by Rysa Walker
Okay, so it’s not just controlling Miller that’s draining Daniel. He’s burning the candle at both ends—nudging both Miller and Smith.
“What exactly do you think Smith can do to help us?”
“At a minimum, provide us with transport back to North Carolina in the morning. The Outer Banks isn’t that far out of his way, since they’ll be flying him back to Bragg. That keeps us from driving fourteen hours in what will likely be reported soon as a stolen vehicle . . . those real estate signs Sophie slapped on the side aren’t going to help if they call in the tags. But ideally, I’m hoping Smith will realize he’s playing for the Dark Side. He’d be one hell of an ally to have against Dacia and the Senator. And that’s the key reason you’re here—as a visual aid.”
“What?” I glance down at my disheveled clothes, not sure whether I should be offended or amused.
“The cut on your lip,” Daniel says. “I want Smith to have a visual reminder of the kind of people we’re dealing with. To let him know that Senator Cregg, Dacia, Magda, Miller—none of them have the adepts’ best interests at heart.”
“And you think Smith does?”
“Yeah. I’d like to think that would be true even if he didn’t have a son at Sandalford, but . . .”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“No. The boy has low-level telekinesis. They were able to hide it by homeschooling him, but I’d heard a couple of rumors when I was stationed at Bragg . . . and Smith admitted it when we spoke earlier at the amphitheater.”
Again, I’m not sure whether he means Smith admitted it voluntarily or via nudge, but I don’t have time to ask. Smith, who has spotted us, is seated at a two-person table. I guess he wasn’t expecting me to join them. Daniel must have wanted his visual aid to be a surprise.
The place is crowded, so Smith carries his beer out to a fire-pit table on the patio. Daniel joins him, and I go to the bar to order food. The last thing I ate was before we left the prison, and that was a rock-hard atrocity that claimed to be a breakfast bar, so I’m starving. Daniel asked me to order him a burger and fries, despite scarfing down two of the subs before we left the room. This is the first time that I’ve seen him as ravenous as Taylor. Nudging these guys must be draining him even more than he thought.
When I join them on the patio, Smith stands up and introduces himself, which is kind of weird. Yes, he’s now in civilian clothes without a name tag, but he still knows who I am, and I know who he is. It could be a memory gap due to Daniel messing around with his head, but I suspect it’s more Smith’s way of distancing himself from what has happened over the past few days. Or signaling that this is a fresh start. That seems a little convenient to me, as though he wasn’t complicit in our being abducted and locked in an abandoned prison overnight. But Daniel seems to think he’s a decent guy, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Plus, he went all you will obey my orders on Miller last night when it came to Lily’s welfare. That earns him a few brownie points.
“You’re sure it’s safe for her to be here?” Smith asks.
At first, I think he means because my face has been in the news in connection with the murders at Fort Bragg, but this must be a follow-up to some conversation the two of them were having, because Daniel says, “She’s in control. The psychiatrist at Sandalford prescribed a drug that has helped her to block her . . . unwanted guest. And we need to get her back there so that Dr. Kelsey can evict him.”
I don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple. But I keep silent, partly because I have no idea how much Smith knows about Graham Cregg and his abilities. In the note that Magda left, it was clear that the Senator convinced her—either legitimately or through one of his own psychics—that he’s simply been an innocent bystander and that the real fault for any mistreatment of Delphi adepts lies with his dead son. He may have done the same with Smith.
I’m also worried that my spider-rat managed to chip away at my walls earlier this evening. He’s nowhere near full strength, but the fact that he could throw me off like that is disturbing. Granted, he was responding to the voice of someone he hates. The voice of someone I’m increasingly certain was an emotionally—and quite possibly, physically—abusive parent.
You may have to find the humanity in him in order to evict him. I can see the logic behind my mother’s advice, but I don’t really want to humanize that monster. With Kelsey’s help, I got rid of Myron by sheer brute force. We can do the same to Graham Cregg.
