The Delphi Revolution (The Delphi Trilogy Book 3)

by Rysa Walker

  “They think they can sell it,” Smith says. “With some cut-and-paste work, and your testimony. They’ve fed three major news outlets pieces of information from the documents you sent over last night, so we’ve already got evidence of a conspiracy. All they have to do now is piece together a confession to match the evidence. The Senator was a publicity whore, we all know that. There are hundreds of hours of that man talking into a camera. And they’ll have a body—”

  “Which died of natural causes,” Deo says. “Okay, not natural natural, but not suicide.”

  “Pfft.” Taylor waves her hand dismissively. “That part will be a piece of cake. I think the bigger issue is going to be convincing people they didn’t see what they think they saw. Not the taped stuff, but the ones who actually saw their neighbor set something on fire without striking a match.”

  “There weren’t that many, though,” Smith says. “The serum only worked on those who had underlying abilities. It made more people angry than psychic, and more people sick than angry. We don’t have to convince them all, anyway. Just most. And . . . we’ve got people pushing the LSD-in-the-water-supply angle on social media.”

  “Could that really work?” Aaron asks.

  “They’re saying it’s a new variety of LSD, several thousand times as potent, and that the government is trying to cover it up because . . . some reason.” Smith gives him a grim smile. “Depends on how many idiots out there retweet it or send it to their cousin on Facebook. So . . . yeah, I think it will work.”

  “PSYOP,” Daniel says. “Persuade, Change, Influence.”

  “And retweet,” Taylor says. “Don’t forget that one.”

  NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

  May 2, 2020

  A source close to the investigation reports that the death of Senator Ronald Cregg last week was due to an intentional overdose of fentanyl. This follows the release yesterday of a videotaped confession by Senator Cregg in which he confirmed leaked documents showing that the Delphi Project and the WOCAN terrorist threat was a hoax designed to help win his party’s nomination and, ultimately, the presidency.

  Cregg’s family and sources within the campaign initially disputed the video, claiming it was faked. Jerrianne Cregg held a press conference earlier today, however, to confirm that her husband was under considerable stress and may have exaggerated some aspects of the program. She does not, however, believe allegations that Cregg or anyone connected to him was involved in drugging the water supply in cities visited during the campaign.

  Federal authorities stress that there is no evidence to support the claim that any terrorist group has contaminated water supplies within the United States.

  EPILOGUE

  Carova Beach, North Carolina

  July 13, 2020, 2:21 p.m.

  Aaron slows the truck as we pass the two beach houses, both with large For Sale signs out front. The sign at Sandalford is in almost the same spot as when I first saw the place last November. The windows have been repaired, along with the assorted scorch marks on the walls. Magda is, of course, determined to make a profit on the place, so the price is several hundred thousand dollars above what she paid.

  I don’t walk, or even run, along this stretch of beach. There are ghosts here, just not the one I’m seeking. And so we’ve picked a spot a bit farther up to do this, a spot where Kelsey used to walk with some of the younger adepts to collect shells.

  We’re not expecting to find her there. I checked the location long ago. But Deo decided earlier this week that it’s time. He needs the closure. Maybe we both do. I still have the dream where I’m searching for her spirit. It’s my one recurring actual dream mixed in with a regular rotation of exit dreams from my recently departed hitchers.

  It’s now been over two months since Kelsey’s daughter placed the dark-blue pouch in my hand at the memorial service and asked if we would sprinkle the ashes near the pier at North Beach where Kelsey and her sister used to go fishing. She asked us in part because they were flying back to Indianapolis that night, but also because Deo and I now own Kelsey’s house at North Beach.

  When we learned Kelsey had left the place to us in her will, we felt like thieves. It should go to her family. But her children and grandchildren all assured us that Kelsey had told them she was changing her will when she petitioned the state for legal guardianship of Deo. It was only a small part of her estate, and they supported her decision. Other people might have been suspicious, but Kelsey’s children seem to have inherited her generous nature. If they resented her bequest to us in any way, they hid it remarkably well.

