The Dark at the End

by Susan Adrian

  But my talent doesn’t stretch to sensing other siblings. He did look like me a little, I guess. Like Dad. But that doesn’t mean anything. Smith’s got to be lying. He always lies.

  “Isn’t this a lovely revelation?” Smith smiles wide. “Two talented brothers, under one roof. Almost a full set.”

  Or he isn’t lying, and Dad had another kid I never knew about. More lies. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut by Dad, long-distance. Again.

  “Almost?” I say, hollow. He has Myka too. He has a full set.

  “Go,” Smith says. He waves a hand. “Go on and get some rest. You look like you didn’t sleep at all, and I need your brain later.” He puts his hands on his hips, fake-stern. “And no going to visit your brother, now. You won’t get in there again.”

  I stand there, lost in thought. One of the Joneses takes me by the arm and pulls me out, to the bathroom first, then back to the room. He locks the door behind me. “Don’t try anything,” he growls. “We’re watching you.”

  I ignore him. I have a half-brother with a power?

  If/when I do get out of here with my family, I’m going to have to take him with me.

  19

  JAKE

  Everything Sux by Descendents

  I decide even if they’re “watching me,” I’m still going to try to tunnel to Dedushka. I close my eyes, lie down on the bed, and focus. Dedushka. His yellowish smile, his bear hugs when I was little. His pipe-smell. I sense him. In Florida, in Sarasota…

  The door slams open. “Be out in two minutes,” the big Jones growls, and slams it shut again. I rub my eyes. It’s always hard when I get jerked away suddenly from tunneling. Like when your alarm goes off at 3 am, in the middle of a vivid dream.

  I feel like I’m never going to connect with Dedushka. Never going to find Mom and Myka. I wonder if they’re even in this building. Are they nearby? Could I walk to them, if I left? If I only had something of theirs, I could tunnel straight to them and it wouldn’t even be an issue.

  Maybe Lucas can find them. Maybe his talent is different enough that I can use it, somehow.

  Damn. Maybe I’m just like everyone else, wanting to use him for my own purposes before I’ve even met him properly.

  I head out to the big room. Big Jones stands behind the sofa, Bunny sits on it. Smith is behind the desk. It’s like a set for a play, a command performance. I almost say something smart-ass, but I skip it this morning, go straight to my spot on the sofa quietly. Smith’s face looks dangerous.

  “He wants proof that I know his secrets?” he mutters. “Very well, I’ll give him proof.”

  Bunny clears her throat, glances at Smith, then passes over a girl’s slipper, fuzzy and white, with tiny brown and black dogs all over it. I don’t want to do it. I hate doing kids’ stuff, in case it’s bad. “Now?” I ask.

  Smith’s hands are folded on the desk, his bright eyes scary. “Why do you think I brought you here? Yes, now.”

  I close my eyes, let the tingle come.

  It’s a girl, fourteen or fifteen. Dark hair matted, horror stamped on her face. She huddles in the corner of a wire dog cage, set in the middle of a vast, empty warehouse. Clearwater, Florida. The Clearwater 19 Commerce Center, number 22131. She’s terrified—no, terrified doesn’t begin to cover it. She’s broken, little sobs coming from her chest. There’s a man with her, standing above the cage staring down through the bars. He grins. He’s small, muscles bulging grotesquely on his arms. Black, evil eyes.

  “Are you ready to go to your new owners, puppy? It’s almost time to move.” His voice is deep, scratching. He leans over, his face close to the mesh of the cage. “I can’t say you’ll like it much, but at least you’ll have a bed…”

  She closes her eyes. She just wants to go back home.

  I feel pressure on my shoulders, and I come out of it, open my eyes. Blink. Try to breathe. It feels like I forgot how.

  “We have to get her,” I whisper. “Right now. Send the cops in and free her.”

  “Get out of here,” Smith snaps. His jaw twitches.

  “But…” I start.

  “GET OUT,” he growls, spit flying. He frowns, puts his hand flat on the desk, and lowers his voice. “Miss Milkovich, take Mr. Lukin to his room, lock him in. Jones, I need…” he glances at me. “Bring me Lucas immediately.”

