Tether

by Jeremy Robinson

“It’s okay,” I tell her, arms outstretched, empty palms exposed.

  She eyes me. “I know you…” She shakes her head. “I’ve seen you.”

  “I was outside this…” I motion to the octagonal cell. “…before you passed out.”

  She gives her head a slow shake. “Before that.”

  “On the phone,” I say. If I could see her, maybe she could see me. “Right before…whatever this was.”

  She shakes her head, confused. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

  “Can you tell me what happened? Where did the people go?”

  Her suspicious eyes lose their sting when she glances down at my body and finds me dressed in a T-shirt and boxers.

  “Please,” I say. “Do you know—”

  She’s shaking her head again, rapid fire. Panic rises.

  “Hey,” I tell her. “You’re okay, now.”

  “I don’t remember,” she says.

  “You’re in shock.”

  We probably both are. It would explain why I climbed into a six-story deep crater—a possible cauldron of radioactivity—to help a stranger. Not that my motivations aren’t selfish. I’m here because she knows something.

  She has to.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You just need time.”

  “I don’t remember anything,” she says. She’s getting twitchy. Stares at her shaking fingers like they’re out of control.

  No… It’s more than that. She’s looking at her hand like she’s never seen it before.

  She flinches as though slapped. Gasps for air. She looks around at the cell, eyes widening upon seeing the open door.

  “A memory?” I ask.

  “A feeling,” she says, hopping to her feet. “Run!”

  She pushes past me and steps out of the cell. For a moment, she’s daunted by the steep grade surrounding us on all sides. From the bottom, spotting a path out isn’t easy. It’s a maze of carved walls, beams, and pipes. A maze with many exits and even more ways to meet a painful end.

  She flinches again when I place a hand on her arm. I try to disarm her with a smile. “Over here.” She yanks her arm away, but follows me.

  When we stop at the straight path I took to reach the bottom, the kid shouts down to us. “Yo! I can see those choppers, man. They’ll be here soon.” He points east, toward M.I.T., Boston, Logan Airport, and the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Go ahead,” I tell the woman and step aside. She looks up, trepidation in her eyes, until she hears the whump, whump, whump of approaching helicopters. She throws herself into the task, scaling the angled path like an orangutan on a tree branch.

  That’s when I notice the back of her black body suit. The serial number is there again, this time stretching between her shoulder blades. But above the code is a single word that chills me.

  SUBJECT

  005-RAIN

  What the hell were you doing here, Morgan?

  I follow the woman up, struggling to match her pace. Her small frame and light weight make the climb easy, and while I’m not exactly overweight, it’s been a while since I’ve scaled my way out of a crater, and I’m starting to get the adrenaline shakes.

  The helicopters are loud by the time we reach the top, just seconds away.

  I turn to look and see three helicopters, low to the ground, racing toward us, bright searchlights glaring. I’ve seen more than my fair share of news helicopters while chasing down stories about criminals. They fly high and slow, depending on their zoom lenses, to get the shot. The pilots of these three helicopters are fearless, hugging the ground and barreling toward the hillside.

  The woman grasps my arm, squeezing hard enough to hurt.

  “What? Hey!”

  I’m angry until I see her eyes.

  She’s terrified. Whatever misgivings she had about me are gone, now that she’s seen the helicopters.

  She backs away, eyes darting.

  She’s going to run.

  “They’re here to help,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head, moving farther back.

  “Yo, she’s buggin,” the kid says. “You need to chill, lady. Be glad you’re alive, you know?”

  She doesn’t hear him.

  The helicopters’ thunder draws my attention again. The lead helicopter, about to careen into the hillside, pulls a sharp turn to the left. The second swerves right. The third goes high. Everything about it—the timing, the speed, the precision—screams ‘military.’

  They’re not here to help…

  They’re here to check on their investment.

  Aside from their bright spotlights, the helicopters are all but invisible, but I’m sure if I could see them, the profiles of three Black Hawks would be easy to make out, maybe loaded with soldiers.

  Do I really want to be here?

