by Rysa Walker
“Did you feel anything weird a moment ago?” I ask Aaron. “Like something brushing against your forehead. Almost like a feather.”
“Yeah,” he says. “When I went back to get the scanner. I just thought it was my hair. Is that what you felt when Dacia read your mind?”
“No. I don’t think it’s Dacia. That was different. More like Pop Rocks on your skin. This was much more . . . delicate, I guess. And fleeting. Both times it was gone almost before I noticed it. Plus, Dacia has a tough time getting inside your head without touching you.”
Taylor turns off her phone. “You guys should do the same. This is too freakin’ creepy.”
Aaron shakes his head. “I . . . don’t think that matters, Tay. It’s not like they’re haunted or something. They’re just phones. Just tools that he’s using.”
I wince, remembering how one of my temporary hitchers used Cregg’s phone as a tool to get her revenge. After bursting into flames, the cell phone had partially melted and adhered to Cregg’s chest. And now he’s using our phones to taunt us.
“Don’t care,” Taylor says as she slides her phone to the other end of the kitchen counter. “I’m leaving mine off. If Graham Cregg is poking around in my head, I do not want to know.”
CHAPTER THREE
Somewhere in Kentucky
November 1, 2019, 2:14 p.m.
Deo seems a tiny bit cooler now, but that could be wishful thinking. I finally managed to take his temperature a few hours ago—it was 104 degrees—and after a five-minute struggle, I got him to swallow a few sips of orange juice to wash down another dose of Tylenol. I’m tempted to stick the thermometer in his mouth again, but he’s already a little restless, and I don’t want to wake him. I tuck the covers back around him and let the motion of the road under our wheels rock him to sleep.
We’ll need to be stationary with a decent internet hookup for the meeting with Magda this afternoon, but none of us could stay put after we got the texts from Cregg. It felt like we were being watched, so hanging out the rest of the day at that RV park wasn’t an option, even though it’s entirely possible that the watcher is moving right along with us. Two more messages arrived for Aaron while we were packing up the trailer to leave. Each time he had that itchy feeling just above his eyebrows.
Now, all three of us are hypersensitive, feeling that weird tickling sensation even when we don’t get a text. It reminds me of this time when a girl at my foster home had lice. Every single kid in the house, and most of the adults, went around scratching their heads for days, even though we were all checked and came up clean. Just the idea of something crawling around on our heads was enough to make us itchy.
Aaron picked a highway at random, one we hadn’t already been on, and started driving. We debated tossing the phones and getting new ones. Taylor was 100 percent behind that idea, even though she had to admit it doesn’t make much difference. The problem isn’t that Cregg has our phone numbers, even though I’m still not sure how he got them. The problem is that he can get into our heads. Unless there’s a way to stop that intrusion, new phones would be pointless.
Deo’s phone has been in silent mode, but when I checked it a few minutes ago, there were three messages waiting from earlier this morning. I’m guessing they’re all from The Bard, but I didn’t read them. Deo’s asleep, not to mention half delirious with fever. Looking at the texts would be too much like peeking at his dreams.
The bacon and toast I made this morning, long past cold, are on a ledge on the other side of his bunk. I lean across him to retrieve the plate, but just as I grab it, a strange noise—a high-pitched, almost electrical whine—fills my head.
nnnnnNNNNNN
“—seen those hummingbird feeders, right? The ones that look like they have flowers around the bottom?”
“Sure.”
Aaron pauses, gauging traffic so that we can merge onto US 280 before continuing. “Well, this feeder had a nail straight through one of those flowers. Looked like somebody pounded it in with a hammer, but Peck swears it flew straight out of that tree house and lodged in the feeder. And the house itself—there’s an indentation in the siding shaped exactly like a two-by-four. Assuming the old guy’s telling the truth, it’s a miracle no one was killed.”