A TV screen mounted at the end of the patio is tuned to CNN. Captions scroll below a reporter standing before the hollowed-out shell of a building that used to be the New Hope Visitors Center. Twenty-five people killed and more than sixty wounded. Two other buildings were damaged—an office building and the water treatment plant—although there were only minor injuries.
“Doesn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to what they hit,” Smith says. “Why a water treatment facility?”
I pull out my phone to check the map I was looking at earlier. “I’m not sure about the other building. But the water treatment plant was located right near the gate. It would have been the very next building they saw after New Hope.”
Smith takes the phone from me and examines the map for a moment. “So . . . a target of opportunity? Could be. Especially if it turns out that the third building they destroyed was one of the next stops on that road.” He gives me back the phone. “Any particular reason why you were looking at this map?”
Daniel is about to answer for me, but I hold up a hand to tell him I can manage on my own. “We were hoping to rescue the children Dacia Badea is holding captive, since she has a record of killing kids. Sophie remembered her mentioning the lab at Oak Ridge. We might have made it there in time to stop them if someone hadn’t locked us inside a prison cell last night.”
Smith gives a little point-taken nod. “Quinn was just saying that you saw the child responsible for the destruction tonight.”
“Yes. I saw Caleb with his aunt, Ashley Swinton, above me on the Clinch Avenue overpass. But I don’t think the Sunsphere was their assigned target. I think their instructions were to hit the convention center, and Ashley redirected Caleb’s focus in order to limit casualties. She kept glancing over at the building, and then she whispered something to Caleb about the big gold ball.”
“You were close enough to hear what she said?” Smith asks.
“No, but she didn’t need to be,” Daniel says, clearly annoyed. “You know that. You’ve dealt with psychic phenomena for several decades now. And Caleb is . . . multitalented. He’s telekinetic, but he can also push thoughts to people at a short distance, among other things.”
“He pushed my name,” I say. “And ‘big ball go boom.’ After which the big ball did indeed go boom.”
“And you think Dacia Badea was targeting the convention center because of the Shield2020 event? We were all outside.”
“All outside in seats pointed directly toward the convention center,” Daniel says. “What better way to get Dacia’s point across. Do you know when they changed the venue of the speech? And why?”
Smith shakes his head. “There was a sign inside the building directing us to the amphitheater. Most of us assumed it was just the Senator seeking out the cameras.”
“If you have such a low opinion of him, why are you cooperating with him?” I ask. “For that matter, why would someone in the military be working with a presidential candidate who is trying to unseat your commander in chief? Aren’t there rules about politicizing the military?”
Daniel shoots me a cautionary look. Maybe these aren’t the best questions to ask someone whose help you’re seeking. But we need answers before we even consider trusting this man.
Smith catches the look and gives a soft chuckle. “Fair enough. I’ll assume Quinn shared with you my . . . family connection . . . to the program. Most of the people who were used as guinea pigs by your father and Graham Cregg were enlisted personnel, but I volunteered. Dumbass move, but I was a b
rand-new lieutenant who wanted to show the older enlisted I wasn’t afraid. The serum didn’t have any effect on me, so I thought I might have been one of the control group. A few years later, Dalton was born, and when he’s about six months old, my wife watches his pacifier float across the room toward him. He’s a good kid, and his ability is pretty limited. Still can’t levitate anything more than a few pounds, and he’s got good impulse control. But he’s slipped a few times, when he was upset or nervous. Especially as a little kid. My sister-in-law lives in town, and she has a big damn mouth, so . . . yeah. There were rumors. And when things began to heat up and those kids were found dead at Overhills, well . . . Magda Bell’s proposal to move the kids and shelter them until we could figure out what was happening seemed like a godsend. Eventually, we decided to send Dalton, too, although my wife still isn’t fully onboard with that decision.”
