by Rysa Walker
“I do want you there. But . . . I have to do this alone. Well, as alone as I can be with God only knows how many other people inside my father’s head.”
Another message from Will floats into my head, dispelling any questions I had as to whether my father’s congress of ghosts is listening.
TWELVE NEW. PLUS YOUR MOTHER.
WE WILL HEAR. CAN’T AVOID. BUT WILL NOT DISRUPT AS LONG AS HE STAYS CAGED.
Cregg is contained. But why should I even go in the room? If you can just transfer thoughts back and forth . . .
NOT YOUR SERVANT. THIS ISN’T EASY, YOU KNOW.
The tickle inside my head vanishes before I can respond.
“You okay?” Aaron asks.
“Yeah. Just . . . setting up ground rules for the meeting.”
As I expected, no one is entirely happy with my decision to go in alone. Our eventual compromise is that Sophie will be in there with us, wearing earphones as she watches videos. Aaron, Daniel, and Deo will be on alert in the bedroom across the hall. I guess the hope is that Daniel and Deo together might be enough to counteract any sort of violence that Aaron picks up from the Furies and whoever else is inside my father’s head, as long as Sophie is also using her blocking ability. They’d have to stay outside Sophie’s blocking range to do that, but I decide not to bring that up because it would send us back to the drawing board.
I expect Taylor to protest that they’re sexists for sidelining her. But she doesn’t. Either she realizes that there isn’t much she could do to help, since we’re not in need of remote viewing, or she’s simply too engrossed in what she’s reading on Cregg’s tablet to be bothered.
Again, I feel a wave of frustration from Cregg at the sight of his tablet in her hands. Frustration . . . or maybe indignance is a better word. Indignance that she’s invading his privacy. Which is the height of hypocrisy, coming from a body thief.
I approach the bedroom door and knock. A man’s voice says, “Come in.”
The sound catches me off guard. This is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is deeper than I expected.
I feel his eyes on me when I step inside, but I look at Sophie first. She’s on the bed where she slept last night, her back against the headboard. An iPad—Taylor’s, judging from the light-blue cover—is propped on her knees. I reach into my pocket and toss her a pair of earbuds. She nods, plugs them in, and goes back to her show.
The gurney is still in the room, but it’s been folded flat and shoved partway under the bed. There’s no chair, so I perch awkwardly on the end of Sophie’s bed.
When I finally look up, Pfeifer says, “We still can’t believe it’s you. When we saw you outside of the Senate building, we were almost certain, but . . .”
He’s using the plural pronoun. It sounds strange to me, like one of those couples who share a Facebook account. Scott-Leah Pfeifer.
Maybe he can tell this from my expression, because he clears his throat and says, “You look so much like Leah when we first met. Not the hair.” He attempts a smile—a quick nervous uptick of one side of his mouth. “The military wouldn’t have allowed that. And she was a bit older than you are now, but . . . the resemblance is uncanny.”
I open my mouth, trying to think of something to say. I ran through several possible opening lines while I changed clothes, but none of them feel right. He’s at a loss, too, and we both just sit there, awkward and silent.
Then his expression changes completely. The effect is transformative, like I’m looking at an entirely different person. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what I am doing.
This smile is much more than a twitch. It fills the entire face, and the eyes, which were already shiny, are positively brimming now. “Anna? Oh my God.”
The voice is different, too. It’s still deep, but the inflections are more feminine. It reminds me of Scarlett Johansson when she plays Black Widow.
I still can’t seem to find words, and after a moment, Pfeifer says, “How did you get involved in all of this? Rowena was supposed to keep you far away from anything connected to Delphi. Is she . . . she’s okay, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know. Jasper mentioned someone by that name, but—”
“Jasper?”
I can’t tell whether it’s Scott or Leah asking. If I had to guess, I’d say it was both.
“Maybe we should take things in order. I didn’t meet Jasper until a few months ago. And I don’t remember Rowena at all.”
