Vicarious
Page 30
“I know.” Jesse clutches his side. “Wipe the gun on your shirt and put it in my hand.”
“What? Why?”
“Because then you were never here.”
“But I shot him three times,” I protest. “They might try to say that isn’t self-defense. And the forensics will look like—”
“Screw the forensics,” Jesse says. “Baz will back me up. We can handle it.”
“Do it and then get the hell out of here, Winter,” Baz yells from the kitchen. “And take the ViSE tech with you.”
I wipe the gun off and place it in Jesse’s right hand. “Promise me you won’t die.”
“I’ll be fine,” he says. And then, “Play the end of that ViSE. It’s important.”
Before I can tell him that it doesn’t matter, that I believe him now, a phone rings, sharp and shrill. The sound is coming from the elevator. Sung Jin’s phone. Probably someone checking to see if he’s completed what he came here for.
Returning to the elevator, I kneel down and fish a cell phone from Sung Jin’s breast pocket. I hit the button to answer the call as I hurry back to the living room, but I don’t say anything.
Neither does the caller.
I can hear him breathing.
I hold my breath.
When he speaks, it’s in Korean. “Did you get what I need?” he asks, with a trace of irritation. I know that voice. It’s Kyung.
I still can’t speak. The silence stretches out. Outside, the sirens crescendo. Through the broken sliding glass door, I see an ambulance and a pair of cop cars approaching from down the block.
“Ki Hyun?” It’s a question.
“No.” I swallow back a sob. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Song Ha Neul,” Kyung says. “Well, this is an interesting development.”
“Ha Neul is dead. I go by another name now,” I say sharply, finding my voice at last. “If you’re calling for Sung Jin, he’s also dead.”
“Then he won’t be bringing me what is rightfully mine. Which means you’ll have to—”
I cut him off. “My time taking orders from you is long past.”
Kyung chuckles. My bones turn to ice. “Keep this phone,” he says. “You are mine again.”
Before I can tell him that I belong to no one, the call disconnects. More sirens sing in the distance.
I grab the ViSE tech and a throwing knife from my room. I return to the living room and pause just long enough to retrieve my other knife from the floor and to give Jesse one last look.
“Winter. Go!” he yells.
I go.
CHAPTER 42
I am halfway down the stairs before I realize I don’t know where I’m going. Play the end of that ViSE. I left my headset and recordings at Escape. I can hide out there for a few minutes, try to clear my head in the quiet safety of a ViSE room.
I tuck my bloody hands into the center pocket of my hoodie as I cross the lobby of the building, suddenly grateful that I’m wearing all black. I let my hair hang forward to cover most of my face. Adebayo looks up from behind the bar as I enter. “What is happening?” he asks. “I heard sirens.”
“Not sure,” I lie. I trust him, but I don’t know what story Jesse and Baz are going to tell the cops. It’s better if I don’t give him any conflicting information. “I left some things in a ViSE room. I’m just going to go get them.
“Of course.” He adjusts his glasses. “Are you certain you’re all right? You look … disheveled.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve been sparring.” I force down the tears. Now is not the time to fall apart.
When I slip back into the ViSE room and shut the door, it’s like locking out everything I can’t deal with—the people, the lies … the love. I try not to think of Rose dead, Gideon dead, Jesse and Baz bleeding. My headset still sits on the chair in the center of the room. In Florida, I thought Jesse wanted me to see the end of the recording because it proved I was the one who recorded it. But maybe there’s something else …
Reluctantly, I recline back into the chair and slip the ViSE of Other-me with Jesse into my headset. Closing my eyes, I skip forward past the parts I’ve already played and the parts I’m not ready to play. The very end is Jesse and Other-me snuggled together under a blanket on the sofa. I back the recording up about thirty seconds and press PLAY.
I lie encircled in Jesse’s arms, my head pressed to his chest. His heart beats, quickly at first and then slower. His eyes are closed. A smile plays at his lips. I am warm, inside and out.
“Your heart is beating erratically,” I inform him.
“That’s your fault,” he says.
“Why is that?”
He brushes my hair back from my face. “Because you totally own it right now.”
“You’re such a girl,” I tease.
“Yeah, well. Some of the girls I know happen to be pretty badass.”
A tiny pinch of pain radiates outward as my heart flutters in my chest. “So you’re not scared anymore?”
He shakes his head. “I’m more scared now than ever, but it doesn’t change how I feel. I love you, Winter.”
Heat surges through me at his use of my name, at the word love.
I brush my lips against his. “It’s going to take some time for me to learn how to love someone.”
