by Ellery Kane
“Sit,” Quin instructed him, and Artos reluctantly lowered himself to the ground. Quin was standing near the side of the tunnel, his flashlight illuminating part of his face. As I got closer, I could see his skin was smooth, freshly shaven. I took a position opposite him, near the other wall. He turned off his flashlight, leaving my single beam of light streaming between us.
“Hey,” I said softly.
“Hey, yourself.”
I smiled. It was impossible to be mad at him.
Right away, his words surprised me. “I had to see you,” he said. “I’m sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. Augustus thinks that—”
I interrupted him. “I know what Augustus thinks, Quin. What do you think?”
Quin took a step toward me. “Remember the other thing that I put in my jacket? I want you to see it.” He handed me a small computer tablet. I started to open it.
“No,” he said panicked. “Don’t look at it now.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“It’s everything. It’s me … kind of like The Book of Quin.” We both laughed. “It’s my file from the Guardian Force. I stole it when I ran away.” Quin paused. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore after you read it.”
“Quin,” I said his name gently, but firmly. “That’s not possible, no matter what it is.” With one hand, I cradled the tablet close to my body, holding my flashlight in the other.
Quin took another step toward me and then another, until we were almost touching. He leaned toward me, and I breathed in summer and a hint of shaving cream. From the moment we had sat side by side on my bed on the night we met, some part of me knew that Quin would happen to me. He was unavoidable.
“I really want to kiss you right now,” he whispered.
Little jolts of electricity pinged through me. “Are you asking my permission?”
“No.” He smirked. “Just giving you fair warning.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling nervous. “I might be really bad at it,” I said. In my mind, I silently added … not like Elana and it’s only my second kiss.
“Lex, that’s not possible,” he said mimicking my earlier words. Quin reached down the length of my arm, letting his fingers lightly graze my wrist. He clicked off my flashlight, leaving us in darkness. A current of anticipation hummed between us like a live wire. One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand—his lips were soft and warm.
I dropped my flashlight. I don’t think Quin even noticed. Reaching just underneath his shirt, I pulled him closer to me. His skin radiated heat. Quin sighed softly in my ear, his kisses becoming more insistent. Then, suddenly, he stopped, taking a step away from me. He turned his flashlight on and, for a moment, the light shined directly on me, a jarring spotlight.
“What’s wrong? Why did you stop?” I asked, instantly feeling foolish.
Quin’s face was clouded, a sign of a storm brewing within. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t want to hurt you.”
Thinking of the tablet I held in my arm, I reached for Quin’s hand, taking it in mine. Even more than hurting me, I suspected he feared something else—being unlovable.
“We can go slow,” I said, reassuring both of us.
We walked back together until we reached the part of the tunnel where the platform’s lights started to cast a glow.
Quin spoke, “We should probably go separately from here. There’s a Council meeting tonight.”
“Right.” I agreed, but nonetheless, his eagerness to please Augustus irritated me.
Before I left, Quin gently nudged me with his elbow and grinned. “You know, you were pretty bad at that. I think you’re gonna need a lot more practice.” He winked at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE BOOK OF QUIN
I PRACTICALLY RAN BACK TO my room. I couldn’t wait to open the tablet that contained the whys, the clues to finally solve the mystery that was Quin. And he was a mystery to me, most of all to me. But as soon as I got back, I felt hesitant. What if Quin was right? What if he had done something unforgivable?
I closed my eyes. I could still smell Quin on my clothing … could still feel his need, so insistent. I remembered what Elana had told me about falling for Quin. Like Elana, I felt myself tumbling down in a delicious and dizzying spin that I didn’t want to stop. Whatever it was, I could accept it. I opened The Book of Quin.
On the first screen in large block letters, it read:
Property of the United States Federal Government, Guardian Force
Unauthorized possession of this tablet is a federal offense punishable by a $250,000 fine or a minimum of seven years in a federal penitentiary.