So I begin at the food court. I don’t actually remember being abandoned there, but it’s the origin story in my file with the State of Maryland. It’s also the first thing about my life that was documented, at least to the best of my knowledge, so it seems like a good place to start.
Sometimes it’s Scott sitting across from me as I talk. Sometimes it’s Leah. To be honest, the switching back and forth is creepy. I now have a much greater appreciation for Aaron, Deo, and the others who have all seen something like this on my face and didn’t run shrieking.
What’s weirder, though, is that feeling I had earlier, as though both of them are present at the same time. Occasionally they switch back and forth so rapidly it’s like I’m talking to two people simultaneously. Him? Her? Them? I can’t really tell.
When I mention the note pinned to my dress, the switch happens so fast I get mental whiplash. There’s a stream of angry curses, followed by, “You should never have trusted her.” Then, without missing a beat, a slightly different voice comes from the same mouth. “What choice did I have? And you’re wrong. Just plain wrong.”
Sophie is supposed to be watching her damn video and not listening in, but her eyes keep drifting over toward Pfeifer. I can’t blame her. How could any show hold her attention with this insanity playing out five feet away? Still, I give her an annoyed look, and she reluctantly shifts her body and Taylor’s tablet toward the opposite wall.
“Ro would never have abandoned her like that, Scott. Something happened. Something must have happened.”
He counters, arguing that she probably just didn’t want to be tied down with a kid at age seventeen. And while I really don’t want to pick sides in an argument between my parents, it feels like Pfeifer is browbeating my mother. Given he’s the one who pulled the trigger, that strikes me as unfair. Anyway, I’m pretty sure she’s right, so I cut him off in midsentence.
“Once I found out about you from Jasper—I know, I haven’t gotten to that part, but bear with me. He seemed certain you left me with your sister—Rowena, right?” A nod confirms this, and I go on. “Aaron asked his grandfather to run a background search and see if we could track anyone in your family down. Your parents died in 2012. But there’s no record of your sister after 2004.”
Pfeifer inhales sharply, and I quickly add, “There’s no death record. No missing-persons report, even though she was a minor. She seems to have just vanished.”
“Along with the insurance money and the other funds I transferred. That was plenty to disappear on, especially if you ditch the kid and only have one person to support. Leave that godforsaken town and—” Then, a split second later: “No! She wouldn’t have done that, Scott. I know my sister.” And then, “What other explanation is there?”
“Does it matter?” I snap. “It happened. I survived. Do you want me to finish or not?”
They look surprised. “Yes. Go ahead.”
I continue my life story—foster care, psychiatric treatment. Kelsey. Deo. Picking up Molly and getting pulled into the Delphi fiasco. Aaron. Meeting Jasper and learning that our suspicions were true and my parents had indeed been Delphi subjects. Magda. Sandalford. Her search for a cure, and why some of the adepts aren’t exactly down with that. And finally, my premonition that someone wanted to kill Pfeifer.
By necessity, it’s a condensed version of The Anna Morgan Story, and I’ll admit that I was selective in the bits that I skipped over. I left out Myron. That’s not the kind of tale you roll out on first acquaintance. I also didn’t mention Cregg. Wi
ll made it clear that the hitchers from The Warren already have that information, so I assume my parents do, as well. No point in stirring the pot. If anyone wants to know more about how I got stuck with this psycho, they can ask.
I also glossed over most of the problems I faced in foster care. In part, that’s because I’m worried it will just reignite their earlier argument about how I wound up in foster care. But the biggest reason is that I don’t want them to feel sorry for me.
What I said a few minutes ago is true.
It happened. I survived.
There have been some truly rotten events in my life. Many were undoubtedly set into motion when someone, probably my aunt, left me in that mall, wandering around with a teddy bear and an empty Orange Julius cup. But if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change any aspect of my life, even that one. The same action set into motion the chain of events that led me to Kelsey, to Deo, to Aaron. To all of the hitchers who combined to make me me.
I’ve always wondered what happened to that teddy bear, though.
“What are you thinking about?” Pfeifer asks. I think it’s my mother this time. “Your colors changed. It was your usual indigo and pink, and then . . .”