I glance down at the oddly shaped scrap of green notepaper in the center of my palm and feel a wave of relief. “At least we can find them now. Let the parents—the little girl, too—know they’re not alone. Doreen said that wasn’t the only time she’d done something like that. And the dad . . . like Peck said, he’s not stable. They could be in serious—”
NNNNNNnnnnn
When I snap out of the vision, the first thing that hits my senses is that weird metallic scent I noticed earlier. It’s joined by the fainter aroma of the bacon, which is now scattered, along with the triangles of toast, all over the bed and the carpet.
I sit there for a moment, thankful that I slumped to the floor this time rather than pitching straight forward. There’s still a bruise on my forehead from where I whacked it on the sink at that rest stop the last time one of Jaden’s visions occurred. Another fall like that, and I’d have to seriously consider walking around in a helmet.
The jolt seems to have knocked down the wall around Daniel and Jaden, too, because Jaden says:
Yeah. I got so I could feel them comin’ on, too. Not much notice, but enough to keep me from crackin’ my head open.
You mean the noise? That whining sound, like the emergency broadcast signal?
Nah. I’d just feel kind of woozy for a second. But, hey, this is your brain. Everyone’s wired differently. Maybe that noise is your cue to stop and drop before you roll.
The flashes that hit when I’m fully awake are much clearer, much easier to hold on to, but the details still skitter away like a dream if I don’t pin them down. So I focus on the vision, trying to mentally catalog everything I can remember. The paper in my hand . . . pale green, folded, but with irregular edges. It had contact information on it for one of the second-generation Delphi kids—someone like me, who inherited the ability from a parent who was in the program. I remember feeling happy we’d managed to get the information but also worried about something the woman—Doreen Peck—had told me.
Aaron and I were in the truck, but I don’t think we were pulling the trailer. The intersection is clear in my mind. A gas station on the right as we turn onto US 280. That rings a bell, but it’s faint enough that I’m pretty sure it’s not one of my own memories. More like some memory left behind by one of my hitchers. Josephine seems most likely. Her first husband was a long-haul driver, and she preferred riding with him to staying in the tiny apartment they shared in Opelika. They spent many hours on US 280, which runs between Birmingham and Savannah, before the marriage went belly up.
I’m used to digging around in my hitcher files, but I’m not used to being watched while I do it. Daniel’s presence feels almost physical, like he’s reading over my shoulder.
Are there Army posts along the route?
Umm . . . yeah. Fort Benning.
Then that’s where you should start. The adepts they’ve been tracking are almost always within thirty miles of a post.
Why?
A lot of their parents are still in the military. Some might have retired, but even then, they usually stick close for the medical benefits, cheaper groceries at the commissary, stuff like that.
Jaden is saying something now, but it’s like he’s in a tunnel. The space inside my head isn’t massive enough for him to be that far away, although I’ve begun to think it’s a lot like Doctor Who’s TARDIS—bigger on the inside. Or maybe my head just hasn’t figured out how to process these internal conversations. I’ve never had two hitchers in my head at the same time who actually spoke to each other. The only other time I had double occupancy, one was on her way out, and the other was still trying to figure out where the hell his body was.
I guess Jaden was asking Daniel for the floor, because I feel them switch places i
n the queue.
I’ve been thinkin’ about those texts and wanted to mention this kid at The Warren. One of the second-gen adepts. Thirteen, maybe fourteen, years old. Most everyone called him Snoop Dogg, which was funny ’cause he was as white as they come. I didn’t know him that well, but he was really upset one day, and my roommate, Will, talked to him—
Jaden laughs.
Although I guess you couldn’t call what they did talkin’ since they never said a word. Just mental chitchat. Anyway, Will said the boy was really good with telepathy close-up—in fact, he had a tough time controlling it, kind of like Will did. But Cregg’s people were also trainin’ him to pick up short bursts of thought long-distance.
How long-distance?
