by Rysa Walker
You’re in control for the moment. It won’t last, Anna.
He’s right. I can’t keep these walls up indefinitely, and even now, with so much effort going toward blocking him, his thoughts are still getting through to me. And the reverse was definitely not true. When Cregg was in control, he used my own walls against me, blocked me out, leaving hours-long gaps in my memory.
Hours? Why lie to yourself? I was in control for days—well, a day and a half was the longest, if we’re being technical. But I stepped back willingly in order to keep the others from catching on before I had everything planned out. I could have blocked you for longer. I’m stronger than you are.
Shut up!
I expect a retort similar to the one I got from the store clerk, but Cregg obediently retreats into silence. It’s not a retreat based on fear, however. It’s based on confidence, and that ratchets my panic up another notch.
“Thought you were going to break out last night,” Abbott says. “Or at least call if you couldn’t. If we hadn’t spotted you back there, we were planning to storm the campground before daybreak. And that could have gotten messy.”
“Couldn’t call. They confiscated my phone.”
Costello, who is now sliding back into the front passenger seat, says, “Why didn’t you do your mind thing and make ’em give it back?”
Great. Ten seconds in, and he’s already questioning me. I fight down panic and try to look disinterested.
“It wasn’t worth the bother,” I say. “I told you I’d get away, and I did. I’m not paying you to second-guess my actions.”
“Sorry, boss.” Costello’s voice takes on a wheedling tone. “You’re right. You pay the bills, you make the rules. And, hey, I gotta hand it to you. You ain’t a tightwad like your old man. I woulda come with you in the first place, but things got so royally screwed up when The Warren caught fire that I just ran for the closest chopper, which happened to be his crew. But he’s got Dacia pretty much runnin’ the operation, and she’s gone full soup sandwich without Lucas to . . . well . . . keep her happy, if you know what I mean.”
If I didn’t know what he meant simply from his tone of voice, the leer would have filled in the blanks. I don’t respond, partly because I don’t want to encourage him, but also because I don’t think Cregg would respond either. He made it very clear he didn’t like Lucas’s extracurricular activities with the girls at The Warren.
“Dacia was already halfway there, anyway,” he adds. “I ain’t inclined to trust nobody crazy enough to snip off her own damn pinky finger.”
Abbott glances at me in the rearview mirror as he pulls onto Baltimore Avenue. I feel like I need to say something, respond in some way, but I don’t really know what Cregg would say. It’s clear Costello was one of the guards at The Warren, but how well does Cregg know these two men?
The Cregg-spider presses forward again, ready to argue that I should let him handle this. That we have so damn much in common. That I need to trust him. The enemy of my enemy . . .
Abbott’s eyes keep darting from the road to the mirror, very obviously keeping tabs on me. Costello seems fairly chill, but I’ve obviously done something to make Abbott suspicious. So I grasp at the one sure thing I know about Cregg and toss them a line from Hamlet.
“Dacia is too erratic to lead. She’s descended into madness, wherein she now raves.”
I’m pretty sure I’ve mangled the quote, but I can’t access my hitchers’ memory banks without giving Cregg an opening. And I doubt either of these guys spends his Saturdays at Shakespeare in the Park.
“Man, you got that right,” Costello says. “She raves.”
I keep my eyes trained on the lights outside the windows, resisting the temptation to look at Abbott and see whether invoking The Bard appeased him. Aside from the fact that we appear to be headed toward I-95, I have no idea where we’re going.
“Alex sent the research you ordered and some other files over to the townhouse a few days ago. Said to call once you’re settled and to be ready by eight thirty so you two can take care of the bank stuff. Oh, and it turns out you were right on the whole Port Deposit thing. Your old man’s got people camped out up there today right on top of the Delphi site. They’re waitin’ on something or somebody, and I’m guessing it’s Pfeifer.”
I nod, wishing I could think of something neutral to say, but apparently Costello doesn’t need a conversational partner. He’s perfectly capable of rambling on without any input at all from me.