Colors? I have blue hair and more or less pink skin, but it’s an odd comment. So I answer the question. “The police report said I had a teddy bear when I was found. It must have been lost in one of those first homes where I stayed. That always makes me a little sad. It would’ve been nice if the bear came along for the journey.”
“Not a bear. Zoe.” My mother—and it’s definitely her now—makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “The orange monster from Sesame Street. You remember, don’t you?”
I start to say no, but then realize that she’s talking to Scott, not me.
“Yeah. She couldn’t pronounce the name. It came out Doughy. She was your favorite. You took her everywhere, and they didn’t even let you keep her.” There’s a dull rage in Pfeifer’s voice, and his tears are pouring freely.
“No! That’s not . . . I mean, I don’t know that anyone took it from me.” Part of me wants to go to him—to them—but it still feels too strange, too awkward, to make physical contact. “Maybe I lost it or it got so ratty someone had to toss it out. Really, it was just a stray thought. It’s not like I’ve spent the past fifteen years mourning the loss of a stuffed monster.”
I smile, hoping to bolster this point, but Pfeifer isn’t having it.
“Maybe not now. But there was one night—probably more—when you did mourn for Zoe. When you couldn’t sleep because that stuffed monster was gone. And I wasn’t there to comfort you. We weren’t there to comfort you, because the very real monster who has taken up residence in your head forced me to shoot Leah. And as soon as we figure out how to deal with the bastard without hurting you, he’s going to pay for that.”
NEWS ITEM FROM THE PENSACOLA NEWS JOURNAL
April 24, 2020
Just when we all thought flu season was over, Escambia County health officials are cautioning residents about an unusual outbreak. Six cases have been reported in the past two weeks, almost exclusively among teens and young adults, with an additional twenty-two cases and five fatalities statewide. The primary symptom is a high, often life-threatening, fever.
The CDC is tracking similar outbreaks in Alaska, California, Illinois, Michigan, and Massachusetts.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mathias, West Virginia
April 25, 2020, 9:28 p.m.
For the second time in the past few hours, I feel like whacking myself upside the head for missing something painfully obvious. Yes, it would make sense for the average person reading about my mother’s death to assume the man whose fingerprints were on the weapon, whose hands and clothing were covered with gunpowder residue, who even acknowledged pulling the trigger, was in fact guilty. Crazy, perhaps, but still guilty.
Unlike the average person reading about my mother’s murder, however, I sat in that lab at The Warren and watched as Cregg forced Deo to turn the gun to his own head. I watched Deo’s hands shake as he fought for control. And I lived through the dreams where Molly was forced to sever her own finger.
I have scars, too—physical reminders of Cregg’s power. One is on my arm. The tiny incisions line up perfectly with Bree Bieler’s teeth. The other scar, about an inch above my temple and visible only if you push the hair aside, is from the butt of a pistol that Jasper Hawkins smashed into my head.
Graham Cregg was in the driver’s seat all those times. As he was when I arranged for Abbott and Costello to kill my father. And apparently, he was in my father’s driver seat fifteen years ago when he killed my mother.
“Cregg was in the doorway the night you died, wasn’t he? I saw someone standing there in the newspaper photo. Two people, actually.”
“The second person was the newly elected Senator from Pennsylvania. Just stopping by for a visit with his son, if anyone asked, because he gave up all interest in the business when he first ran for office back in 1998. What a joke. He may not have been interested in the other projects at Decathlon, but he followed every new development on Delphi. And his wife picked up his financial stake in the company, no matter how many times he may claim there’s no link.” The voice changes slightly, and then it’s my mother saying, “And he was the perfect witness. They both saw Scott take the gun from my bag. Point it, pull the trigger. Open-and-shut case, even if there hadn’t been security cameras.”
“But why did Cregg do it?” Even as I ask, I realize this is a dumb question. We’re talking about Graham Cregg. He keeps a box of his victims’ fingers. The man isn’t sane. Why am I searching for any kind of logic to his actions?