Really long-distance. Across state lines, maybe even cross-country. He’d given them financial information from some dude on Wall Street. Stuff from a few politicians, too. I didn’t get the sense that distance was a limitation so much as stability and stamina. He could only hold the connection a second or two at a time, so he had to grab as much as he could. Kind of like with my visions . . . he couldn’t control it. They kept pushing him to try harder, but when he pushed too hard, it would be weeks before he could do it again. Only—
Only what?
I could have sworn Will said he was relocated. That he wasn’t at The Warren anymore. Will was upset about it, worried that maybe the kid snapped or something, from how hard they’d been pushing him. But yeah, they could be using Snoop to pluck phone numbers out of your head. And he could be relayin’ those little snippets of thought to Cregg. If you’re close by, he can just grab the thoughts out of thin air, the same way Will did. But for people at a distance, he needs something that belonged to you—kind of like Taylor when she locates people.
But . . . I didn’t leave anything behind. Well, except for the clothes I wore when they brought me in. I think that was true for Deo, too. Would they even have had time to collect those with The Warren burning down around them? And either way, it doesn’t really explain Aaron.
I don’t add Taylor, even though I’m pretty sure that if we turn on her phone, we’re going to find several messages in iambic pentameter.
Jaden responds with a mental shrug. Then he swaps places with Daniel again.
Damn it. Could you guys stop trading places so quickly? You’re making me queasy.
Sorry. Doesn’t matter whether they grabbed your clothes or not. Ashley and the other techs had already packed up the blood samples and other items from the med lab when the Delphi crew was told that we might have to relocate on short notice. I can’t imagine anything being better for tracking you than your own blood.
Still doesn’t explain how they could track Aaron . . .
I scoop Deo’s uneaten breakfast back onto the plate and carry it into the kitchen. There’s a video intercom on one wall near the kitchen that connects to the truck. I tap the call button, and the interior of the truck pops up a second later on the small screen.
“What’s up?” Aaron says.
I start to speak, but then I notice Taylor’s head. Most of her auburn hair is covered by a shiny silver hat. “Is that . . . aluminum foil?”
She colors slightly. “Yes. So what? We already know that at least some of the conspiracy theories are true. Maybe a tinfoil hat actually affords some sort of protection. I’m perfectly willing to look stupid if there’s a chance it will keep a homicidal maniac from combing through my brain for information. I’ll get a stocking cap later and line it with foil so it’s not as obvious, but this will have to do for now.”
What truly scares me is that Taylor’s comment almost makes sense. If I thought Taylor’s solution would keep Cregg and his mental bloodhound out of my head, I might be willing to give it a try, but even Bruno didn’t believe foil hats provided any sort of protection.
As worked up as Taylor is about this, I’m almost hesitant to stay on the topic. But they need to know what Jaden told me about Cregg’s psychic spy, and maybe it will make them feel better to know that it’s not actually Cregg in our heads. One of his lackeys, yes—but not Cregg.
“It might not even be this kid,” I add, once I’ve brought them up to speed, “since Cregg shouldn’t have anything personal of yours to track you with. But if it is him, Jaden says he can’t keep it up for long. Just short bursts, and then he’s tapped out for days, maybe even weeks. Have you gotten any more texts?”
“One,” Aaron says, “just before I started driving. But nothing for the past hour or so. What I don’t get is why Cregg would do this. He’s got a tactical advantage now, if he can occasionally snag information from our minds. Why not keep that secret? Now that we know, we’ll be more cautious, more careful about what we think.”
“It doesn’t work that way, though, at least not long term. I wish it did. There are many times that I’d be overjoyed to keep my thoughts shielded from my hitchers. I can manage it for a while with my walls. But I have to sleep, and even when I’m awake, my mind strays, usually to the very thing I’m trying to block out. Here’s an example—for the next few minutes, don’t think about pink elephants.”
There’s a long silence, and then Aaron says, “Yeah, I see what you mean.”
“So telling us is actually to Cregg’s advantage,” Taylor says. “He can still find out what we’re thinking, and he can scare us at the same time. Maybe scare us enough that we give up and go home. And, to be honest, that sounds like an exceptionally good idea to me. I’m tired of driving around in freakin’ circles waiting on Magda’s instructions.”
