The Delphi Revolution (The Delphi Trilogy Book 3)

by Rysa Walker

  “You said Taylor figured out the password? What was it?”

  “2BR02B.”

  For the first time in several hours, I sense movement from Cregg. A long scratching sound, faint, like the screech of chalk against a blackboard in a distant room.

  “Which seems pretty random,” Aaron continues, “unless you think of the zero in the British sense as . . .”

  “Naught. To be or naught to be. Of course it’s another bloody Shakespeare reference.” I pull the fake ID out of my pocket again. “You haven’t seen this yet, have you? Not just one but two Shakespearean names.”

  “The photo looks . . . different,” Aaron says. “Not just the hair, but . . .”

  “Yeah. He already had a plastic surgeon picked out.” I feel the tears forming, but I blink them back. There’s no way I’ll be able to stay awake afterward if I indulge in the nice, long, tension-releasing cry that my body really seems to want right now.

  Aaron wraps his arms around me.

  “I’m just . . . um . . .” Daniel clears his throat. “I’ll see you guys inside, okay?”

  Once Daniel is gone, Aaron steps back and tips my chin up to look at him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds my gaze with his own. “I told you yesterday that Cregg is not going to win, Anna. I know he’s not, and here’s why. I’ve spent so much of these past few months looking into these eyes searching for you. And even when I found you, it was never completely you, if that makes sense? Most of the time, I’d still get this faint vibe, this faint echo of violent thought. Nothing fully formed, but . . . there. For the longest time, I didn’t want to accept that it was Cregg. I tried to explain it away as the concussion, but it kept getting worse. And anytime we confronted you . . .” He squeezes his eyes tight for a moment. “My point is, I think you’ve got this now. How much is you finally being aware so that you can fight him and how much is the medicine, I have no idea. But when I look into your eyes right now, all I see is Anna.”

  He silences my protest with a gentle finger to my lips. “I know he’s still in there. I know. But he’s not hovering. I can’t see him. I can’t sense him.”

  “I see him as a spider, Aaron. No, not just a spider, but some sort of freaky spider-rat. It has human hands on the ends of its legs, instead of claws.” The words tumble out, a torrent that I can’t even begin to hold back. “And when I saw my reflection, it was my face, except with a spider’s eyes, and—”

  “But not now, right?”

  “No. I can still feel him back there, behind the wall. Still tell when something makes him angry. So, he’s . . . listening. But it’s like he’s drunk almost. Or drugged, I guess.”

  “See?” He smiles, the big smile I haven’t seen much lately. The one that reaches all the way up to his hazel eyes. “Like I said, you’ve got this.”

  The tears do come then, and he wipes them away. “Here’s the deal. I had Taylor run a hot bath up in Beth and Virgie’s room. You’re going to have a nice long soak and a nice long cry, too, if that’s what you need. And when you’re done, you’re going to sleep.”

  “Maybe . . . maybe you could restrain me, like Pfeifer, and then if you sense—”

  “I’m not going to restrain you. Unless holding you while you sleep counts. I’m perfectly willing to do that. And . . . I have a backup plan. Will you just trust me?”

  I’m about to ask him what exactly this backup plan entails, but my question dissolves into a yawn. It doesn’t really matter at this point. Aaron’s right. I can’t put this off forever.

  I follow him into the house. Deo looks up from whatever he’s reading and mouths “Good night.” Aaron leads me upstairs and into the master bath, where one of those large claw-foot tubs is filled nearly to the brim, then tugs my shirt over my head. He undresses me quickly, in a brisk, businesslike manner. When he’s done, he scoops me up like a child and carries me to the tub.

  My arms slide around his neck, and I whisper, “You could join me. Pretty sure this thing is big enough for two.”

  He pulls in a deep, shuddering breath, and I lean forward, pressing my lips to his before he can exhale. I cling to him, needing him more than sleep, and slide one hand down to unbutton his shirt.

  “No,” he says, breaking the kiss and lowering me into the water, soaking the bottom half of his sleeves in the process. “And don’t give me that pout. We’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer until your eyes aren’t drooping shut.”