“Great,” I said aloud to myself—another felony. I scrolled to the next page. At the top, it was marked with the badge of the Guardian Force. It read:
Name: Quin Evan McAllister
Identification Code: Legacy 243
Date of Birth: 6/6/2021
Recruitment Date: 1/12/2038
Age: 16
Height: 6’2”
Weight: 180 lb.
Full Scale IQ: 130 (superior range)
Skills Test Results
Pre-Protocol Post-Protocol
Propensity to aggression 80th percentile, high average 95th percentile, superior
Risk-taking behavior 85th percentile, high average 99th percentile, superior
Problem-solving 95th percentile, superior No change
Empathy 85th percentile, high average 60th percentile, average
Verbal communication 30th percentile, low No change
Athleticism 98th percentile, superior 99th percentile, superior
Leadership 95th percentile, superior No change
As I read, I couldn’t help but smile. That was Quin alright. I could only assume “post-protocol” implied post-Emovere. Based on Quin’s results, it seemed that whatever drugs he had been administered increased his aggression and his propensity to take risks, while decreasing his capacity to understand the feelings of others. I thought of my mother’s early research with criminals. Individuals who met the criteria for psychopathy often demonstrated those same qualities. I wondered if Substance X had been part of Quin’s protocol, but even more, I wondered if the effects were permanent.
The next few pages were highly technical and difficult to understand, but they appeared to describe the laboratory findings associated with Quin’s response to Emovere. The top of each page was marked with Zenigenic’s logo. I was relieved there was no mention of Agitor or any other emotion-altering substance.
Next was a response to Quin’s requests for release from the Guardian Force.
Dear Mr McAllister,
This is to confirm that you requested your release from the Guardian Force on 1/5/40, 2/2/40 , and 3/1/40. Unfortunately, your requests have been denied based on the terms of your contract This letter serves as a reminder of your agreement of confidentiality with regard to all matters related to your service in the Guardian Force. Any breach of this agreement is a federal offense and is punishable based on the terms of your contract. Additionally, we would like to remind you of your contractual obligation to consent to the administration of Emovere and any other substances we deem related to the success of your mission. We thank you for your service to your country and wish you continued success as a Guardian
Sincerely,
General Jamison Ryker
I continued to the next page. There was a picture attached, marked with a time stamp—1/3/40—shortly before Quin’s first request for release. It appeared to be taken at a riot on Market Street. As I examined the image more closely, I gasped. Standing on a car and holding a rifle was a wild-eyed Quin. His Guardian tattoo was covered with a red bandana, and he wore the mark of the Resistance on his shirt. He was barely recognizable. The attached document read:
On 1/3/40, Legacy 243 was given orders to carry out a confidential mission at a Resistance protest rally. Prior to the mission, Legacy 243 was administered 500 milligrams of Emovere. Lega
cy 243 completed his mission without error. He is to be commended for his service and advanced in the program.
As I scrolled the next few pages, I saw several similar notations, dated 1/ ^/40 and / /40. Attached to those documents was an Internet article documenting a shooting death and a serious gunshot wound, both of which occurred at protest rallies in San Francisco. The article indicated that the shooter’s identity was unknown, but he was believed to be a member of the Resistance.
I took a breath. Quin had hurt people—for the government in order to make it appear that the Resistance was dangerous. As Max had explained during our morbid sightsee, if the public feared the Resistance, it would confirm the need for the Guardian Force and help to promote the government’s hidden agenda. Quin’s demeanor that day—mercurial and reluctant—made complete sense now.
On the next page, I saw a picture of Quin, dated 6/1/35, at age thirteen. He wasn’t smiling, and his eyes were troubled. Attached was his juvenile criminal history. He had many arrests for trespassing, shoplifting, vandalism, auto theft, and loitering. His last arrest, at age fourteen, was for destruction of property. He had punched his fist through the wall at the Riverbend Home for Boys, causing several hundred dollars in damage and requiring stitches in his hand. I thought of the thin scar on Quin’s knuckles, and then the one on Elana’s wrist. No matter how hard they had tried to escape it, the past had left its mark.