  The Black Hawks slip into a tight formation, doing circles around the site. Spotlights trace their way down the crater until they converge on the cell at the bottom. That seems to hold their attention.

  They’re looking for her.

  I glance back at the woman, whose slow retreat has taken her beneath a nearby tree. She stares at me with pleading eyes. She’s desperate to escape, but she isn’t stupid. She doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t remember...maybe anything. The stranger dressed in his underwear might be her only real chance to get away—

  —from the people my wife worked for.

  Works for. She’s alive.

  If I help this woman, am I working against Morgan?

  Doesn’t matter, I decide.

  Helping people was why I started reporting crime. Doom and gloom sells papers, but exposing criminals, scams, and schemes serves the greater good. The press can’t arrest or prosecute people, but we can help keep them accountable, and on occasion, we can provide evidence that puts real bad guys behind bars. I creep away so the people on the helicopter, and the kid, don’t notice.

  They’re all fixated on the cell right now, but how long will it be before they notice the open door and realize the woman didn’t just disappear like everyone else?

  Not long, I decide, and I join the woman in the tree’s shadow.

  “Know how to ride a bike?” I ask, picking up my ride.

  She shrugs.

  “Everyone knows how,” I tell her with feigned confidence. “You might not remember up here—” I tap my head. “—but your muscles will remember.” I hand the bike over and pick up the kid’s discarded BMX. It’s too small for me, but there’s no time to trade with the woman. She’s already atop the mountain bike and rolling downhill. I peddle after her, picking up speed.

  “Yo, man!” the kid calls out after me, his voice nearly drowned out by the thump of helicopter blades slicing air. “That’s cold! You could have at least—”

  A boom and a bright flash of light from one of the Black Hawks.

  The kid’s hands slap to his throat. He crumples to the ground.

  They shot him…

  Oh, God, they shot him!

  I pedal harder, racing downhill, overtaking the woman I’ve decided to rescue. I wave for her to follow as I round a corner and do my best to keep up the frenetic pace. The helicopters peel away from the hill and start sweeping the neighborhood with their spotlights.

  5

  We’ve entered a strange kind of post-apocalyptic world without electricity. With the night sky blotted out by cloud cover and the streetlights dark, our only source of light comes from the candles and oil lamps held in the hands of neighbors gathered on sidewalks, discussing what they’ve just witnessed.

  The flickering flames lining the streets make me feel like I’m riding my too-small bike toward a Satanic ritual, where I’ll be sacrificed to a goat-horned succubus. If I hadn’t just seen someone get murdered, the firelight might almost be romantic, but I’m running for my life. Everything feels dangerous, like the Devil himself is holding each candle.

  Satanists like to present themselves as just another happy-tappy religion, and I’d like to believe it, but
there have been cases of animal and human sacrifices offered up to the dark prince. And Boston is a stone’s throw away from Salem, bastion to witches, warlocks, necromancers, tarot card readers—and yes, it’s the birthplace of modern Satanism.

  I find it ironic that the original witches of Salem weren’t witches at all, that those poor Puritan women would find the city’s current focus on the occult horrifying. Funny how we can look at a twisted history, twist it some more, and try to fashion something positive out of it. Like the world needs new religions. If one of the ancient ones didn’t get it right, God’s been kind of a deadbeat dad.

  Or mom.

  Or tree, if that’s your thing.

  “Did you see it?” a woman asks me, as I pedal past. “How close were you?”

  I barely hear the questions over my dark arts ruminations, which are really just distractions from the fact that I just saw a man gunned down by the people for whom my wife works.

  I try to push these thoughts from my mind again, but I think this heavy baggage will weigh on me for the rest of my life.

  As more orange firelight fills the streets—from bonfires, tiki torches, and candles—I get a sense that Cambridge is in for the long haul. No one will be going back to bed until they’ve gotten answers. Which is fine by me.

  The helicopters are still looking, their pounding blades keeping me informed about where they are, which is, thankfully, still behind me.

  Behind us.

