the gun, since motor coordination isn’t exactly my strong suit these days. He had an opening, but he didn’t move, didn’t even blink . . .

  When I feel the plastic fob and its heavy steel keychain in my hand, I clutch it to my chest. There has to be a catch. It’s not possible otherwise. “I’m going now,” I warn him.

  He stands still, even as I take a series of slow steps away from him. I’m ready to spin on my heels and make a break to the stairs when his voice stops me. “Island.”

  I raise the gun and swallow hard.

  “My coat is in the trunk. Please . . . put it on.”

  His quiet plea shakes my resolve. It makes no sense that something so simple could be so powerful, and for a second, I hesitate. I want to believe that this is real, that March is this knight in shining armor, the guy you only meet once in your life and who loves you so much he’ll even open the door to the cage and watch the bird fly away. But Stiles and my—no, not my father, Anies—they too pretended to loosen the noose to better strangle me, and the more I trusted them, the easier it was.

  I can’t stand the way March is looking at me. I just want out. Now. I whirl around and run down the hallway and to the stairs. My heart threatens to burst out of my chest with every step, but my legs won’t give up, carrying me with renewed strength. I stumble and nearly fall a couple of times, race past a few blurry shadows who make no attempt to stop me, until at last I’m on the first floor, scrambling down the line of cubicles in which Viktor’s minions will start filling cavities at 8:00 a.m. sharp. I only run faster and crash through the entrance door.

  Cold swallows me instantly, and it dawns on me that I’m now standing almost naked on the promenade, barefoot on a blanket of fresh snow. Gusts of chilly wind bite at my skin through the gown’s nonexistent protection, but I don’t care: all I can see is the black Mercedes, still parked in front of the casino. Whatever game March is playing, I’ll figure out later. I cover the final yards in a trance and raise the key fob with a shaking hand. The lights flash, the door unlocks, and none of it seems real. Even once I’m sitting behind the wheel, all doors safely locked, it takes me a couple of seconds to realize that he really let me go.

  I told myself I wouldn’t trust any of March’s bullshit, and that I’d rather freeze to death than wear his coat, but I’m shaking badly, and I have to clench my jaw to stop the chattering of my teeth. All common sense and pride forgotten, I drop the gun in the passenger seat and get out to go grab the black coat that is, indeed, resting in the trunk. As I snuggle into the warm wool, enveloped by a co
mforting smell of mints and mothballs, my chest heaves with an emotion I can’t understand. Something sweet and painful, overwhelming . . . that feels a lot like regret.

  Even so, when I turn the key and the engine hums to life, I’m relieved to discover that I still know how to drive. Deep down, I know it can’t be that simple, that March won’t give up so easily, and he’s probably watching me leave.

  For now, however, I’m free.

  TWENTY

  THE BAPTISM

  Okay, I did not entirely think this through. When I started driving, my plan was crystal clear: 1) Turn on the heat. 2) Adjust the goddamn seat. 3) Steady my grip on the wheel, because I nearly caused three accidents on my way out of Constanta, and I kind of scraped the side of March’s car against a trash can—then again, there was snow everywhere; how was I supposed to know I was driving on the sidewalk? 4) Go straight to Bucharest without getting caught by Erwin, find the US embassy there and just get home, wherever that is.

  Now that night has fallen and I’m driving through a seemingly endless plain on an almost-empty freeway, I’m starting to entertain doubts. For one, driving barefoot is hell. My feet are frozen, and the heat isn’t helping much. I fear I’m gonna lose my toes at this rate. Equally distressing is the prospect that knocking at the US embassy’s door might prove to be a terrible idea after all.

  Best-case scenario: I’m a US citizen and the real Island Chaptal—I’ve reached a point where not even that is certain—they take me in and, I guess, contact the FBI to let them know I’m no longer dead after all. Except Erwin implied that Stiles and Pirate Morgan are actually rogue CIA agents or something like that. What if they still have connections and find me? Do I want to take that risk?