  And so Kelsey’s last gift to us was the one thing I’ve never really had—a place to call home. Deo and I both thought perhaps we’d find her spirit there on that fishing pier. I ran my hand over the boards at the end of that pier over and over, but the only thing I picked up was splinters. Kelsey wasn’t on the fishing pier. Not at the beach house either. Those are places she was happy, but none of them was her last happy place.

  We saved the last of her ashes to sprinkle here. Sandalford wasn’t Kelsey’s last happy place either, but it was her last helpful place. A place where she felt needed, and that’s a kind of happiness all its own.

  There are also some ashes mixed with the sand about eight miles up the coast, where construction has begun on the new Warren. I wanted Kelsey to be part of that. The adepts have been there for the past two months, in temporary buildings. Roughly twenty acres are now classified top secret. Satellite photos of the area will not show the buildings under construction, which are designed to blend into the terrain. We’ve flown into the area on several occasions, and the location is hard to spot.

  A narrow strip of beach remains open to anyone who wants to make the trek into North Carolina on foot, but large red-and-white signs are posted along the tree line: Warning No Trespassing Restricted Area. Some who’ve made the hike recently may have noticed that odd things tend to happen along that stretch of beach. Waterspouts have been known to emerge out of nowhere. You might feel a faint brush across your forehead, like a feather or a spiderweb. And in the midst of the quiet sounds of nature, you may hear a giggle and someone saying you have a nice zadek.

  Maria held a meeting just before the private groundbreaking ceremony to vote on a new name for the place. There were three finalists, and I don’t even remember which was chosen, because everyone just calls it The Warren. That name will never have warm and fuzzy connotations for me, but to the adepts who lived there, it was never about the building. It was certainly never about the Fudds or Graham Cregg or the endless tests. The Warren was their community, their sense of belonging. And if calling it The Warren will help the wabbits hold on to that, it doesn’t matter what it’s named on paper.

  Taylor and Daniel should be here with us today. It only seems right. But Deo didn’t want to put this off any longer, and they’re both really busy. They spent weeks preparing for Daniel’s testimony where he acknowledged leaking the files that he found while working at Python Diagnostic, all of which incriminated Senator Cregg in the Delphi hoax. My father’s testimony was even trickier because he had to admit to lying in his previous appearance before Congress. That’s technically a felony, and there was a lot of legal wrangling prior to his being guaranteed immunity in exchange for his help in exposing the conspiracy. He’s in DC for a few more weeks, but then he’s planning to spend a few months out in Colorado where his sister(-in-law) runs a small art gallery.

  Pfeifer has been coming to North Beach on the weekends, and I’m gradually getting to know my parents. It’s hard, though. Like most abandoned kids, I spent the first part of my life wanting to find my family. That was my wish on each falling star and every birthday candle, and I grew a little more disillusioned each time it didn’t come true.

  At some point, though, I realized that wish had come true. Deo and Kelsey were my family. And even though it’s not rational, even though I don’t really blame my parents for what’s happened, I can’t help but feel that some
evil twist of fate made me trade Kelsey for them.

  I’m hoping to join them in Colorado, at least for a short visit. My parents—both of them—are now convinced that Ro couldn’t help what happened. I get the feeling that there’s a lot they aren’t telling me, but the gist is that Rowena was seventeen and the decision was taken out of her hands. When she tried to find me later that year, she was told I was being adopted. A happy ending for me, or so she thought. She set aside the money my parents had left me and resolved to find me when I reached eighteen.

  I think—I hope—that I’ll grow close to my new family in time. But they don’t feel like family yet. It’s not comfortable, like being with Deo and Aaron. Or, for that matter, with Daniel and Taylor.

  Daniel began his new job with Homeland Security two weeks ago. He has an official title, which is pretty much meaningless, but his real job is liaison between the government and The Warren. I think he’s feeling a bit overwhelmed with the paperwork and the research, and he’s been relying on Taylor to help behind the scenes. Taylor is the detail person. Daniel is the salesman. He’s good at persuading people to see things his way.