“So,” he says, “if Pfeifer is another one of these vessels, same as his daught—” He stops and barks out a laugh. “Now, see, that’s how weird this is. I was gonna say same as his daughter, but I guess I should say same as you, right? We were just sayin’ earlier we don’t even know what gender pronoun to use for you anymore. You got a preference?”
“She will suffice,” I say, trying to replicate the slightly prissy tone I remember Cregg using when Lucas irked him.
“Yeah,” Costello says. “Prob’ly better to get used to it. But that’s what I was saying before. I think I’d have waited and just jumped into Pfeifer. I mean, sure, with this one you get a few extra decades. But you have to live them as a girl, and you’re gonna have to get used to all sorts of female stuff. I don’t think I could live as a woman.”
“A small mercy for the men of the world,” Abbott says drily, and I notice he’s watching me in the mirror again. “You’re a lot more tolerant of his chatter than you were this morning.”
“I’m not really listening.”
He gives a nod of admission. “Yeah. That’s the best way to deal with him.”
Costello just laughs good-naturedly. “You sure you don’t want us to grab Pfeifer instead of shooting him? Seems like a waste. I mean, some of those so-called gifts I saw back at The Warren were kinda pointless. I can’t start a fire with my head, but, hey . . . I don’t consider that much of a handicap. Five bucks’ll buy me a can of charcoal lighter and a box of matches, y’know? This, though . . . I could see someone paying a whole lot of cash to buy a spare body. A lot of rich old bitches would have given top dollar for the skin you’re wearing right now.”
Costello ends his sales pitch by giving me a creepy head-to-toe assessment, followed by the kind of wink a guy might give a buddy he sees out on the street with a hot date. Like my body is just a thing. Like I’m nothing more than what he just called my father. A vessel.
“Stick to the plan.” The words come out much angrier than I intended, and I’m worried for a moment that I’ve blown my cover. But if anything, my tone seems to put Abbott more at ease. Cregg isn’t the sort to suffer fools gladly, so the anger must strike him as more genuine than my silence.
As an added bonus, the harsh tone silences Costello. He doesn’t speak again until Abbott pulls up in front of a townhouse on Constitution Avenue. “You got the keys?” he asks his partner.
“Yeah.” Abbott fishes out a key ring with two keys—one large, one small.
“So,” Costello says, “we’re obviously gonna be busy this afternoon setting up for the Pfeifer thing. You want me to get Marky or Peterson to drive you around later, or are you all set with Alex?”
“I’m set.”
“And . . .” He looks uncomfortable. “You’re sure you got total control? You been awake for a while now, and Alex said you were still having some trouble holding it if you were awake more than—”
“I napped this afternoon,” I say, opening the car door. “I’m in control. Just do the job and let me know when it’s done.”
He gives me a curt nod and I exit the car. They’re both watching as I unlatch the gate and approach the door. An automatic light pops on, scaring me so badly I nearly drop the stupid keys. I manage to get the larger key into the slot after a couple of tries and slip inside, closing the door behind me.
One of those weird spells of light-headedness hits me as I watch their taillights gradually disappear through the narrow windows beside the door. I lean against the wall, trying
to steady my pulse, and wait for the dizzy feeling to pass.
It does, after a moment, but I’m still seriously on edge. I guess that’s to be expected, though. This is a strange house, in a strange neighborhood. For all I know, this could be a trap. Someone could be lurking upstairs in the dark.
I should probably go up and check. Make sure it’s safe.
On the other hand, last night’s vision indicated I’m still alive and kicking later this afternoon. That thought is comforting, and I hold on to it.
“If anyone is up there,” I say aloud, “bring it on. Because you either lose or I outrun your ass.”
It’s a pathetic taunt, given how my voice quivers, but I feel braver simply for having spoken. I flip on the interior light to reveal a nearly empty living room. Nothing but a sofa, an office chair, and a bare computer desk with a single drawer.
