by Sarah Noffke
“If it’s all the same I’ll stand,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest and giving me a proud smile. Joseph has always reminded me of a newbie in boot camp. Short military sun-bleached hair. An eager smile. And none of that spirit yet beat out of him. I thought by now he’d resemble more of the robots the army creates but that dumb spark in his eyes hasn’t dulled.
“You’ll sit so we can get this over with,” I say, again pointing to the chair. It is much easier to catch the micro expressions linked to lying if I’m eye level with people.
He plops himself down in the chair and promptly crosses his ankle over his knee, always the repulsive picture of cool casual. “You’re just as chipper as I remember,” he says, a sideways smile on his face.
“Sarcasm is really best used by people who have a three-digit IQ,” I say.
He slaps his knee and laughs loudly. “That’s a good one. You’re insinuating that I’m dumb. I’ve missed your humor.”
Oh god, this meeting will probably kill me. It’s definitely going to torch my remaining patience. Like his twin sister, Roya, Joseph loves to get on my nerves. It’s obviously a family tradition.
Unlike my agents, I’m not observing people in my attempts to find the mole. I’m outright questioning them, but from my position that doesn’t raise flags. My job as Head Strategist often requires me to investigate or obtain information from members of the Institute. Also, I know how to gain information covertly, something I can’t trust my agents to do.
“How long have you been a resident of the Institute?” I ask. He won’t lie to this question and that’s the reason I’m asking it. It’s to create a baseline.
“Well, let’s see here,” he sings, stroking his stubbled chin. Actually I didn’t think the half-wit was old enough to grow facial hair. “I say I’m about to round out my second year.” Then he brings his eyes to mine with a gigantic smile on his face. “Are you planning me a party?”
“With fucking streamers,” I say.
He whistles through his teeth and shakes his head. “You know the Lord frowns on that kind of language, Ren.”
“I know,” I say, tucking my tongue up and running it over one of my pointy canines. “But the devil loves it.”
“So this par-tay you’re throwin’ me,” he says. “Will there be booze?”
I grimace from the use of half of his words. “Yes,” I say, drawing the word out. “A keg, honky tonk and reality TV playing in the background.”
“Sounds like my kind of shindig,” he says. “Now I hear you have a daughter.” Joseph clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “You little rascal you. Who would have thought? Ren a father. Now go on, tell me all about your little one.”
“In a minute,” I say. “First let’s put together the guest list for your party. We’ll of course invite the people from your department, your class, and family. And Trent, of course, but is there anyone that isn’t at the Institute anymore who you want to be there?”
Without a pause he says, “I hear your daughter is pregnant. That means you’ll soon be a grandpa. I want details.”
“And I’ll give them to you. Every bloody one,” I say. “I swear on the bible. But first answer my questions.”
He shakes his head and clucks. “You know that’s a sin, swearing on the bible.”
“I know,” I say, kind of smiling.
“All right, all right, all right. What you wanna know?” Joseph says.
“Do you know a man named Jimmy Felding?”
The hillbilly seems to think. “Nope.”
“Terry Evermore?”
“Nope,” he says.
“Steven Faraday?”
“Nu-uh,” he sings.
Of course he doesn’t know these people. They don’t exist. But this one does. “How about Vicky Desmond?”
“Uh-uh,” Joseph says.
And there’s not the slightest change in his expression. He isn’t lying. He doesn’t know Vivian. Has zero involvement with her.
“You’re free to go. Have a nice life. I certainly will if I never see you again,” I say, turning back to the file on the other side of my L-shaped desk.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I ain’t gonna leave until you share about your daughter and your new grandbaby. You promised,” Joseph says.
“I did no such thing,” I say, my tone flat.
“You swore,” he says, obviously enjoying this more than he should.
“I’m about to swear,” I say. Then I turn to the entrance at my back, having heard the approaching footsteps.
A few seconds later Trey materializes. “Hey, you left a message for me to come by,” he says to me and then takes a double glance at Joseph on the other side of my desk. “What are you doing here?”
“Chatting with my ol’ buddy Ren. He had some strange questions for me,” Joseph says.
“Ren, he’s not the mole,” Trey says, pointing a finger at Joseph.
“Mole? There’s a mole? Here at the Institute?” Joseph says.
“No, he’s not the mole,” I say smugly. “But he very well could have been.”
Trey shakes his head a bit erratically. “No, Ren, I would know if Joseph was the mole. And he would never do that.”
“Oh,” I say, really lengthening the word. “Because you knew the last time that your son had someone in his head plotting against the Institute? Is that right?”
“Hey, I’ve been absolved of that,” Joseph says and finally the dumb cheery tone is out of his voice.
“Yes, but still you were once, although unknowingly, a traitor. And the man you brought back killed a lot of people,” I say. “Furthermore, the fact remains that you have proven you’re the kind of person who can be used by villains with evil agendas. You’re weak and easily manipulated.”