  “You don’t think you can keep me awake?” I say teasingly. “Anyway, your shirt is all wet. You might as well . . . get in.” A giant yawn splits the last sentence, and he laughs. “Okay, okay. You win.”

  I sink down into the scented water and float weightlessly for a moment. The cabin is pretty basic, but this tub is divine. I don’t even remember the last time I was in a tub, and I’ve never been in one like this. I can almost stretch out completely.

  Aaron brings back a couple of towels and a clean pair of sweats from my overnight bag.

  I float back to the surface and say, “My nightshirt is in there. Just dig around. It’s probably near the bottom.”

  “Um . . . these are probably a better idea,” he says, coloring slightly as he heads toward the bedroom.

  What’s up with that? Maybe the process of getting me into the bath has him more worked up than I thought and he doesn’t want to test his resolve.

  As wonderful as the bath is, it was probably a waste. It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I only last about ten minutes before I climb out, wrap my hair in one of the towels, and pull on the clothes. My feet feel like lead as I plod into the adjoining bedroom, where Aaron is on the bed, his iPad in one hand.

  And Daniel is sitting in the chair next to the window. That explains why Aaron didn’t grab the nightshirt that barely covers my bottom. I rub my hair with the towel and toss it over the bedpost, then crawl under the covers next to Aaron.

  “You’re the backup plan?”

  “Yep,” Daniel says. “I don’t know for certain if it will work, but if Aaron senses that Cregg is moving to the front as you wake up—something neither of us believe is going to happen, by the way—then I will tell him to get back in his corner.”

  “Or better yet,” Aaron says, “to get the hell out of her head.”

  Daniel nods. “Very good idea.”

  “No,” I say. “A very bad idea. I’m not the only vessel in this house. And I’m having some degree of success controlling Cregg, probably due to several weeks of antipsychotic meds in my bloodstream.”

  Judging from their expressions, this didn’t occur to either of them. I feel a little better now about not considering the negative reaction that my father’s hitchers might have if they discovered Graham Cregg hiding out in my head. That’s something that we’re going to need to reveal slowly, if at all.

  “Both of you said earlier that you were confident that I’ve got this. So if Cregg is at the front when I wake up, please tell him to get back in his frickin’ cage.”

  “Done,” Daniel says.

  I say good night and pull my pillow onto Aaron’s shoulder.

  The very last thing I remember before sleep is a sign flashing in my head.

  THEY ALREADY KNOW.

  NEWS ITEM FROM THE KANSAS CITY STAR

  April 24, 2020

  The terrorist organization known as WOCAN has claimed responsibility for yesterday’s shooting at Fort Leavenworth, which killed three and wounded seven others. The incident began around 4:15 p.m. Authorities apprehended the suspected shooter on a bench outside the Frontier Army Museum.

  In the statement released to the media, WOCAN said the shooter, identified as Army Lt. Col. Paul Kerry, was controlled by one of their psychics when he walked into the museum and opened fire. Col. Melanie Proust, a spokesperson for the Combined Arms Center at Fort Leavenworth, said the WOCAN claim is sheer propaganda, noting that Kerry has been under considerable stress due to the recent death of his wife.

  This marks the second event for which
WOCAN has taken credit in the past two days. The first was a boiler explosion at an oil refinery in Ponca City, Oklahoma, where six people were killed and over thirty hospitalized.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Mathias, West Virginia

  April 25, 2020, 8:13 p.m.

  I wake with a start, surprised to find the room dark, except for the dim glow of a lamp. Daniel’s feet are propped up on the bed. He seems to be sleeping. A paperback is draped over one leg, and several discarded cups and plates lie on the floor next to his chair.

  “They already know.”

  Aaron’s arms tighten around me. “Whoa. Easy.”

  “God, Aaron. You sound like you’re talking to a horse.” Daniel leans forward and turns the lamp to a brighter setting. “Who knows what, Anna?”

  “The hitchers in my father’s head already know about Cregg. Will sent me another message, just before I fell asleep. He said they already know.”

  “Any chance that was a dream?” Daniel suggests.

  I consider the possibility. “Maybe.”