  Okay, I want to stay. Need to stay, to hide out behind the door or something so I can hear, so I can see what Lucas can do for him, what Smith’s up to. How is Lucas going to help? Are they going to get that girl? Jesus. They have to save her, before it’s too late, before that man moves her.

  Maybe I can swipe something of Smith’s, a pencil or anything, so I can tunnel to him and listen in.

  But Bunny hustles me up and out, Smith’s eagle eyes on us the whole time. I try to stop her once the door is shut behind us, but she keeps pulling, shaking her head.

  “But that girl—” I say.

  She presses her lips together. I could overpower her—she’s so tiny—and listen anyway. But there are cameras. He’d check to make sure I’m not here. He’d send a Jones after us.

  Damn.

  I follow her back to my room, but she doesn’t leave right away. She comes in with me, quiet, and writes on her notepad. She shows it to me, flashing it like a shield.

  I have something for you to tunnel with, for us. We have to find some time to do it. This afternoon. On the balcony. There aren’t cameras there.

  I write back. Do you have an object for Smith? Can I tunnel to him now?

  She shakes her head emphatically, her hair swinging.

  I write. We need to get that girl out.

  She holds the notebook tight against her chest. She looks so sad. Almost as broken as the girl.

  There’s a massive bang, and we spring to opposite sides of the room. Another. I think he’s pounding on the wall. He needs me, she writes, her fingers shaking. Later.

  She glances back at me once, then goes out. I hear the lock turn.

  And I’m stuck in here again. Clueless, useless. Just when I really need to know what the hell is going on out there. When I need to help.

  That little girl, younger than Myka. I don’t know what Smith was trying to get—he said he needed proof of someone’s secret. Is he going to even think of rescuing her, or is he just going to use whatever info he gets for blackmail?

  I know the answer, like a stab in the heart. He’s not going to save her.

  What could Lucas possibly do that would help?

  Thank God again that Smith doesn’t know what I really can do. If he knew that, and he could combine me with whatever Lucas’s talent is…fuck. He could practically rule the world.

  But I don’t want to rule the world. All I want, right now, is save that one girl.

  I press my ear to the wall. I can hear voices, muffled. Smith’s, and then a higher one. I’m guessing it’s Lucas. Again I wish my power were something else, that I could hear through walls. But that kind of wishing never ends.

  I know what I can do, right now, while everyone else is distracted. I can tunnel to Dedushka.

  I get comfortable on the bed, squeeze my eyes shut, and think of him.

  The sweet smell of his pipe. His full white beard, brushed even when we were at the cabin. His obsession with Russian novels he’s probably read a thousand times. His cranky, prickly personality…stirred in with a good dose of love he tries not to show.

  This heat, it is unbearable. How do these people stand this, day after day?

  There he is. I dive in. He’s at a small cafe in Sarasota, Florida (still!), chugging a glass of water. He wipes his beard with the back of his hand.

  This place. Too much heat for this old man.

  He’s alone at the table, and my stomach clenches. Rachel’s not there anymore. She left.

  Dedushka, I say in his mind, in the way I only can with him and Myka.

  Though I need an object for Myka, or this would all have been a lot easier.

  It’s Jake
. I’m here, Dedushka.

  Yakob? I feel the relief cascade through him. The little voice. You are all right?

  I nudge him toward the pen and paper on the table in front of him, the check. It’s easier to communicate with him that way. I fill him, use his hand to flip it over and write. Quickly. I don’t want to stick, and I don’t want another headache, after just tunneling.

  I am fine. With Smith in D.C., though I will find a way out. I have allies.

  I think of Bunny. That may be too strong a word, and she may be playing me. But I don’t want him to worry and come try to rescue me, not yet.

  Who is Lucas? I write. Have you heard of him before? Smith has him.

  “I have heard this name,” Dedushka says aloud, tugging fingers through his beard. “I do not know who.”

  “Are you talking to Jake? Is that Jake?”

  Rachel. She’s here after all. She drops into the other chair, staring into his face, tears in her eyes. “Is he okay?” she whispers.

  Oh, Jesus, I missed her.