Last year Joseph was brainwashed by a soul-sucking leech to restore the man’s health. And then unknowingly Joseph gave him knowledge regarding the Institute. That villain then entered the Institute and created absolute destruction which only some of us survived.
“Anyway, you can rest assured that your son isn’t the mole this time. I’ve checked and I’m never wrong,” I say.
“So there’s a mole? At the Institute? How very interesting,” Joseph says, stroking his chin. “I bet it’s Roya.”
“You know it’s not your sister. And not a word to anyone about this,” Trey says sternly to his son.
Joseph zips his fingers over his lips and tosses his hand over his shoulder like he’s throwing away a key. “My lips are sealed,” he mumbles, not opening his mouth. Then the half-wit pushes out of the chair and nearly skips for the door. “Later, old man Lewis. Let’s do this again soon,” Joseph says as he leaves.
I shiver out a sigh. “Your kids are the absolute worst. Honestly, there’s not a single good thing I can think of to say about Roya and Joseph. And I’ve really thought and thought about it. But they have no good redeeming qualities.”
“Thanks,” Trey says, not at all offended. “So you have news?”
“Seriously,” I say, deciding to belabor the point. “I’ve known both of your brats their entire lives and they really are bloody awful. It’s like God wanted to create the two most unlikable people when he made them. How do you stand yourself? If I was responsible for breeding such stupidity into the world I’m not sure I could look in the mirror.”
“Your news. What is it?” he says, sounding impatient now.
“If I were you, which I’m glad I’m not, then I’d consider sending Roya and Joseph away to college. Like really far away, like Budapest or Guatemala. Then evacuate the Institute and start up this mom-and-pop shop somewhere else. End contact with the little fuckers. They’d never find us. And without those two around we will be able to finally have some peace.” I let out a sigh, feigning a dreamy look.
“Your news,” Trey repeats.
“Oh that. Well, I got a new tie,” I say, sounding disappointed. “It looked different in the catalogue and actually clashes awfully with my hair. But
not all is lost. I’m thinking you might be able to use it to strangle your son with.” I tap my head. “I’m always thinking and coming up with great ideas.”
“Ren…” Trey says, not at all flustered by my antics.
“So I tracked down Vivian’s history today,” I say, my tone shifting. “Took me a while to jog my memory, but I found the right cues.” I pluck from my desk the file that I’ve read through ten times and hand it to Trey.
“She went through orientation here at the Institute eight years ago when she hit puberty and came into her dream travel power. Vivian spent a few years here before going off on her own,” I say. Trey has a team led by Dr. Raydon who scouts for these lost Dream Travelers. They are brought in and put through orientation so they can understand their abilities and hone them. The efforts are centered in North America or otherwise they probably would have found Adelaide.
“Vicky Desmond,” Trey reads from the file. “That’s her birth name?”
“Right,” I say. “She changed it legally to Vivian Bishop shortly after leaving the Institute. I’m guessing about the time she made a connection with her father, Frank Bishop.”
“So you taught her?” Trey says.
“She sat in my strategy class. That’s how I tracked this down,” I say, pointing to the file.
He shakes his head, looking overwhelmed. “Wow, you remember a face from that many years ago in a sea of other faces in a lecture hall?”
“Of course I did,” I say. “I also remember every bloody stupid thing you say. Moving on. She also studied abilities from Shuman.”
“Yes, that’s standard practice for new Dream Traveler orientation,” Trey says.
Shuman is the cold statue of a woman who runs the news reporting department. Most call her the Head Mentalist because she teaches abilities to newbies. Well, I call her freak because she likes my pet names. “I questioned Shuman this morning to fill in the details on this file. Turns out according to her that Vivian had a block on her abilities during her time here. She could dream travel, but none of her gifts would surface.” I had to be inconspicuous with my questioning since I haven’t cleared Shuman as the mole. That’s going to take a bit more work since she has such a strong mental guard.
Trey’s head tucks back on his neck from surprise. “Oh really?”
Blocks are common for Dream Travelers who suffer from trauma. Most of our maintenance staff are Dream Travelers who don’t have their ability. They are no service to the other departments without a psychic power. Usually they suffer from PTSD or have some other emotional disturbance that hinders their power.
“So her gift was never recorded?” Trey says.
“No, although we now know she has her father’s power of voice control,” I say.
“So did she get her clairvoyance and ability to reflect psychic energy from her mother?” Trey says.
“Her mother was a Middling,” I say. “I’m still digging into this, but Vivian’s mother put her up for adoption when she was ten years old.”
“Hold on a second. What? Who does that?” Trey says.
I shake my head, as confounded by this as Trey.
“Are you going to question this woman, Vivian’s mother?” he asks.
“Well, since I can’t interrogate the dead, no, I don’t think so,” I say.
“Maybe that’s why she gave Vivian up. Maybe she was sick,” Trey says. He always wants to see the bloody best in people. It’s really a losing game if you ask me.
“Well, the woman lived a long seven years after she dumped Vivian, so I doubt that was the case.”
“Oh,” Trey says.