  The best thing about the job is that it allows him more time with Caleb, who shares one of the larger temporary huts with Sophie and Lily. Daniel isn’t willing to let the doctors at The Warren test the new treatment, Cerecyclo, on Caleb just yet. But they’re having some success with a moderate dose of risperidone. It’s easier for him to be around the other adepts now.

  When we visited in early June, the first thing we saw was Caleb and Daniel sitting in one of those little kiddie pools together, laughing as Caleb levitated a big ball of water over Daniel’s head. That sight dissolved the last tether holding Ashley to this realm, and the next day she was gone.

  Since then, Aaron and I have been happily, blissfully alone. And we’ve made exceptionally good use of our privacy.

  Despite the diligent efforts of the government, I wasn’t sure that the hoax story would work. It was a huge scandal, and there were major holes in the story. Holes big enough to drive a tank through. The press prodded at those holes for a few weeks, and then they moved on to the next scandal. Because there’s always a next scandal.

  As usual, the conspiracy sites protested that the public had been fooled. For once, they were right. And the little part of Bruno in me was thrilled to belong to the small select crowd who knows that it was all true.

  The one thing that keeps suspicion about the Delphi Project just the tiniest bit alive is the occasional odd story that defies any quick or rational explanation. A carnival psychic who is a little too good. Reports of a five-foot-nothing woman shoving the moving van that is blocking her parking space into a streetlight. An eighteen-year-old stockbroker who’s having way too much success to be legit. That sort of stuff. And since it sometimes takes a psychic to catch a psychic, Taylor thinks it might be time to borrow the RV that Porter bought back from Magda and hit the road. Maybe paint some 1970s-style flowers on the side and call ourselves the New Scooby Gang.

  I think she could be right.

  But for now, we need to say good-bye. Deo is the last out when Aaron parks the truck. He’s in navy blue from hair to toe, even his eyeliner matching the velvet bag he’s holding. As usual, he makes me feel underdressed, but I’m used to it.

  “Are you really ready to do this, D? Because we can wait. We’ll be visiting The Warren again at some point, and we can come back.”

  “No. It’s time.”

  And looking around, I think he’s correct. The beach looks right, the way I remember it from the vision. We’ve triggered that vision again, four times, and it’s always the same odd, choppy version. I don’t even think it’s sequential. Maybe Jaden’s visions are starting to fritz out. Or maybe Maggie’s blocking interfered with the signal initially and it’s like a recording—all you’ll ever see is what was captured the first go-around.

  I hope it’s the latter. It would be nice to keep something of Jaden. I haven’t been willing to test whether I have any gifts from Penelope or Graham Cregg. Those aren’t abilities that I want. Daniel may be able to toe that line, and only nudge for truth, justice, and the American way, but I don’t need that sort of temptation. I do know, however, that the Furies left behind a little something extra. Just a tickle, really. I can’t rip up a coastline or flip a jeep over with a wave of my hand. But I could move the ball and the cup if I were to retake that original test back at The Warren. And if we wanted to toast marshmallows like we did that time with Kel . . . sey—

  I stop and stare at the beach up ahead. It’s a good half mile away, and I’m almost certain that’s the spot. But I won’t get Deo’s hopes up. Not until I know for sure.

  “Guys, I’ve got too many pent-up nerves. I need to run a bit. Meet you up ahead.” And I take off before they can tell me I’m crazy or that this really isn’t appropriately sober behavior for the occasion.

  The three logs are still pushed together in a triangle, right where we left them, and one of the sticks we used to roast marshmallows is wedged beneath the log where Kelsey sat. The rain washed away the remnants of sticky white goo long ago, but the tip of the stick is still charred and black.

  Have others built a fire here this summer? Could they tell that this was someone’s last happy place? Because she’s here. Not screaming like in my dream. No longer in pain. But more like the beach after the rain. Quiet. Peaceful. Not quite happy. Not quite where we were when she sat around this pit hamming it up just to make Deo laugh.

  When I look back up, Deo has stopped walking and is staring at me. Aaron must recognize the place at the same moment, because the two guys I love most in the world, who both hate to run on principle, are sprinting toward me.

