by Rysa Walker
But I didn’t fire. While I’m not a gun expert, I’ve heard several weapons fired at close range in the past few months. This sounded more like the rifle Grady fired in the woods at Overhills.
And the wound is on the opposite side of Costello’s neck. Blood flows from his shoulder onto the white tile floor, a trickle that almost instantly becomes a pool, spreading beneath his head. Déjà vu all over again.
Abbott must also think I’m the one who fired. His eyes are fixed on the gun in my hand. But instead of putting the pieces together and searching for the actual source of the gunfire, his head whips around toward the front of the deli.
Now I hear it, too. A siren.
Not close. Not yet. But definitely a siren.
“You okay, Anna?” It’s Joe. I can’t see him, but his voice comes from back near the walk-in cooler.
Abbott turns to me, his eyes darting around as he tries to pinpoint Joe’s location. He must not be able to find him, because he ducks down behind the wall. I hear footsteps, but I’m still on the floor, so I can’t see which way Abbott is heading. Certain he’s about to enter through the swinging door, I whip the gun in that direction. But the door remains still and the footsteps retreat.
“You can’t hold him off, Anna.” Judging from the sound, Abbott must be near the front of the deli. “And I know you can hear me, Cregg. Since I’m doing the Pfeifer job solo now, my price just tripled.”
The little cowbell over the door jingles. I’m pretty sure Abbott’s gone, but I push up onto my feet and crouch-walk toward the door, nudging it open a crack to be sure. The dining room is empty, everything in its place except the cream pitcher, which is still on its side in front of the counter. Abbott is already sprinting across the road to his car, one hand held against his scorched neck.
When I look back toward the kitchen, Joe has moved out of the shadows. A rifle hangs down at his side. It looks strange, almost alien. That hand should be holding the large slotted spoon he uses to scoop out the bagels, not a rifle.
He crouches down and rests two fingers against Costello’s neck.
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet. There’s a pulse, but it’s weak.”
“What about that kid . . . Andre? Is he okay?”
Joe nods, laying the rifle on the counter. “Cut a pretty deep groove in his shoulder. Need to get him to a hospital and get it bandaged up.”
“You should have stayed out there with him, Joe. Now you’re in the middle of this and the police are on their way.”
“Not yet. That was a fire truck.”
I didn’t think about the difference in the heat of the moment, but he’s right. The sound was a long, consistent wail, without the pulsing wap-wap-wap in the middle that marks the local police sirens.
“I’m guessing we’re going to get some police attention pretty soon, though,” Joe says as he pushes open the door to the dining room. I start to follow, but that wobbly sensation, almost like vertigo, is back. So I stay put, leaning back against the wall for support. I need sleep or, at the very least, coffee.
Joe comes back a moment later with a small stack of bills and a take-out bag full of bagels. “You need to get going.”
I stare down at Costello. “No. This is my fault, Joe. I shouldn’t have come here. I can’t let you take the blame for this.”
“I’m the one who shot him. And . . . it’s better this way. Even if you could have pulled the trigger, I wouldn’t want you to have killing someone on your conscience.”
“But if he dies, you’ll have it on yours.”
“Yeah, well, I’m old. Less time for it to bother me, although I doubt this one will. I killed guys in ’Nam, and that haunted me because they were in the same boat I was—drafted and stuck fighting for a cause they probably didn’t believe in. But I learned sometimes you have to kill to keep yourself and your friends alive. This guy, though . . . if he dies, I don’t think I’ll lose much sleep.”
“What are you going to tell the police?”
“Asshole tried to rob me. Shot my assistant. I’ll wipe your prints off that gun and I’ll tell Andre not to mention you. But . . . he’s pretty scared and not nearly as bright as the employee I had this time last year who ran off on me. He could easily let something slip. So . . . you might want to switch the hair color again or buy a new jacket.”
I glance down at the bills in my hand. It’s nearly two hundred bucks, way more than the three days’ pay in my final check. “This is more than you owe me.”