I don’t respond, and I’m trying really hard to keep my face neutral. People who need a family connection in order to sympathize with those who are different or at risk seriously try my patience.
My poker face must suck, though, because Smith says, “My decision wasn’t simply because I have skin in the game, Ms. Morgan. That school fell under my command. Those children are my responsibility. And even though I was a fairly green officer when this program began, I gave it my tacit approval when I volunteered as a subject.”
He takes a long swig of his beer. “As for working with Senator Cregg, you’re right. The military steers clear of anything even faintly political. But the White House has been under a lot of heat for not taking . . . control . . . of this situation. And my command has likewise been under a lot of heat over the past six months for not ‘containing the problem’ when we had the chance. The directive—to make the Delphi problem go away—came from the current administration.”
Daniel and I exchange a look, and then Daniel says, “Wait a minute. You think Dacia Badea was taking orders from the White House when she killed those kids at Overhills?”
“I don’t know,” Smith says. “Probably not. What I will say is that if it spares the White House any sort of political embarrassment, I can promise you they will not bat an eye if Dacia Badea kills every single adept, as long as she cleans up the mess and that’s the last they hear of her. This program has been covered up by leaders of both parties for decades, and the president doesn’t like the fact he’s the one in office, facing a tight three-way race, when the whole damn thing blows up. Have you seen the polls? Cregg could win this thing.” He stops, shaking his head in dismay. “My new orders were simply to help facilitate this transfer, and I don’t know anything for certain. But I think the administration cut some sort of deal with the Senator. Cregg solves the Delphi problem, and he’s added to the ticket.”
Daniel looks skeptical. “What about the current VP?”
“They’d just dump him,” I say. “FDR had three different running mates. But what do you mean by Cregg solves the problem?”
“Cregg says they’ve got a cure.”
“He’s lying. At least concerning the second-gen Delphi. My father says it’s simply not possible. Maybe a treatment to . . . curb our abilities. But it’s not permanent. It might not even be safe.”
“No offense, Ms. Morgan. But your father has been in a mental institution for the past fifteen years. Science has made many advances—”
“Not that many,” Daniel says. “The section of your son’s brain that houses his Delphi abilities is deeply connected to the rest of his brain. Are you going to let them test this so-called cure on him? Or is he exempt?”
Smith clearly isn’t happy with Daniel using his son as the hypothetical test case, so I shift the topic. “Tell the White House this is a bad idea. Graham Cregg left behind ample evidence of his father’s involvement in every aspect of the Delphi program. We have spreadsheets, diaries, bank accounts. He and his wife—his first wife—stole the formula they were testing at Stanford back in 1973, hoping they’d eventually be able to cash in on it. And they did, once they found my father.”
Daniel eyebrows quirk up slightly, but his poker face is probably better than mine. He’s right. I don’t know for certain that what I’ve just said is accurate. I still haven’t gotten around to having that conversation with my father, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure he knows how Cregg obtained the original research. But even though I can’t be positive that the puzzle pieces are in the right places, they seem to fit.
A loud thump at the back of my head comes just as the waitress arrives with our food. I’m glad for her interruption because it gives me cover. I take a bite of my pasta and send a loud message back to my hitcher.
Chill out, Cregg. If you want us to stop your father—
Another thump.
—then stay back.
Again, he thumps. Just a single light knock, almost a tap. Is he trying to signal? One thump for yes, two for no?
Thump.
“And you have sources to back these assertions up?” Smith asks.
Thump.
“Yes,” I say.
“Not with us,” Daniel adds quickly. “We don’t even have toothbrushes with us, because we were abducted at gunpoint. But yes. We can back all of that up.”
There’s a tiny note of hesitation in his voice, but I nod. Even if Dacia confiscated the iPad, which I doubt, Taylor said most of the information was housed on a server.
Thump.