  I lift Dedushka’s hand, run it gently across her cheek. It feels different against his calloused fingers. “Are you all right?” I say in his voice.

  She nods, grabs his hand. “You’re okay? Where are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I’m in D.C. See you soon.”

  I pull away, breathing hard. I did it. They’re fine, and together. That’s all I needed to know.

  20

  RACHEL

  The Dock of the Bay by Sara Bareilles

  Jake’s in D.C. That’s not enough information to do anything with, so Dedushka and I decide to keep looking for the serum.

  Thank God he’s all right, though. If not safe, he’s managing. I can breathe a little easier.

  Dedushka and I stand on the dock of the Sara Bay Marina, peeking through the locked gate. You can see slip 56 from here, just around the corner.

  Vladimir’s clue wasn’t too hard to figure out after all, once we looked at a directory of marinas after lunch.

  It’s a nice boat, a 28-foot Bayliner, though it looks like it’s an old one. I used to go out on the water with my dad sometimes, in the summers. I wouldn’t drive a boat in a race or anything, but I know where everything is, for the most part.

  Which doesn’t help us, since Vlad’s boat is on the other side of this closed gate, with a passcode lock. I look to Dedushka for ideas. I don’t know if the management people are even around. Does he want to bluff his way in? Wait for someone else to come out and slip through? He hasn’t said so far. He just walked up, wrapped his fingers around the white iron gate, and stared at the water. He’s still staring, the other hand combing his beard.

  Of course we’re both in a lot better mood than we were an hour ago. Jake’s okay. That makes such a difference. My doubts about staying, or going back home, are wiped away. We do this, get the serum, meet up with Jake, and we’re done.

  I’m ready to be done. I feel like I’ve been running on adrenaline for weeks. I’m so tired.

  “So…” I start. But it’s like he’s a toy and my voice activated him: he steps forward to the keypad and punches in six numbers. The gate opens with a click.

  “Um. How did you do that?”

  He snorts, but there’s no pleasure in it. “Vlad I know. He would not send me here if it was not a code I knew.” He swallows hard, and I see his eyes shining. He grunts. “I need a pipe.”

  He strides through the gate without looking back. I have to grab it before it slams shut in front of me, and follow.

  I don’t think Dedushka forgets Vladimir for a second. I do, a lot of the time. I can forget the larger picture of what’s going on, and deal with what’s in front of me. I’ve always been able to do that when things got tough. Dad could too. That’s why we could live with Mom. Maybe it’s a kind of survival technique.

  But every once in a while, as Dad used to say, reality can come up and bite you in the ass. I think that just happened to Dedushka.

  By the time I get to slip 56 Dedushka is already on the boat, like he’s been here every day of his life.

  “Cast off,” he orders. “Then get on.”

  “I…we’re going out on it? I thought we were just looking. How did you even get the keys?”

  He turns and gives me his trademark glare, and I shrug and untie the bright yellow cord, then unwind it from the hook. There’s no point arguing with him, not when he’s like that. I’ve learned that much. There’s a second tie in the front. I get it and jump on before the boat swings too far away, just as he fires up the engine. He adjusts a couple of things, then we move forward, slow and smooth. I sit on the back bench and let the salt breeze cool my face, ruffle my hair. I close my eyes. It feels like old times for a second, like Dad is up there at the wheel and Mom is making drinks, we’re out on the lake for the day, and all I have to do is be the good daughter and relax.

  No. Dad ran off to Hawaii, Mom lost her mind, and I took off with Jake because I couldn’t deal with it, and other people’s problems seemed easier. There’s no point pretending otherwise. But I can sit here for a bit and enjoy the breeze, the motion that I remember. Go back to this moment I’m in, and not think of all the complications. I breathe deep, letting the ocean tang fill my lungs, feeling the sun beat down on my eyelids. Slow my heartbeat. Like meditation. Only the breath. Only here, now. This moment. I like this moment.

  When I wake up we’re anchored in a bay, rocking gently, and Dedushka is perched on a camp chair across from me, smoking a pipe. There’s a big red umbrella over my head, giving me shade. He grunts when I sit up and rub my eyes.