“Consider it a bonus. Given the quality of workers I’ve had in the past six months, I was clearly underpaying you.”
“I’m really, really sorry for—”
“Just go! I need to call 911.”
“Sure.” I’m a few steps from the door when he calls my name, and I turn back.
“Whatever you’re mixed up in, just . . .” Joe shakes his head. There’s still doubt in his eyes, but it’s tempered by concern. “Just be careful, okay? And save one of those bagels for Deo.”
INTERVIEW FROM THE US SENATE COMMITTEE ON HOMELAND SECURITY AND GOVERNMENTAL AFFAIRS WEBSITE:
Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations
Threat Assessment on The Delphi Project
Excerpt from the Testimony of Dr. Scott Pfeifer
April 23, 2020
Sen. Elena Rodriguez: How many of your subjects died as a result of these experiments?
Dr. Scott Pfeifer: There were no direct casualties. But fourteen of the roughly two hundred people who participated over the lifespan of the project committed suicide.
Rodriguez: Those suicides killed a few other people too, I believe?
Pfeifer: Yes.
Rodriguez: Were you under the effects of the Delphi drug when you shot your ex-wife?
Pfeifer: On advice of my attorney, I decline to answer.
Rodriguez: Okay. Let me ask you this, then. Is it standard for someone in your field to be a subject of his own experiment?
Pfeifer: No.
Rodriguez: During the time you’ve been a patient at Perkins, were you at any point contacted by your former employer or anyone else requesting your help in developing a cure for the so-called Delphi serum?
Pfeifer: No. And even if I’d had access to a lab, I doubt I’d have been much help. While I did conduct the original research, there have been a lot of advances in my field during my . . . absence. If they had contacted me, however, I’d have told them what I noted in my opening statement. I don’t think a cure is possible, at least not in the sense of erasing the impact of the drug. You might be able to mitigate the symptoms—suppress the effects—but a cure would imply reversing changes to the brain structure. Based on my research, when the drug works, the changes are permanent.
Rodriguez: So you’re saying this drug you created causes permanent brain damage?
Pfeifer: No. I said permanent changes to the structure of the brain. To the wiring, if you will. Whether that’s damage or enhancement is a judgment call.
Rodriguez: And what is your view, Dr. Pfeifer? Damage or enhancement?
Pfeifer: That depends on the individual’s reaction, and to some extent on the variant of the drug used.
Rodriguez: Okay, so in your view, a cure is unlikely. What about a vaccine?
Pfeifer: I . . . I beg your pardon? Could you repeat the question?
Rodriguez: A vaccine? To prevent further spread of—
Pfeifer: It’s not a communicable disease. A person would actually have to be injected with the serum at least once for the drug to have any impact at all.
Rodriguez: Four cases of infection have been reported in Arizona. One in California.
Pfeifer: I’m sorry, but that’s simply not possible.
Rodriguez: Maybe. Or maybe your earlier assessment was correct, Dr. Pfeifer. There have been a lot of advancements in your field in the past fifteen years. I yield the remainder of my time.
CHAPTER NINE
Washington, DC
April 24, 2020, 2:43 p.m.<
br />
Another gust of wind whips at the umbrella anchored to the table. I’d love to move inside, but I have to watch the street. To be honest, though, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. All I know is that, at some point, something is going to make me head toward the Hart Senate Office Building, about a block away. I need to stay alert for that something.
Or not. I mean, the vision has already told me I’m going to end up there. That’s one reason I’m here, drinking my third coffee of the afternoon and eating another of the bagels Joe gave me, rather than camped out across from the Hart Building, waiting.
After I left the deli, I went to the secondhand store where Deo spent most of our money over the past few years and replaced all of my clothes, right down to my shoes. D would be proud—my new red-and-black hoodie actually matches the knock-off Chuck Taylors. I also ducked into a CVS to buy a small knapsack to hold the iPad and the envelope from Cregg’s townhouse. Abbott has managed to locate me twice, so they must have placed some sort of tracker on me yesterday when I was on the beach. I changed and then shoved everything I had been wearing into a trash bin outside the drugstore.