Beginning at age seven, Quin had been in foster care—at least five homes, most of which he ran away from. In one of the reports, his foster mother noted, “Quin has two personalities. Sometimes he’s a little boy, always wanting my attention. At other times, he’s moody, like a powder keg, ready to explode at any minute.”
Most of his foster parents agreed that Quin pushed them away before they ever had a chance to get to know him. That sounded familiar. When Quin turned sixteen, he escaped from Riverbend a final time, and his case was closed. I suspected he had run away to San Francisco.
Quin’s school records were spotty, his grades all over the map. His report cards had a theme: Shows promise, has potential, but doesn’t apply himself. Quin changed schools a lot, and he had a lot of absences. In the fifth grade, and again in the seventh, he was suspended for fighting. His eleventh-grade report card was his last.
Quin had been evaluated by a parade of psychologists. By the time he was fourteen, Quin was labeled with a plethora of disorders, including reactive attachment disorder, bipolar disorder, attention deficit disorder, and posttraumatic stress disorder. Most of the reports appeared to concur that Quin, the adolescent, had been irrevocably shaped when he was just a boy.
The next page was older, its type antiquated. It was a Los Angeles County police report dated 5/23/28. Quin was almost seven. It read:
On 5/23/28, Officer Rollins responded to the 700 block of Willow Court at 1800 hours, after receiving a 911 call with a report of a domestic disturbance. Upon arrival at the scene, Officer Rollins made contact with suspect George McAllister and his sons, Quin McAllister (age six) and Colton McAllister (age two). The minors were unharmed and were immediately placed in the care and custody of Los Angeles County Child Protective Services.
Officer Rollins observed that Mr. McAllister’s clothing was covered in blood. Inside the home, officers located the body of the victim, Angela McAllister (wife of the suspect). A knife lying near the body also was secured as evidence. Upon observation, pending the coroner’s report, Mrs. McAllister evidenced at least ten stab wounds to the upper torso and neck.
Mr. McAllister spontaneously reported to Officer Rollins that he stabbed his wife during an argument, after he returned home to discover her talking on the telephone to another man while his sons played unsupervised in the next room. Mr. McAllister also advised investigators that he is a participant in a government research trial, taking the experimental drug, Crim-X. His medication was seized into evidence. Mr. McAllister was placed under arrest and transported to the Los Angeles County Jail.
There was more in this section, but I couldn’t read it. I didn’t have to—I already knew. Quin’s father was Inmate 243, making Quin Legacy 243. Max had been right. My mother would want to meet Quin. After all, he was part of her legacy too.
I wondered if any other Legacies had been recruited for the Guardian Force. It made sense. If the government wanted to find trauma victims, what better place to start than with the children of inmates who were at high risk for violence? The idea was sinister, twisted, but brilliant.
There was also a picture—a mug shot—of George McAllister. He was handsome. He had Quin’s strong jaw, but his eyes were not Quin’s. They were small and black, like marbles.
Next, was a Child Protective Services document confirming the termination of parental rights for George McAllister, followed by a certificate of adoption for Colton. Quin’s brother had found a permanent family when he was just two. Quin had been left completely alone.
The final pages of the tablet were the hardest to read. They were written by my mother: confidential psychiatric evaluations of George McAllister both prior to and following his experimental release from prison, after he had fatally stabbed his wife. According to my mother, Mr. McAllister likely suffered from psychopathy, which may have made him less sensitive to Crim-X. Mr. McAllister had a long history of violence beginning at a young age. In the years leading up to the murder, he was arrested at least five times for domestic violence. During my mother’s interview, Mr. McAllister showed little remorse for the murder of his wife, telling her that Angela had always known how to push his buttons. After his conviction, he was sentenced to the Dellencourt Correctional Facility for high-risk offenders, serving life in prison with the possibility of parole. Now, Quin’s father was almost forty.