“I can only guess. Maybe you should ask him,” Pfeifer says. And then, without even slowing down, “Really, Scott? Do you think he’d give her an honest answer?”
“Could you not do that, please? Switching back and forth constantly. It’s . . . disconcerting.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ll let Scott tell it.”
I feel like I’ve told my mother to shut up, and that’s not at all what I intended. So I roll it back a bit. “No, that’s okay. I want to hear from both of you. Just . . . maybe a pause? Or a bit of warning? And I’ll have to settle for your best guess on Cregg’s motivations, because in order to ask him anything, I’d have to—”
“Pull down your walls. Yes. That’s why the two telepaths in here struggle to read you. They can read the others in the house without a problem, but the man . . . Will? He says talking to you is like lifting a heavy weight due to all of those bricks. They couldn’t read you at all a few times today. Did Dr. Kelsey teach you that trick?”
I nod but don’t elaborate. It feels like they’re trying to circle away from talking about the shooting, though. Like maybe they’re hiding something or trying to avoid the topic. So I redirect.
“You were saying . . . your best guess on Cregg’s motivations?”
He hesitates, weighing his words. Or maybe he’s just trying to remember, given how long it’s been.
“I’d just threatened to resign. My best guess? He was unhappy about that. There were other scientists on the team who could have picked up my notes and continued the project. In fact, I’d bet that a few of them were still on Cregg’s team at this Warren facility. But I was the lead researcher. I knew the work better than anyone. Losing me was a setback, and Cregg always wanted results instantly. That was partly his father pushing, hoping for some new development they could parlay into getting government funding reinstated. I didn’t want that to happen, though. It was too dangerous. My only reason for remaining with DSG after the project officially ended was to develop a treatment that might mitigate the effects for you and the other adepts.”
“A cure?”
“No. A cure is something you take to get rid of a condition. There are some versions of the drug that don’t permanently alter brain chemistry. The military was keenly interested in a drug you could switch on and off. The OA drugs
were designed to temporarily boost any latent psi ability, and we used those in the lab to determine which individuals might be good long-term subjects for Delphi research. That drug reverses on its own about a month after you stop taking it. You can speed the reversal along with other medications, reduce it to a few days. All of the Delphi drugs disrupt the dopamine and serotonin balance to some degree, but the OA class causes a sharp drop in serotonin. That can have major repercussions.”
“Violent outbursts,” I say. “Suicide.”
“Exactly. And the violence didn’t simply hit those who’d already shown psychic ability. There was a control group, too, each time we tested a new formula. The project churned through people on a fairly regular basis. I ended the reversal protocol after the second suicide among the Delphi subjects. But I don’t think there’s any chance of a cure for subjects dosed with the permanent form. And definitely not for second-generation adepts, where the rest of the brain developed in tandem with the sections affected by the drug. Any attempt to reverse the effects would probably be futile and possibly fatal.”
“That’s why the second-generation adepts don’t have the same problems with aggressive behavior, right? The fusiform gyrus developed in sync with the amygdala, so there’s no additional pressure on that part of the brain.”
“Yes. How did you know that?” Pfeifer asks with a surprised smile. There’s a bit of pride in his smile, which is kind of amusing. Perhaps he’s hoping I’m a chip off the old block, a budding neuroscientist.
“Something Dr. Kelsey mentioned a few months back. She thought the fact that the amygdala is smaller in women might also explain why male test subjects from the original group are more volatile.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” he says, “at least with some of the later formulas, but that’s a very good deduction. Anyway, a cure isn’t possible for the second generation. My goal was to develop a treatment that might allow you and your fellow adepts to lead normal lives. Or, more accurately, a series of treatments, since not all of the formulas act in the same way. I stayed with the Python group at DSG because I needed lab access. No way to test the formulas without their resources. I continued to conduct the treatment research while also working to improve the on-off switch, as the temporary formulas were known in the lab, and also two new formulas that Cregg was particularly interested in. One was the amplifying serum that your friend Deo was given. The other was the suppressor serum that gives Sophie her ability to block. Flip sides of the coin.”