Now reasonably certain I was free of tracking devices, I took the Metro downtown and then walked around until I found my favorite place to hide when I was on the streets—a library. As long as you keep quiet and you keep reading, no one will run you out. I didn’t stay long, however. It was hard to focus on reading, partly because I’m nervous and partly because I’m exhausted.
Food and coffee do seem to have warded off the dizzy spells, though. I was beginning to wonder if they were something Cregg was causing, somehow, from behind my walls. But maybe it was just the aftereffects of no sleep and losing my dinner last night.
For the past few minutes, I’ve been trying to guess the password on Cregg’s iPad—an iPad that now has a cracked screen. I didn’t even think about it being in my jacket when I dove for the gun back at Joe’s place.
I wish I could call Joe and see how things went with the police. Make sure Andre is okay. But I should probably hold off for a while. Let things cool down.
When I finish the last of the coffee, I decide to start walking toward the Hart Building. I don’t know exactly what time it was in the vision, but the level of light seems about right to me. And sure enough, as I’m tossing my cup into the trash, I spot Abbott’s gray sedan easing into one of the metered parking spots on the other side of Massachusetts Avenue, half a block up.
At least . . . I think it’s the same car. I pull the jacket hood over my hair and slouch down into a nearby chair, waiting for the driver to get out.
It’s Abbott. I freeze in place, waiting for him to turn in the direction of the Hart Building. For the longest time, he stands outside the car, looking down at something on his phone. Finally, he leaves. Once I’m sure he won’t spot me, I head for an alley I noticed earlier that comes out directly across from the Hart Building.
It’s also right near the bike rack where I’m going to trip and bust my ass. Something to look forward to.
As I hurry through the alley toward my rendezvous with gravity, it occurs to me that the visions I inherited from Jaden are more like those that Stan gets than I’d thought at first. True, I don’t actually see multiple paths the future might take. Everything I see in the vision is going to happen. But I do get this odd parallel train of thought with alternative courses of action I can’t take no matter how hard I try. In some flipside universe, I could turn left and head back to the Metro. I could duck into that women’s history museum next to the Hart Building and stare at memorabilia from the suffrage era while Abbott delivers long-delayed justice for my mother. Or I could keep running onto Second Street into the path of that big red bus.
That last thought is the one that brings my feet skidding to a halt and causes my sneaker to catch on the brick. My calf collides with the first bike. My hand flies out to grasp the bike rail. My ass hits the ground, and my brain enters that weird dual track where I remember having the vision as I watch myself act it out movement for movement, line for line.
The bus drives on toward Union Station, and while I’m still trying to figure out whether that brief suicidal thought came from me or from Cregg, Abbott walks into view at the corner of Second and C Streets, just as he did in the vision. His neck is a bright red, like a splotchy sunburn. And again, I experience that same feeling of relief mixed with only a tiny smidgen of guilt when I get the flash of memory where Costello is bleeding on the tile floor.
Déjà vu swings into full force as I watch Abbott reach for the gun inside his jacket. He crosses the street with the blue Love Thy Neighbor banner visible behind him. Three men exit from the Hart Building and move toward the black car idling at the curb—two guys in black suits flanking a third man, who is definitely Scott Pfeifer. He’s maybe six two and wearing a navy jacket and tan pants. The guy on his right is muscular, but the one on the left looks like he eats Frosted Steroid Flakes for breakfast. And something about the shape of his head seems familiar.
All possible actions I could take run through my head. Even though I know I don’t yell to the guard that Abbott is armed, I consider it, because in some part of my brain, this is all happening for the first time. The street is crowded. About a dozen people in all, mostly adults in business attire but also a few who look like tourists. One teenage girl walking her dogs. The guard is focused on his phone, so I have zero confidence in his ability to snap to attention and figure out which person I’m talking about in time to save my father. And I know beyond any doubt that Abbott will shoot innocent people to accomplish his goal.