The last folder on the tablet contained a picture: Quin, celebrating his fifth birthday. The image appeared to have been taken from his mother’s social media page. Its caption read: Happy fifth birthday to the best little boy a mom could ask for. Under the type, Quin sat on his mother’s lap, in front of a cake, a silly paper birthday hat on his head. His smile was mischievous, but innocent. He had his mother’s eyes.
I closed The Book of Quin, concealing it beneath my mattress, and cried for a long time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
GONE
I DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH THAT night, not that I expected to. When exhaustion finally overtook me, I dreamed of Quin. I was walking down a long, dark tunnel. A little boy was sitting at the end, his back to me. I could hear him crying. I knew it was Quin. I had to get to him, to protect him. As I drew nearer, he grew older before my eyes. Now, he was my Quin. I touched his shoulder, and he turned around. His face was his own, but his eyes were black and beady, bird-like. He was covered in blood. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t.
I was awake, but the dream lingered in my body, leaving me shaken. I looked at the clock. It was almost morning.
I heard a noise at the door.
“Quin?” I whispered. There was no response, but the sound of a persistent scratching.
“Quin?” I said again, louder this time. The scratching continued followed by a plaintive whimper.
I went to the door, opening it cautiously. It was Artos. Across his nose, there was a deep gash. His paws were bloody, and he was shaking and whining. I took him inside the room, wrapping him in a towel. He was inconsolable.
Leaving Artos inside, I softly padded down the hallway toward Quin and Max’s room. I stopped when I heard voices.
“Nothing here,” a man said, followed by radio static. His footsteps gradually faded to silence.
Moving quickly, I peered inside the small window at the top of the door. Max lay on his side, sleeping peacefully. Quin’s bed was neatly made, empty. Panic came like a wave, nearly knocking me off my feet.
I had known from the moment that I saw Artos alone. Quin was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE ESSENTIALITY OF HONESTY
EARLY THAT MORNING, BEFORE DAWN, Augustus calle
d for a meeting of the Resistance. With Artos safely hidden in my bathroom, I walked to the Map Room, my mind in a fog. I was overcome by a sense of impending doom. Quin would never leave Artos, not voluntarily.
Elana beckoned me over. “Have you seen Quin?” she asked, her voice weighted with worry. “Max said he never came back from the Council meeting last night.”
When our eyes met, I knew Elana could see my dread. I shook my head. “Artos …” I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. “He’s hurt.”
Augustus interrupted us, his tone solemn. “Please take your seats.” He faced the anxious crowd and began speaking. I squinted up at him. Was there a bruise on his face?
“Last night, I was forced to make a very difficult decision to expel Quin McAllister from our headquarters. As you all know, Mr. McAllister was a Council member and a trusted friend. I considered him like a son.”
My mind had gone blank after Augustus said the word expel. I was present, but not there—hearing, but not listening.
“When I was elected to lead the Resistance, we agreed on the importance, the essentiality of honesty. Mr. McAllister has lied to us, to me.” Augustus’ head turned toward me. His face was a blur.
“Approximately one week ago, Mr. McAllister was given orders to surveil Ms. Knightley. He reported to me that, during his surveillance, he observed Guardian Force recruit Elliot Barnes posing a grave danger to Ms. Knightley. He indicated that he used necessary force to curtail that threat. However, it has come to my attention that Mr. Barnes was not killed by Mr. McAllister.”
I felt dizzy. The room started to spin in a slow motion pirouette. Heat began to rise from my chest as if my heart was a burning coal. I grabbed Elana’s arm to steady myself.
“Are you okay?” she whispered.
I tried to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. My breath was staccato, short unsatisfying gasps.
Augustus continued, “The truth is that Mr. Barnes was shot and killed by Ms. Knightley. Due to Mr. McAllister’s dishonesty and his reckless behavior in the past few days, I had no choice but to demand that he resign his Council position and vacate the Resistance. Mr. McAllister left willingly and with full knowledge of his wrongdoings.”