Inside the drawer is an iPad and a large manila envelope. When I pull them out, I notice something else near the back of the drawer. A small wooden chest. A man’s jewelry chest, maybe, for cuff links.
Opening the envelope first, I dump the contents onto the desk. It’s mostly legal papers. But what catches my eye first is a bundle of documents in a plastic bag. On top is a Pennsylvania driver’s license with my face. The picture is from my old school ID, taken long before Taylor gave me my current neo-punk makeover. It’s been altered slightly—the cheekbones are a bit more pronounced, and there’s less softness around the jawline. Something about the nose is different, too. This looks more like an older sister or cousin than it looks like me, but the goal was probably to age me up so I’d match the new date of birth: April 25, 1998. That makes this version of me almost twenty-two. I guess Cregg wanted to be sure he could order his Harvey Wallbangers or whatever middle-aged body thieves are drinking these days.
The name on the license is not Anna Elizabeth Morgan. In typical Cregg fashion, he went full Shakespeare: Ophelia Beatrice Duncan. How fitting that he’d opt for the crazy girl’s name.
Phee Duncan’s Social Security card and birth certificate are also inside, along with a generic receipt for the fake IDs. I shove all three documents into my pocket along with the key ring. No point in wasting a perfectly good fake identity. Given everything I’ve been through in the past year, I can certainly envision scenarios where it could come in quite handy. But I don’t need the receipt, so I push it out of my way in order to inspect the other papers. As I do, the date at the top catches my eye: 12/1/19.
My first assumption had been that Cregg set all of this up recently, but from the date, it appears that Cregg was still alive when he ordered these documents. On December 1st of last year, when this receipt was written, I was at Sandalford waiting for Taylor to get a reading on the location of Bree Bieler, one of the kids Graham Cregg was holding hostage. This was weeks before Jasper shot him and I had the great misfortune of taking him on board as a hitcher.
He was still alive, but he was on chemo. And from what Maria gathered when she was bold enough to peek into his poisonous head, chemo wasn’t going so well.
Cregg knew he was going to die, but he also knew a way to cheat the reaper.
All this time I’ve been assuming he had Lucas kill Jaden and others to test whether I could be some sort of mega-weapon, a walking toolbox of secondhand psychic abilities courtesy of my hitchers. And maybe that was part of the plan. But what he wanted most was to learn whether he’d still be able to play his mind games after he stole my body.
He’s been planning this ever since he learned about my ability. Jasper putting two bullets into his chest just sped up the timeline.
That also explains why Abbott, Costello, and presumably this Alex person were willing to accept the possibility that their former employer was now in the body of an eighteen-year-old girl. It was something they were expecting. Something they had planned for.
I look through the rest of the papers, hoping to find cash or a credit card. No luck, although there’s a lease for this apartment, registered under the new identity. Two phone numbers, as well, with names I don’t recognize. Neither of them is this Alex guy Costello told me to call.
The last item in the stack of papers is a medical brochure. Pauley Plastic Surgery. Specialists in facial reconstruction.
Smiling faces stare back from the image on the front of the brochure. New body. New identity. Just tweak the facial features a bit so you can really own the look. So no one suspects.
The brochure makes me furious, far more so than the other documents. It feels invasive, like a violation. I wad it into a tight ball and hurl the damned thing across the room.
Scree-e-e-e-ch-ch. Tap, tap, tap, tap, TAP.
That brief burst of anger seems to have energized my new parasite, just as it did last night. The scraping sounds were frightening enough in the familiar setting of the RV, with Aaron and Deo close by. Here in this strange (hopefully) empty house, however, they have me on the very knife-edge of panic.
I force myself to focus on things here, in this room. Things that are outside my head, solid and real and not woven from the fabric of my nightmares. The sofa is blue with white stripes. The chair—black, probably fake leather. Brown desk. Hardwood floors. A small chandelier on the ceiling that casts little dots of light on the beige walls.
Take deep breaths, Anna. Focus.