“That’s okay,” Jesse says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not allowed to die,” I whisper. My phone chimes with an incoming text. I stop the ViSE and sit up in the dark, but when I access my messages, there’s nothing new. Then I realize it wasn’t my phone that chimed. It was Sung Jin’s.
My heart climbs into my throat. I should ignore that phone. I should throw it away. I should smash it to pieces and set it on fire.
But I don’t.
With shaking fingers, I check the messages. There’s a text that says, “I will see you soon.” It has a link to an airline page, highlighting the flight schedules from St. Louis to Los Angeles.
Leaving tomorrow.
If Kyung thinks just because his thug killed Rose and Gideon that I’m scared enough to travel to L.A. and do his bidding, he’s dreaming. I don’t care if Gideon stole the neural mapping codes or the editor or the entire ViSE technology. I owe Kyung nothing.
Nothing but revenge.
I’ll take the money Gideon left me and disappear to a place where Kyung won’t find me. Then someday when he least expects it, I’ll come for him. I will make him pay, the man who sold me like I was an animal, the man who sanctioned the killing of my family.
Almost as if Kyung can read my thoughts, a second message arrives.
It’s a photo of a Korean boy who looks about sixteen. There’s something eerily familiar about him. Meet your brother, Jun. He works for me. We are both eager to see you again.
I nearly drop the phone. Brother? I stare at the photo. No, it can’t be …
Only it could. My mother might have given Rose and me away, but kept a boy child. Even today, many Korean families can afford only one child and it’s imperative to continue a bloodline. I zoom in on the boy in the picture, looking for Rose or me inside his high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. I can’t be certain. It could be a trick.
Or he could be my brother.
I dial the phone and wait for Kyung to answer. “What do you want from me?” I ask.
“Bring me the technology and I’ll let your brother live,” Kyung says.
“The way you let my sister live?”
“She brought about her own demise,” Kyung says. “I was quite sad about that. Min Ji was one of my favorites.”
“You disgust me,” I say. “And maybe you haven’t heard, but the tech was stolen.”
“Then you have three days to find it,” Kyung says. “Or else I send your brother to you, in pieces.” The phone goes dead.
I text back.
How do I know he’s my brother?
The return messages come rapid-fire. Each message contains a picture. My mother tightly c
lutching the hand of a dark-haired toddler. My mother looking older with a school-aged boy. I’m about to denounce them all as forgeries when the last message chimes: a picture of my mother clutching a woven basket. A baby slumbers inside of it.
I remember that basket. And then I remember the long train ride—how I was hungry, thirsty. Each time I would reach for the basket, my mother slapped my hand away. Not because she didn’t want me to have food, but because she didn’t want me to wake the baby. Could I really have blocked out the fact that I have a little brother? Why wouldn’t Rose have mentioned him?
Or maybe she did, and I just don’t remember.
I call Natalie.
“Hey,” she says. “I’ll be home in like ten minutes if you want to come by for Miso.”
“Actually, can you watch him for a few more days?” I ask. “Something came up and I have to go out of town.”
“Sure. He’s a doll. Is everything okay?”
“It will be. I just have some stuff to take care of.”
“Not a problem. He’ll be waiting for you.”
I remove my headset and stuff everything into my pockets. Glancing both ways to make sure the hallway is clear, I cross from the ViSE room to the back office. I spin the combination to the safe and open it. I find the envelope with my name on it that Gideon was talking about and slip it into the center pocket of my hoodie. Bundles of cash are stacked neatly next to a folder of financial paperwork. Feeling a little like a thief, I help myself to some of the money before I shut the safe.
I slip out of the office and turn toward the exit. I’ll die before I turn Gideon’s technology over to Kyung, but if I have a brother somewhere, I have to find him. I have to save him. And I have to kill the man who took away the rest of my family.
I leave Escape and pull the hood of my sweatshirt up as I pass through the lobby of the building. Two detectives—real ones, I presume—are questioning a couple of men at the bar.
I step out into the bright but cold evening and head for the nearest MetroLink station. I’m about three blocks away when an ambulance roars past me.
Jesse and Baz should be to the hospital by now. I know no one will give me information about Jesse’s status over the phone, but if he has a room number that means he’s probably alive. I look up the number to the hospital and wait impatiently for the call to connect.
“Thanks for calling St. Louis Medical,” the operator says in a bored voice. “How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, I was wondering if you could give me a patient’s room number. Jesse Ramirez?” I dodge a patch of ice on the sidewalk and nod at a man who’s methodically unwrapping silver and green garland from a light post. The walk signal turns red as I approach the corner.
“One moment.” The operator puts me on hold and I get to listen to some elevator music while I wait for her.
The light turns green, but I’m still waiting. I duck into a recessed alcove in front of a pizza place, my phone trembling in my fingers.