  “You fell asleep really fast,” Aaron says. “A minute later, you were snoring away.”

  “I don’t snore. Deo would have told me.”

  Daniel gives me a look of fake sympathy. “Deo’s probably trying to protect your feelings. Seriously, I thought someone was using a chain saw outside, but, nope, just you.”

  Aaron laughs and pulls me closer. “It’s nothing to be—”

  THEY KNOW.

  The words fade, and then:

  KEEP YOUR SPIDER IN ITS CAGE.

  WE DON’T WANT HIM IN HERE.

  “Anna?” Aaron says.

  “Not a dream. The group consensus inside my father seems to be better me than them. They don’t want Cregg joining their band of travelers, so I don’t think we have to worry about them killing me.”

  “Or maybe they’re just saying that so we’ll let our guard down.” Aaron’s nose twitches on the last word. “Do you smell—”

  Daniel jumps up, and the paperback that was in his lap falls to the floor and the cover begins to curl and blacken. Several of the pages have now caught fire. Daniel snatches the towel from the bedpost and drops it over the smoking book, smothering the fire, then opens the window to let the smoke out.

  THEY COULD KILL ALL OF YOU RIGHT NOW IF THEY WANTED.

  LIKE LUCAS. OR WHISTLER AND THE OTHER FUDD LAST NIGHT.

  “Okay, okay,” I say out loud. “We get it.”

  Opening the window apparently wasn’t enough to clear the smoke. The alarm in the hallway begins beeping, but it stops suddenly a few seconds after Daniel opens the door.

  “Great,” Aaron says. “I’ll bet they shorted the damn thing out.”

  Feet pound up the stairs, and Taylor and Deo appear.

  “What were you guys smoking in there?” Taylor asks, wrinkling her nose.

  “A book,” Daniel says. “It was a good book, too. And I hadn’t fin . . . ished it.”

  He stops, simply staring at the wall for a moment. Then he goes back into the bedroom and scoops up the charred remains of the paperback with the towel.

  “Incoming transmission?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, shooting me an odd look before handing the scorched book to Taylor. “Can you take this out to the porch? We’ll be down in a minute.”

  Taylor narrows her eyes at him.

  “I’ll fill you in when I get downstairs,” he says. “Just go.”

  Once she and Deo are out of earshot, I ask, “What was the message?”

  “Be glad we didn’t burn you, Fudd.”

  Aaron grimaces. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here. These hitchers seem to have some issues with authority.”

  “In the case of the guards at The Warren in general,” Daniel says, “it’s with good reason. They have every right to be vengeful. I’d lay damned good odds that most of them were shot by someone wearing a guard uniform. But I did my best to avoid hurting anyone, and if they’re peeking around in my head, they know that my goal was to get them all out of there. I only tased someone twice. One time it was the only way to keep my cover, and the other time, I was protecting two of our fellow wabbits. I don’t have anything to hide from them.”

  He uses the nickname that The Warren adepts adopted for themselves. I suspect it’s on purpose, pointing out that he’s an adept, a wabbit, who was simply posing as a Fudd. And if they’re plucking these thoughts from our heads—and I’m guessing Will is the one doing that—then it will be next to impossible to hide anything from them.

  Daniel gets a slightly vacant look in his eyes again. “Just poking a little fun.” When I raise an eyebrow, he adds, “They said they’re just poking at me. That if they’d really wanted to hurt me, I’d know it. Just a friendly game of Singe the Fudd. So I guess that means they’re okay with me. More or less.”

  We join the others downstairs, and while Aaron explains what happened with the book, I open the fridge and pull out a container of leftover mac and cheese. It’s the bright-orange variety, and kind of disgusting. But I’m hungry, so I find a fork and then join the others in the living room.

  “You want to heat that up?” Deo asks.

  “No,” I say between bites. “It actually tastes better cold. Where’s Sam?”

  “He went back to Maryland to pick up the RV,” Aaron says. “He’s going to check on Mom and be back late tonight.”

  “He’d better be,” Deo mutters.