Aaron sighs. “As you’ve said at least a dozen times today. Give it a rest.”
“I would probably agree with you, Taylor. But . . . we actually have a destination now.” They both give me an expectant stare, and I continue. “Fort Benning, Georgia. And we need to run a search for a woman named Doreen Peck, to see if we can locate her exact address.”
Taylor looks confused, but then recognition dawns on her face, and she heaves an exasperated sigh. “Great. Another coming-attractions trailer. Does anyone get shot this time?”
Near Louisville, Kentucky
November 1, 2019, 4:32 p.m.
When the video call from Sam comes through, I’m surprised to see he’s not alone. Michele—Aaron, Taylor, and Daniel’s mom—is also in the room.
And so is Daniel. Or, at least, his body is there, hooked up to a variety of tubes and wires. I don’t think it’s the same hospital room—this one is still small, but it’s larger than the little nook they had him parked in before. The biggest change, however, is that the monitor shows steady blips, up and down. While I don’t have a clue what those blips mean, I’m positive it’s better than the flat line I saw the last time I was in the same room with Daniel.
“We were going to do this at the office,” Sam says, “but your mom wanted to see you, and we try not to leave Daniel by himself, so I said we’d set up here. Porter said to tell all of you hello, by the way. He wanted to be here, too, but as you can see, this room is a tad small, and your mom seeing you takes priority. Hang on and let me see if I can get Magda in on the call.”
While we wait, Aaron pushes a button to send the video to the large television screen over the electric fireplace. I get my first clear glimpse of Michele’s face a few moments later when Sam pivots the computer around. The circles under her eyes look almost like bruises. She doesn’t look like she’s slept or showered since we left Baltimore. The secrecy feels even crueler to me now that I see the toll that the past few days have taken on her, and I send a mental grumble Daniel’s way. He doesn’t fire off a snarky comment in return, so either he’s not following things too well from behind the wall or his resolve is weakening about keeping his mother in the dark.
Aaron also decided to keep them in the dark about Cregg contacting us, at least for the time being. Taylor disagreed initially, although that may have been, in part, because she wanted to leave her tinfoil hat on. Aaron eventually convinced her that there was no point in worrying the
m unnecessarily. I didn’t weigh in, figuring they know their family better than I do. But I definitely don’t want to inform Magda until we have a better sense of who she is and exactly what her goals are.
“Okay,” Sam says. “I think I’ve got it.”
The screen goes blank for a moment, then splits into two frames: the hospital room on the left and a middle-aged, slightly overweight woman on the right. I’m surprised to see the night sky through the windows behind her, but then I guess London is five or six hours ahead of us. She’s not at all what I’d imagined the wife of the celebrity psychic host of Breaking the Veil with Erik Bell would be. True, it’s been a few years since the show was on air, but Bruno never missed an episode, and Erik Bell’s ruggedly handsome face is vivid in my memory.
The room behind Magda looks like something out of Architectural Digest, with a vaulted ceiling and lavish furniture in varying shades of white and gray. Despite the stylish background, however, she’s wearing what appear to be workout clothes. Her graying hair is parted in the middle and pulled back into a severe knot that doesn’t exactly flatter her features. She looks almost as tired as Michele.
“Magda,” Michele says, “I’m glad you could join us. I know your schedule can be . . . unpredictable.”
I assume she’s referring to Magda’s twin daughters. They were affected by the Delphi drug given to Erik Bell, although no one has bothered to explain exactly how they were affected. All I know is what Aaron told me—that the girls are so intensely “gifted” they can barely function.
“We have about half an hour. The nanny can handle them alone at bath time. Usually.” Magda sits up a little straighter, putting on a let’s-get-down-to-business face. Her tone is formal, and I can’t really pin down the accent beyond European. There’s British in the mix but also a hint of something else I can’t place.
Sam picks up her cue, and a quick round of introductions follows.