“And she was apparently murdered,” I say.
“So does any of this point to what you think Vivian is going to use the Smart Pods for?”
“Not yet. It tells me that we’re working with an incredibly complex individual. Her powers were obviously blocked by being abandoned. She studied here and then disappeared until a few years ago. That’s when she connected with her father, Frank Bishop, and got on his payroll at Smart Solutions using her birth name,” I say.
“Maybe he’s the one who helped her unblock her powers,” Trey says.
“Maybe,” I say, still replaying seeing her face in the crowded classroom from several years ago. She was plain then. No makeup, dirty blonde hair and baggy jeans and a T-shirt. Vicky Desmond was a stark contrast to the Marilyn Monroe look-alike I saw in San Francisco.
“Ren, are you all right?” Trey says, his chin jerking to the side with sudden confusion.
“Yes. Why?”
“You’re smiling.”
“Oh,” I say, slapping a neutral expression on my face. “Yeah, well. I’m just looking forward to you getting out of my bloody office. There’s your subtle hint. Get out now.” I then wave at the door.
He nods slowly, not looking entirely convinced.
As soon as Trey leaves I slide down in my chair. What is it about this woman? There’s undoubtedly something about Vivian that’s intriguing. A perverse spark that hints at her ability to persevere unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. And now I have a strange sympathy for the woman. The more I study her, the more I find that she’s not entirely the evil villain I want her to be. Something tells me that she’s not the violent monster that Antonio was, the man who was responsible for thousands of deaths. And she’s not the psycho, hungry for life force like Allouette and Chase. She’s undoubtedly up to something and it’s nefarious, that much I know. But of all my enemies Vivian is someone I can respect. She’s infiltrated the Institute, overcome great challenges, and risen to a powerful position. Which means that Vivian is incredibly strategic. A cold shiver runs down my back.
Chapter Ten
An unidentified number rings my mobile. The device shouldn’t even work inside the Institute since it’s underwater, submerged at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. However, Aiden, the daft scientist, did something to the device so it has reception anywhere. Now apparently I can receive calls on the bloody moon. Hurr-freaking-ray. I left Aiden with a cold stare when he bragged about this point.
“Ren Lewis,” I say, placing the brain-frying device to my head.
“Mr. Lewis, this is Betty, Adelaide’s midwife,” a woman on the other end of the line says.
I remain silent, waiting for her to pony up why she’s bugging me.
“Adelaide has gone into labor,” she finally says after an irritating pause.
“Well, we knew this nuisance would evict itself soon,” I say.
There’s another pause. “Sir, it’s six weeks early.”
“I see,” I say, half my attention on the report in my hand. “Sounds like the thing found Adelaide no longer habitable.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think you’re giving this matter the sensitivity it deserves,” the drain on my attention says.
I slap the report down on my desk and press the phone more firmly to my ear. “I get that we haven’t formally met, Linda, but I’m not the sensitive type. If this is all you have to report then I’m going to ring off now. Cheerio,” I say.
“Wait,” she says. “My name is actually Betty. And aren’t you going to come to the hospital? Your daughter has gone into early labor.”
“I’m fairly busy at the moment and not the type to sit around in waiting rooms. I’ll get a full update when this whole mess is over and Adelaide returns home,” I say.
From the other side of the line there’s a frustrated sigh. “Sir, I was hoping to tell you this in person when you arrived at the hospital, as I suspected you’d do. But here it is. Things aren’t progressing normally with Adelaide’s labor. There’s complications and we need her next of kin here to make decisions.”
“What?” I say, bolting to a standing position. “Complications? Is Adelaide okay?”
“Yes, but the baby isn’t in a preferred position and it’s causing Adelaide great strain,” the woman says.
“Great strain,” I say, trying to compute what this could mean.
&n
bsp; “Yes, your daughter has been hyperventilating since the labor started and her mental state is making this delivery more difficult. There’s no one here for her, only hospital staff. And going through this without a loved one is especially difficult. I’m worried for her,” the woman says and her voice shakes on the last word.
“All right, fine. I’ll be right there,” I say, a bit begrudgingly.
***
When I arrive at the hospital the midwife meets me in the waiting room since I refused to enter Adelaide’s room. Seeing a woman in labor isn’t something I can do. Some people have triggers and that happens to be mine. I’m fairly certain that seeing Adelaide in labor will bring a rush of my worst memories back. I only have one real regret in life and it’s watching a woman die in childbirth and knowing it was entirely my fault. Dahlia is in Tokyo or Amsterdam or whatever. Otherwise I would have sent her in there to support Adelaide. And Pops had to return to Peavey briefly. Unfortunately for Adelaide, I’m all she has right now.
“What’s going on?” I say to Betty, the midwife, as she approaches. By the look of her hair she doesn’t own a brush and by the look of her clothes she washes them using a washboard. Of course a midwife would be the hippie type. Hippies should have died out in the seventies; instead, they bred and secured their dumbass ways underground in small towns in Oregon.