  Taylor looks up from her iPad—although on closer inspection, it’s Cregg’s iPad. “He’ll be back. If he’s delayed for some reason, I’ll drive you to Sandalford. And not just because Maria is freaking out. Magda is going to be livid that the two of you tagged along with me and Aaron without her official sanction.”

  No one responds. We all know she’s right, but I don’t really see any way around it, and I doubt the others do, either. Magda’s often livid, and we’re often the reason, so it’s not like it’s uncharted territory.

  Taylor goes back to what she was doing, jotting something down in her spiral notebook.

  “Have you learned anything from that?” I ask, nodding toward the iPad in her lap.

  “Lots,” she says vaguely. “You can see when I’m finished. Or read my notes. Your choice.”

  There’s a faintly uncomfortable sensation at the back of my head when I look at Taylor holding the tablet. I don’t exactly feel the urge to snatch it out of her hand. It’s more indirect than that, almost like I’m watching a movie or reading a book and that’s the motivation of the protagonist. Or, in this case, probably the antagonist.

  Nonetheless, the sensation is strong enough that I look away from Taylor and shift the topic. “Have any of you talked to my father yet?”

  “Not directly,” Deo says. “We took some food to him and Sophie. The house didn’t explode the few times she stepped out of the room, so maybe he’s figuring out how to control the hitchers?”

  I shrug. “Maybe. He’s had this ability since before I was born, and he’s been in a psychiatric hospital for years. It’s possible someone taught him a few coping techniques. Was Sophie outside of the room just now when they torched Daniel’s book?”

  “No,” Taylor says. “She was definitely in there. I don’t know if she was actually touching him, though. She’s been out a few times. I kept an eye on him for a couple of minutes earlier so she could grab a shower and then I stayed back to keep her company for a while. Asked her some questions about her time with the other group. I think she’s had a rough couple of months. Constantly being on alert is wearing her out.”

  I drop the plastic container into the sink, then take a few steps down the hallway leading to the bedroom where Pfeifer is. The door is partially open, and I hear a faint burst of canned laughter. Sophie must be watching a sitcom.

  It feels like the walls in the narrow hall are constricting, closing in on me.

  I’m not ready to do this yet.

  I say it out loud. “I’m not ready.”

  And then
I see another sign:

  HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME.

  That’s creepy. Stop reading my thoughts.

  SORRY. CAN’T. BUT NO ONE IN HERE WANTS TO HURT YOU.

  AND EVEN IF THEY DID, I DON’T THINK SHE’D LET THEM.

  Sophie?

  WHO? NO. NOT SOPHIE. YOUR MOTHER.

  What?

  I stumble backward into the living room, bumping into Aaron.

  “Anna? What’s wrong?” He reaches out to steady me, but I dodge him and bolt for the door.

  I need fresh air. And I need a few minutes alone before I can trust myself to speak.

  Halfway across the clearing, it occurs to me that it would have been smart to put on shoes. An April evening isn’t prime barefoot weather at this altitude. When I reach the picnic table, I climb on top and curl my damp, chilly toes beneath me for warmth as I try to get my head in order.

  My mother? Seriously?

  Will and the other hitchers don’t respond. Am I outside the range where they can pick up my thoughts? Or maybe they can tell my brain is on the verge of exploding and have decided to cut me some slack.

  Aaron stands just inside the open cabin door for a moment, watching me. But it’s Deo who eventually crosses the lawn. In shoes, because he’s not an idiot.

  “What happened?” he asks, sitting on the bench below me. “Did they threaten you? Aaron said he didn’t sense violent emotions, but he stayed back to make sure.”

  I suspect that Aaron also realized I needed some space. Deo’s less savvy in that regard, but then we’re not used to demanding privacy from each other. We were lucky enough if we got privacy from the rest of the kids at Bart House.

  And I’m glad he’s here. Aaron’s life has had its share of tragedy, but he was raised in a reasonably stable home with two parents who loved him. He might understand how I’m feeling right now, but not at the same gut level that Deo will.

  “There wasn’t a threat.” I rub my temples. “Do you have your phone on you?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  I go to the Washington Post website and search for the article about my mother’s shooting. It takes a moment, but I locate it.