“Mr. Ramirez is currently in ER-3,” she says finally.
My body goes weak with relief and I have to lean against the glass window of the restaurant to keep from sinking to the ground. “Thanks. Can I ask about one other patient? Baz, er, Sebastian Faber. They were in the same … accident.”
“Faber. F-A-B-E-R? Yes, here it is. Mr. Faber is in ER-4.”
“Thank you.” I like that they are next to each other.
I leave the shelter of the alcove and return to the sidewalk. I barely see the people who push past me. I barely feel their bulky coats brushing up against my arms. It’s like I’m playing the ViSE of the overdose again: I’m back in that rushing tunnel of light, but instead of death, it’s freedom awaiting me at the end. Rebirth. Like I’m once again shedding my skin and becoming someone new.
When the MetroLink station rises up in front of me, I pause for a moment at the stairway to the platforms. East leads to Dr. Abrams’s office. West, to the airport. I know which way I should go, but unfortunately it’s not the way I need to go. I hurry down the stairs toward the westward platform. There’s no time to waste.
My brother needs me.
My vengeance is waiting.
Acknowledgments
As always, endless thanks and love to my family and friends for putting up with my mood swings and neurotic middle-of-the-night e-mails during the drafting and revision of this book. You help more than you know.
More thanks:
To my agent, Jennifer Laughran of the Andrea Brown Literary Agency, for supporting me in writing whatever books I want to write. Also for being level-headed, laid-back, informative, and basically everything I am not.
To my editor, Melissa Frain, whose feedback encouraged me and pushed me to keep making the book better and better. Your enthusiasm for Winter’s story was evident throughout the process, and that kept me energized and motivated during some tough revisions.
To my publisher, Kathleen Doherty, for making this book possible. To Amy Stapp, for taking such good care of my manuscript (and for teaching me how to use Word!). To everyone else at Tor Teen, for the editorial, design, publicity, sales, and marketing support and for a cover that is everything I dreamed of and then some.
To everyone I met while I was living and working in South Korea. Thank you for sharing your stories with me and for being part of an experience that changed my life forever. To the authors, librarians, booksellers, bloggers, and readers in St. Louis who were supporting me way back when I actually wrote this book. To my rock star blurbers, Lindsay Cummings and Victoria Scott. Gratitude times a million.
To all of my beta readers and experts. The following people were kind enough to provide feedback on elements of story, psychology, biology, technology, medicine, adventure sports, and Korean culture: Marcy Beller Paul; Jessica Fonseca; Cathy Castelli; Antony John; Heather Anastasiu; Philip Siegel; Tara Kelly; Kristi Helvig, PhD; Christina Ahn Hickey, MD; Peter Kriepke; Paul Suhr; Eli Madison; Elizabeth Min; Minjae Christine Kim; Yun-A Kwak; Jen Albaugh; María Pilar Albarrán Ruiz; Debby Kasbergen; Stacee Evans; and Sarah Reis. Any mistakes are mine, not theirs.
To all of my amazing industry friends and colleagues: the girls at Manuscript Critique Services; the YA Valentines; the Apocalypsies; my street teamers; and all the bloggers, booksellers, librarians, and teachers who interact with me in person and on social media. I couldn’t do it without you.
And finally, to the readers. I couldn’t do it without you either. I will never forget that.
Author’s Note
Winter’s history is fiction, but according to the United Nations, over two million people across the globe are victims of human trafficking at any one time. This is not a problem that happens predominantly in foreign countries—cases have been reported in all fifty states. Anyone can be trafficked regardless of gender, age, race, class, education, or citizenship.
In addition to sexual exploitation, victims of trafficking are forced to work as domestic servants, manual laborers, soldiers, street beggars, and more. They are coerced and controlled by fear, and many are afraid to seek help from local authorities. Some do not even realize that what is happening to them is a crime.
For information on how you can help or get help, visit:
The National Human Trafficking Resource Center
www.traffickingresourcecenter.org/report-trafficking
The Salvation Army International
www.salvationarmy.org/ihq/antitrafficking
Unicef
www.unicefusa.org/mission/protect/trafficking
U.S. Department of State
www.state.gov/j/tip/id/help/index.htm
About the Author
PAULA STOKES grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, where she studied psychology and nursing. In between pursuing her degrees, she spent a year teaching English in Seoul, South Korea. Paula is the author of several novels, including Liars, Inc. She currently lives in Portland, Oregon.
Visit her at www.authorpaulastokes.com, or sign up for email updates h
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Rebirth
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
VICARIOUS
Copyright © 2016 by Paula Stokes
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Craig White