  I glance back at the woman. Despite her size, she’s had no trouble keeping up with me. I think that has less to do with physical ability and more to do with sheer determination. She’s a blonde, white woman, whose unexpected facial features look American Indian, but the most captivating thing about her is the intense desperation—or is it determination—in her eyes.

  “You okay?” I ask her, despite the fact that she’s breathing normally and I’m out of breath.

  She gives a curt nod. Says nothing.

  For now, that’s fine. Save your breath. But when we stop…when there’s time, she’s going to answer my questions.

  She can’t remember anything, I remind myself.

  She will, my own desperation argues back. She has to.

  “Almost there,” I tell her.

  She pedals harder, gliding up beside me. “Where?”

  “My place. We can hide.”

  She glances over her shoulder and up. One of the helicopters sweeps along a cross street behind us. This area of Cambridge is a maze of neighborhoods. Searching them all for two people is slow going, but they’re making progress. If we don’t get off the street soon, they’re going to catch up, and that big serial number on her back is going to make IDing her simple.

  Even more so if she starts glowing again.

  And what the fuck was that all about anyway?

  “Saul!” It’s Randy, standing in his driveway beside a fire he’s got blazing in a metal trash can. There’s a small contingent of neighbors with him, no doubt postulating about what’s happening, but his wife and children are still inside, their candlelit faces flickering in the living room window.

  Randy’s eyes snap to the woman for a moment, giving her a quick up and down, and then back to me. “What did you see?”

  I slow and slide off the bike. When the woman stops beside me, I point to my house. “Over there. Door’s unlocked.”

  She drops Randy’s son’s bike in the street and scuttles to my front door, pausing for a moment before slipping into the darkness beyond.

  “Who the hell is that?” Randy asks.

  “She was…at ground zero. I think her family was killed. She’s in shock.”

  “Holy shit,” Randy says, his suspicion about the woman fading. “What about Morgan. Did you—”

  I feel a kind of grim darkness fall over me. I have no idea what I look like, but in the wavering fire’s light, I must look like something that’s risen from the netherworld. Randy flinches. “Oh…God… She’s…?”

  Probably.

  “I don’t know.”

  A black stain on the floor.

  “The facility is a crater… Nothing left.”

  No way she’s alive.

  Tears catch me off guard, as does Randy’s meaty-armed embrace. “You need anything, anything, just ask. We’re here for you.”

  A single sob manages to sneak through my defenses, but I tamp it back down. I’ll mourn later, if I’m still alive to do it. Right now, I need to get off the street and protect Randy and his family by being nowhere near them. I don’t know if the men in the Black Hawks could identify me, but I’m not going to take that chance.

  “Thanks, man,” I say, and I mean it. I want to apologize for not realizing we were friends. I probably should have been nicer over the years. A better neighbor. “I’m going to go inside. Make sure she’s okay…” I huff a laugh, somewhat forced. “I don’t even know her name.”

  “Helping her might distract you, but don’t forget to take care of yourself.” Randy pats my shoulder.

  A helicopter thunders down a neighboring street. We watch its rapid progress, Randy with interest, me with terror.

  “Know what they’re looking for?” Randy asks, as I move across the street.

  “Nothing good,” I suggest, and then I slip into the darkness that is my house.

  The light from the fire outside provides scant illumination. Instead of using it, I recoil from it. A vampire from the sun. I draw the front shades, plunging the house into absolute darkness.

  Then, stillness.

  I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, the rush of blood behind my ears.

  “Hello?” I ask, realizing I should have found my guest before plunging us into darkness. Then I remember I’ve been clutching the kid’s lighter all this time. I give it a flick, filling the living room with dull orange light.

  Everything is in place. The black leather couch and recliner are positioned on either side of the fireplace. Framed photos of me and Morgan line the mantle. Morgan’s yarn basket sits beside the chair.

  I see her in my mind, sitting by the fire on a cold winter day, bundled and crocheting. She was making me a hat. Over time, I will forget much of our time together—the curse of human memory—but the image of her here, at peace, will never fade.

  I gasp in fear, and then hope, when I spot two bare feet poking out from behind the recliner. “Morgan?”