But Abbott won’t shoot me. If he shoots the vessel, there goes his big fat payday.
So even though I want to run away, I run toward him.
The rage building up behind my walls is also both current and remembered. I push it back and reinforce my walls, telling him it’s my body and he has no control over me. And as much as Cregg wants to stop me, he knows he can’t change anything, at least not until . . . now, when the horn I remember from the vision blasts the warning that ended my sneak preview. The guard at the kiosk is finally looking this way. I don’t know if he sees the gun, but he definitely sees me tackle Abbott from behind. Abbott staggers and tumbles forward onto the asphalt. I fall on top of him, bracing myself for the sound of gunfire beneath us when his hand hits the ground.
Instead, I hear the squeal of brakes and screeching tires as a white delivery van skids to a stop mere inches in front us. It’s an older van, with a dented side panel near the front tire. The woman behind the wheel is young, maybe a few years older than I am. Pink sunglasses hold back her shoulder-length brown hair. And she must have seen Abbott’s gun, because she dives at the passenger-side floorboard before the wheels even stop spinning.
Abbott pushes up abruptly, tossing me to the road as he scrambles to his feet. The gun twitches toward me, and I realize I may have made a very serious miscalculation. On the one hand, he wants the cash Cregg promised. On the other hand, I’m the reason his face and neck are a bright, blistered pink, the reason he missed his chance to complete his assignment, and the reason he was just nearly decapitated by a delivery van. His expression leaves no doubt about how badly he wants to squeeze the trigger.
He shoves the gun back inside his jacket. Either greed wins out or he simply realizes it will be easier to escape if he doesn’t draw further attention to himself. I expect him to turn and run back toward his car, but instead he opens the driver’s-side door and dives into the van. Great. Now he’s got the driver as a hostage.
Abbott peels off, nearly taking out the guard and a woman on a bicycle. The guard runs after them at full speed, slowing slightly when the light at Constitution Avenue turns red. He probably thinks Abbott will stop, but he doesn’t. The van whips through a narrow gap in traffic and hangs a sharp left.
A horn blasts, reminding me I’m still in the middle of the street. I stumble to the sidewalk and look toward the black sedan parked at the side entrance. Appa
rently convinced the danger has passed, the two men escorting my father are again leading him toward the car.
As they round the guard kiosk, Scott Pfeifer’s eyes lock onto mine. His head tilts to the side as he stares at me. One of the bodyguards, goons, or whatever he is, opens the door, and Pfeifer starts to get in, but then he stops, wedged between the door and the body of the vehicle, still staring at me.
And yes, I’m staring back. I need to get the hell out of here, but I can’t pull my eyes away. For the first time in my life—or at least the first time I can remember—I’m looking at my father.
I am ten yards away from my father.
Ten yards away from the man who killed my mother.
The two bodyguards follow his gaze. One of them says something to my father. I don’t catch the words, but he finally breaks eye contact and climbs inside the vehicle. Then the larger man heads toward me.
Now that I see his face, I realize why he seemed familiar. It’s the guy from The Warren. Daniel and Jaden called him Whistler, although I don’t know if that’s his actual name or a nickname. He was with Dacia when she questioned me at the police station last October. He was also with Dacia at the Senator’s press conference. And he was with Dacia and Grady at Overhills when they killed Hunter Bieler and the other five kids.
I’m pretty sure Whistler was also the one Hunter heard say he didn’t sign on for killing kids, but I can’t double-check that fact because the Cregg-spider-rat is right smack between me and my memory banks. Although, on second thought, I couldn’t check even if Cregg wasn’t there, since Hunter’s memories seen to be MIA.
The kiosk guard is back now, out of breath. His gun is still drawn, and it’s pointed at me. I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe because he saw me tackle Abbott in the middle of the road, or maybe he simply needs someone to point it at now that the van is gone.
I’m not stupid. My hands go up.
In the distance, I hear a siren. Maybe Abbott won’t get away after all.