I repeat all of the things Kelsey would tell me if she was here. There are no holes in your wall. The rat-spider in your head cannot get out. It’s not even a real rat-spider. Just another hitcher.
But, of course, my walls aren’t really walls, either. They’re every bit as much a mental fabrication as the rat-spider. Just a handy way of blocking off the hitchers inside my head.
And yes, this is just another hitcher. Only he’s a hitcher who can force people to mutilate themselves, even to kill themselves, using only his mind. Myron was your everyday, ordinary psychopath, and he turned me into a weapon when I was six. How much more could Cregg—
Nope. Not gonna go there.
Deep breaths. Focus. Chill.
My resolve sticks this time, and even though I can still hear faint scritching noises, my pulse gradually drops to a normal range.
But I know even this tiny bit of calm is unlikely to stick unless I find a distraction. Something to focus on, rather than sitting here staring at the walls.
I pull the iPad toward me. A welcome screen pops up, asking for a six-digit code. It’s probably his friggin’ birthday, which I might be able to find out if I had my phone. I key in 000000, 123456, and 654321, basically just to try something, anything. Then I stop because I have no idea how many random guesses it will take before I’m tossed into a password jail.
It’s now 6:19 a.m. according to the otherwise useless iPad, and a giant yawn hits me. I need to stand up. Splash some water on my face. Find something to drink. And then I have to get out of here. If I stay put for much longer, I’m running the risk that Taylor will be able to track me via remote viewing, especially since she has Deo to amplify her ability.
The kitchen is down the hallway, just past a half bath. It’s still dark outside the window over the sink, but the sky is closer to navy than black, and there are faint hints of purple around the low-lying clouds. There are no glasses (or anything else) in the cabinets, so I cup my hands under the faucet and drink from the tap.
I rub my still-wet hands over my eyes. It helps, but it’s no substitute for a large black coffee.
When I look up again, my reflection stares back from the windowpane. The face is slightly misshapen, but that’s probably just distortion from the double-hung windows. There’s no rational explanation for the eyes, however. Six perfectly round, jet-black eyes—two large orbs on top and a row of four smaller circles below.
My hands fly back to my face instinctively, and for one awful second, I feel the spider’s face and those cold round eyes instead of my own.
Stop it! You don’t scare me!
I sound like a terrified child, and Cregg calls me on it. His voice is loud
and clear, piercing through my walls as though they’re made of paper.
But obviously I do scare you. I scare you very badly. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have me in this ridiculous horror-show getup, now would you? You can’t win this battle, but if you stop this nonsense, stop blocking my thoughts, we can work together. I’m perfectly willing to share.
He’s right. He scares the hell out of me. But he disgusts me even more, and that emotion allows me to get a grip on my fear.
You’re willing to share? Willing to share my body?
I shove backward on those last two words, with every bit of force I can muster.
How generous. But you know what? You are wrong. I do win this battle, Graham Cregg. Maybe not the war, but I know that was me in the vision. Me in control this afternoon. So keep your body-thieving ass back behind the wall unless you want to lose another leg.
The words sound brave, but my knees are barely holding me upright. I hurry back into the living room, scoop the iPad and papers into the manila envelope, and stuff them into the lining of Aaron’s jacket.
I turn for the door, but then I remember the locked chest in the desk drawer. It might not be jewelry. Maybe it’s thumb drives, or the password for the iPad. The chest is too big to carry easily, so despite how badly I want to get out of here, I force myself to dig the keyring out of my pocket.
The smaller key is dull and well-worn. It fits easily into the lock, but I have to jiggle it a few times before the tumblers click. Black velvet lines the inside of the case, and I’m pretty sure my original guess is correct—it’s intended to display cuff links.
Instead, it displays fingers. Pinkies, to be precise, lined up neatly and perfectly preserved. All various shades of beige except for one—dark brown with chipped purple nail polish. And off in the corner, one that is nothing but bone.
Barely stifling a scream, I drop the box back into the drawer like it’s a hot coal. Two of the fingers fall out, but I can’t bring myself to put them back.