  “Is she there?” Deo is smiling, but it’s tinged with worry.

  “She’s here. But, D . . . I think she’d find her way on her own soon. Maybe just from us being here. I wanted to see if you’re sure. If both of you are sure.”

  Aaron knows what I’m asking. It’s not just the loss of privacy. It’s the loss of peace and serenity as the nightmares, which have gradually faded away in the past few weeks, come roaring back. Reliving Kelsey’s last moments will be brutal, and if it’s brutal for me, it’ll be brutal for Aaron. But he pulls me toward him and says, “You never need to ask me that question. Never. If Kelsey’s here, and she can’t move on yet, you’ll help her. It’s who you are, Anna. It’s what you do. It’s part of you.”

  Deo seems torn. “I don’t want to hold her back, but . . . the only thing to do is let Kelsey decide. She knows we love her. If she’s at peace, then I say we’re good.”

  So I kneel next to the makeshift fire pit and pick up the pointy stick. The one Kelsey waved through the air, shouting Avada Marshmahllow, while Deo laughed so hard he fell into the sand.

  Then I break down the wall that Kelsey taught me to build when I was small and alone. When I needed someone to protect me.

  And I let Kelsey decide.

  Because Deo’s right. Either way, we’re good.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing the final book in a trilogy is truly bittersweet. If I count the time that Anna and her friends had to wait patiently for me to finish writing the CHRONOS books, I’ve spent the past six years with these characters in my head. I’m going to miss them. Even when real life occasionally mirrored fiction a bit too closely, these characters kept me eager to uncover what came next in their story. I occasionally had to lure them back with a glass of merlot and chunk of extra-dark chocolate, but I owe them a huge debt of gratitude for not running out on me when things got tough.

  If you’ve made it to the end of this series, you probably know that I like to add a brief discussion of settings and circumstances that are based on real life.

  The Delphi Project is fictional, but predecessor programs like Stargate and Project MK-Ultra are based on actual history. Two of the individuals mentioned, Hella Hammid and Ingo Swann, were participants in the early research on remote viewing
that took place at Stanford Research Institute in Menlo Park, California. The Church Committee Reports (1975 to 1976) are a treasure trove of information on this period in American history.

  When last I checked, the Tome School and Bainbridge Naval Training Center in Port Deposit, Maryland, remain abandoned and undeveloped. There are a number of locals who continue to believe the area is haunted, but there’s no evidence that psychic “Zippos” started the fire that destroyed Memorial Hall.

  If you google Brushy Mountain State Penitentiary, you’ll find that it is an abandoned prison where you can book a tour with paranormal investigators. They also hold concerts and other events on the site. My descriptions of the location were greatly enriched by a number of online photographs by John K. Clark. You can see them on his blog: http://johnkclark.com/blog/2015/5.

  Oak Ridge National Laboratory was actually the site of a break-in back in 2012—by an eighty-four-year-old nun and two middle-aged companions. Their goal wasn’t psychic terror or destruction but rather an antinuclear protest.

  The Sunsphere was built as part of the 1982 World’s Fair in Knoxville. It was still standing when I drove past this week and does remind me a bit of a giant butterscotch Dum Dum lollipop.

  The Outer Banks of North Carolina are obviously real, and gorgeous, and you should go if you get the chance. There is even a long strip just north of the North Carolina line that is accessible only by foot, but to the best of my knowledge, it is a sanctuary for birds and wild horses, not psychic children.

  My team at Skyscape is always a joy to work with. This book is dedicated to Courtney Miller, who has been my editor since Timebound. She has moved onward and upward, and I will miss her wise counsel tremendously. Paul Morrissey and Adrienne Procaccini have done an incredible job since Courtney’s departure, and I was delighted to have the opportunity to work with both of them again. Amara Holstein, my developmental editor for the entire Delphi Trilogy, has consistently given me sage advice and helped trim away the deadweight to keep the narrative on track. I’m also grateful to the wonderful crew behind the scenes at Skyscape who copyedit, proofread, and keep things running smoothly.