  My guest flinches when I storm around the chair, hoping to find my wife.

  “Sorry,” I say, holding out a hand. “Sorry. We’re safe.”

  The house shakes as a helicopter thunders past, trying to make a liar of me. I hold on to the chair’s arm, squeezing it until the hunter passes by and fades into the distance.

  I suck in a calming breath. “They won’t find us here. We’re okay.” The quiver in my voice lays bare my fear, but the woman manages a subtle nod.

  She takes my offered hand. When we’re both standing, hands still linked, I say, “I’m Saul. Saul Signalman.”

  The woman looks about to respond, but then her lips clamp shut.

  She can’t remember her own name.

  “You know what? Doesn’t matter. The back of your…uniform…says ‘Rain.’ Maybe that’s your name? It’s a nice name.”

  She gives my hand a squeeze, cutting my rambling short. “Rain is fine.”

  I’m pretty sure it’s not. I doubt it’s her name. And I’m not really sure I want to know what it means, because then I might begin to understand what Morgan was wrapped up in, and I honestly don’t want to reevaluate my opinion of her now that she’s…

  I clear my throat and release Rain’s hand. “If you want to change, I think Morgan’s clothes will fit you.” I motion to the mantle, where a photo of Morgan’s smiling face breaks my heart. While Rain’s form-fitting body suit isn’t exactly conservative, it’s more concealing than anything you’d find in the average yoga studio. The only thing wrong with it, is that the bold text on the back broadcasts that she’s the escaped subject for whom the
helicopters are searching.

  Rain’s reaction upon seeing Morgan’s face is more extreme than my sorrow. She reels, thumping the back of her legs into the recliner’s arm and falling into the seat. Her fear-filled eyes lock on the photo.

  “Do you know her?” I ask, holding up the frame, but not getting any closer when I notice Rain tensing. “Do you remember her?”

  After a moment, she shakes her head. She might not have any memories of Morgan, but her body does. Like riding a bike, the body remembers what the mind forgets. And Rain’s memories of my wife, it seems, are far different from my own.

  We both flinch as another helicopter rushes past.

  Sounds like there are more of them out there now.

  I return the photo to the mantle. “Clothes are upstairs.”

  It feels wrong to be leading another woman into my bedroom, in the dark of night, while Morgan is…away. Rain is attractive—high cheekbones, a fit body—but her somewhat albino features are unsettling, and I don’t know her. That wouldn’t matter to some of my more Cro-Magnon male counterparts, but I’m a romantic, I guess.

  Letting Rain dig around in my wife’s drawers feels wrong, so I light a few candles and do it for her, looking for clothing that meet three criteria. 1) The right size; 2) Something that is not iconic to Morgan, for my own sanity; and 3) Dark. Despite my assurances, I’m not yet confident we’re out of danger. The men on those helicopters could have seen my face. Hell, they could have taken a photo. Could have identified me already. Given the secrecy around Morgan’s work, and the extreme vetting she went through, I’m positive there’s a file with my name and photo on it somewhere. If that was kept at SpecTek, I might be free and clear. If it’s in the cloud…

  I find a pair of old black jeans, and an unworn Project Nemesis T-shirt I gave Morgan last Christmas. Despite her claiming it was her favorite T-shirt, she didn’t think the ‘Goddess of Vengeance,’ aka, ‘Queen of the Monsters” slogans would go over well at work, or with her family, or with other people offended by the book’s main character’s penchant for creative foul language. Cool shirt, though. I top it off with a dark blue Red Sox cap that will help hide Rain’s hair. I place it all on the bed. “Be out of your way in a minute,” I say, snagging my jeans off the bedside chair and my shoes from the floor. By the time I’ve turned around to leave, Rain has shed her clothing. Her gleaming white skin is in stark contrast to the black underwear and bra, but I barely notice it. Her stomach glows a dull blue. Rain doesn’t even notice it. What she does notice, is me watching. She slips into the shirt, and I don’t bother leaving the room. I’ve been in my underwear this whole time, and Rain, perhaps because she can’t remember who she is, is somewhat shameless.