  “You needed this sleep,” he says.

  “And I got it, I guess.” I look around, still a bit groggy. We’re in shallow flats, with a sandy strip of land next to us crowded with bushes and grass. It’s so dense I can’t even see into it. I yawn. “Where are we?”

  He scratches his jaw. “There was a GPS number in a drawer, and that is all. So I go there, on a try. Stump Pass State Park, the map says.”

  “Okay.” I stand, shade my eyes. The sun is tilted toward the west—it must be close to two or so. If he hadn’t put the umbrella over me, I’d be a lobster by now. I struggle to wake up, to think clearly. “We’re on the GPS coordinates?”

  “It is there—” He points with the stem of his pipe. “On the shore. I thought to wait until you wake. Every vegetable has its time.”

  I laugh so suddenly and loudly he jerks. “What? Every vegetable…”

  He shrugs, his lips quirked up around the pipe. “A saying.”

  “I hope this doesn’t mean you think I’m a vegetable,” I say. I study the shore, the flat sand. “Do you think the serum is buried there? Like treasure?”

  I can’t squash the excitement that bubbles up in my chest. I know it’s a vial of serum we’re looking for, not a chest of gold coins. But I devoured Treasure Island and Blackbeard stories when I was a kid. I was a pirate for Halloween three years in a row. And we actually are on the Florida coast, where all that stuff happened. Ten-year-old me is thrilled.

  He shrugs again, which is Dedushka for We won’t know until we look.

  He hands me a cup of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Vladimir must’ve stocked the boat with the same food that was in his house. I’m not really hungry, but I devour it—sometimes a PB&J tastes exactly right—then borrow an old-man fishing hat so I don’t bake. We drop into the cool, shallow water for the hike in.

  Even if we’re not pirates searching for gold, I think Vladimir must’ve enjoyed setting this up. It’s certainly more exciting than if the serum had been in the stadium locker in his shoe. And much more beautiful, with the too-blue sky, the clear water, the brilliant green of the head-high bushes on the shore.

  I suddenly remember I’m in Florida, think about alligators, and move faster. That part I’m not so excited about. I don’t know anything about them. What should I do if I see one?

  Run, probably. Or maybe that’s exactly the wrong thing to d
o. I wish I’d read about it sometime.

  It takes longer to get to shore than I thought it would, pushing through the cool water, but I get there before Dedushka. He looks like Santa splashing through the surf, holding the GPS in one hand, his pants rolled up to his knees and still getting wet. Though he seems to be having fun too. He gives me a small grin when he reaches the shore, and I remember that the whole clue was that this was the place he most loved. Boats, the water.

  “Better than a road trip?” I ask.

  “Idialnii,” he says, unrolling his pants. I guess that’s good.

  He checks the GPS again, and points into the brush. “We will be scratched.” He eyes my shorts and t-shirt.

  “That’s okay,” I say, breezily. After everything else, I’m not worried about a little scratching. He plunges in, and I follow.

  Five feet in and I’m bleeding. There is zero room to move without evil little branches and rough-edged blades of grass attacking, no way to dodge. It seems like nothing and no one has been in here for a long time. I can’t even see behind me, except for the slight trail we’ve made. There’s no choice but to push through. The bushes are pungent, a sharp green smell.

  We go on like that, making slight turns, for about ten minutes, and five hundred scratches, when he holds up a hand and stops. It looks exactly like every other part we’ve walked through, except there’s a wide, flat rock at his feet.

  “Under that?”

  “Let us try,” he says. “It is the GPS number.”

  We drop to our knees and dig in the sandy, thin soil with our hands. The sand keeps falling back in the hole after we dig it, and I violently wish for a shovel, or at least some water we could pour on it to make the digging easier. That’s what I always did when I made sandcastles. I kind of hoped that the serum would be right there, just under the rock, but of course it isn’t. Vladimir wouldn’t have made it that easy.

  We dig, and dig, the sun blazing on our backs. I don’t know how long. Now I just want water to drink, a gallon of it. But at long last, I hit something solid. We look at each other and start to dig faster, more intensely, dirt flying in the air, like dogs. Until we uncover the box.