Smith is about to ask something else but then stops, staring over my shoulder at the television. I turn to see a reporter in front of the amphitheater. The Breaking News chyron at the bottom reads: Woman Found Dead at Site of Knoxville Attack.
I give Daniel a questioning look, because I thought he said there were no serious injuries, let alone a fatality. He shakes his head.
“There was a couple on the bench at the other end of the lake,” I say. “But I didn’t think the explosion would carry that far. I thought they’d be safe.”
But the camera isn’t focused on the far side of the lake. The police are gathered around the bushes near the Sunsphere. It’s the same spot, in fact, where my father stands in my vision.
I can’t see the body. There are police standing all around, blocking the view. But I can see one of the shoes. A nursing clog, in a Van Gogh print.
Ashley.
NEWS ITEM FROM THE KNOXVILLE NEWS SENTINEL
April 28, 2020
The firm that manages security for Oak Ridge National Laboratory issued a press release today confirming that video footage of a breach at the facility yesterday afternoon was fake. The WOCAN terror group released the footage in order to claim responsibility for a chemical explosion that began in a tank at the water treatment plant and spread to two other buildings on the Oak Ridge campus.
Authorities claim that video footage of the gate shows no breach. The two guards who were featured in the video appear to be actors, as no one matching their description is currently employed by the security firm, GuardTech International, a subsidiary of the Decathlon Services Group. The background footage has been identified by the company as identical to footage prepared for an unpublished documentary on the Manhattan Project.
A spokesman for GTI noted that it is sadly very easy for people with basic video-editing skills to create a convincing fake in a matter of hours.
When asked how the explosions could have spread to buildings located nearly a half mile apart, a GTI spokesman said the facility is connected by a number of underground tunnels. A request for additional details on the tunnels and the precise cause of the explosion at the water treatment facility was denied on the basis of national security.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Knoxville, Tennessee
April 28, 2020, 6:11 a.m.
I wake screaming for the second night in a row. Or maybe the third. The days are running together at this point.
It wasn’t the first bad dream of the night, just the first that jolted me completely out of sleep. My shoe, kicking the old woman. Someon
e grabbing me, pulling me away. And then the body morphs into Penelope Cregg, sprawled on the patio. Someone holding me by the back of my shirt, lifting upward and twisting the collar so tightly that it cuts off my air. Standing on my tiptoes, straining to pull in the tiniest bit of air.
You did this. Your fault.
Lily doesn’t seem as upset by my outburst as she was yesterday. She’s sitting on the other bed with her mother, her lower lip quivering as if warning me that she will start crying if I scream again.
“It’s okay, Lily. Go back to sleep.”
“No!”
Sophie laughs, sitting up. “She was already awake. Lily is a morning person. Can you watch her while I get a shower? Give her some of those banana puffs if she gets fussy.”
I find something on the TV to amuse Lily, keeping the volume low so that Daniel and my dad, in the adjoining room, can get a bit more sleep.
It ends up being a moot point. Miller, who spent the night duct-taped to a chair in their room, is now awake and loudly demanding the bathroom. Daniel quiets him, either by waving the gun or giving him a mental nudge. Then I hear muted voices and furniture moving around, so Miller must have convinced them that he actually needs to pee.
Once I have Lily settled, I send a text to Aaron, telling him to call me when he wakes up. The odds of it being a private call seem slim, since he’ll be in the truck with Taylor and Deo, and we’ve got nineteen or twenty people jammed into these two hotel rooms, if you count the ones residing inside heads. I need to let them know about Ashley, though. It’s not like we were especially close—and Taylor still holds a pretty sizeable grudge about Ashley pulling her brother’s life support—but I still feel awkward telling them via text.
The phone rings almost as soon as I hit send. And he, at least, has privacy—Deo and Taylor are apparently still asleep back in the RV. They made it as far as Chesapeake, Virginia, last night and then parked in a store lot to get a few hours of sleep. That’s still a few hours out from Carova Beach, so he decided to get an early start.
