The Delphi Resistance (The Delphi Trilogy Book 2)

by Rysa Walker

  Daniel confirms it.

  Definitely Lab 1.

  Do either of you recognize the girl?

  Jaden answers this time.

  Svetlana, although she’s younger in this video than when I knew her. One of the Zippos. I remember her ’cause the cafeteria would set out a group birthday cake once a month. And they’d always put a candle on top, but just for show. They didn’t light it, but sometimes one of the Zippos would do it if the Fudds weren’t watching. Only Svetlana torched the entire top of the cake. Melted the candle, too. We had to pick bits of wax out of the frosting.

  I press play again. The girl, who is about fifteen, with reddish-brown hair and pale skin, frowns slightly, concentrating on the pile of paper in front of her. After a few seconds, one of the crumpled balls begins to darken along the edges, and soon the entire pile is in flames.

  The girl squeals, but not in fear. There’s a happy smile on her face as she looks toward the camera.

  “Ya zrobyv tse! I did it!”

  “Yes, I see,” a voice replies off camera. I feel Jaden tense up, but I don’t think it’s because he actually recognizes the voice. It’s just the tone that’s familiar—that same flat, almost-bored tone that all of the guards used when dealing with the adepts.

  The scene changes to one of the smaller rooms where I spent an entire day being tested for basic psychic ability. A boy of around twelve is seated in one of the wooden chairs, leaning in toward the table. Thin wires of different colors are taped to his scalp. He stares intently at the center of the table where two red plastic cups sit about two inches apart.

  I remember this test. We sat there for a very boring three or four minutes staring at unmoving cups. Then we shifted over to staring at unmoving rubber balls, and then to unmoving paper clips. Finally, without comment, the guard jotted something down on her clipboard and removed the wires from my head.

  This kid, however, is an entirely different story. They ask if he’s ready, and as soon as he says yes, both cups begin to move simultaneously, in opposite directions, as if they’re being repelled by a magnetic field. When the cups reach the edge of the table, they tip slightly and dip down about an inch. A tiny bit of water sloshes out of the cup on the right. The boy’s eyes narrow in concentration, and the cups slowly rise back up to the level of the table, righting themselves. They hover for a few seconds, oblivious to gravity, until a voice says, “Put them back now.” The cups slide into their original positions.

  Unlike the girl in the lab, the boy doesn’t cheer. He just slumps down in the chair, rubbing his forehead and looking very much like he wants to cry.

  The next scene is in the lab again, where a small child is seated in one of the metal chairs, but then the picture cuts back to the anchorwoman. “I’m sorry, Senator Cregg. We have to take a commercial break. Can we pick this up when we return?”

  Annoyance at her request causes the Senator’s mask to slip for an instant, but then the smile flows back across his face. “By all means, Carissa. Gotta pay the bills.”

  A commercial comes on, and I watch, not even realizing I’m holding the remote. Aaron gently pries it from my hand and slides it across the bar to Taylor.

  “You okay?” he asks me as Taylor fast-forwards through the commercials. “You don’t have to watch this if—”

  “I’m okay.” The words come out a little more sharply than I intended, but Aaron doesn’t take offense. He gently squeezes my knee, leaving his hand there when the video starts again.

  “Welcome back to First Light. I’m Carissa Daly, and for those of you just joining us, we’re with Senator Ron Cregg, current presidential candidate and a member of the Senate Intelligence Committee, who has just made some rather startling allegations concerning the separatist group known as WOCAN.”

  The anchor gives a brief overview, and once Senator Cregg returns to the screen, she says, “Perhaps you could run the first two pieces of . . . evidence . . . again.”

  His mouth tightens slightly at her hesitation on the word evidence, but he says, “By all means.”

  When the clip of the third test begins, I realize that the child in the chair is much younger than the others. Her feet don’t even reach the ground. On the other side of her are maybe a half-dozen electric and electronic devices—a laptop, a lamp, and a cell phone, among others.

  A woman’s voice asks, “Are you ready now?” There’s a slightly annoyed emphasis on the last word.

  The girl’s reply is small and frightened. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Hunter zooms to the front of my head so fast that I jump, my arm sending the cereal bowl flying off the bar, leftover milk spraying out in an arc behind it. I feel myself being sucked backward, completely taken off guard.

  “Bree! That’s Bree!”

  The voice is mine, just . . . younger sounding, somehow. Hunter has never taken over before, but he’s front and center now, so focused that it takes all my effort to push him back and regain control.

  Taylor stops the video, and both she and Aaron stare at me, alarmed. I hold one hand up and then return my attention to the chaos inside my head. Hunter is yelling as Daniel and Jaden do their best to calm him down.

  Hunter, I’m sorry.

  On the other two occasions when I’ve addressed Hunter directly, he curled up into a fetal ball, once even pulling his thumb into his mouth. He’s more frightened of me than he is of Jaden’s gory image—or I guess I should say my mind’s gory representation of Jaden. This time, Hunter flinches at my voice, but he doesn’t move away.

  I need you to work with me, not against me, okay? Is that your sister?

  Yes. Her name is Sabrina. But we call her Bree. That’s her. What is this Warren place you’re all thinking about? Why is she there?

  Hunter can probably tell that I don’t want to answer, that I’m blocking off some of my thoughts. And I really do need to block them, because I have no idea if his sister made it out of The Warren when the fire started. Even if she did make it out, there’s still no guarantee Bree or any of the other children are alive.

  So I choose my words carefully, trying to keep any stray thoughts from seeping through.

  It’s a place where they test kids like you and Bree. To see what they can do. What special thing can Bree do, Hunter?

  Same thing as me. She can break electrical things when she wants. Not just little things, like me. Big ones, too. But . . . she can do a bunch of other things, too. Like, sometimes she also knows stuff she shouldn’t know. I can’t do that. And we could always talk without talking.

  Judging from the items around her, I’m guessing that the Delphi people are not interested in Sabrina’s telepathy skills, although I file that away as something we may be able to use.

  But why is she there? Mom said my dad stole her. That he took her to Wyoming. Is this testing place in Wyoming?

  No. But . . . I’m sure Bree is okay, Hunter. We’re going to find her and get her back home.

  Unless. You were thinking unless. I could hear it. You mean unless she’s dead like me, right?

  I sigh. Since hiding my thoughts was clearly a bust, I opt for honesty.

  I don’t know, Hunter. None of us know right now. But I promise I’ll try my best to find an answer for you. In order for me to do that, though, you need to stay calm. To stay back here with Daniel and Jaden.

  I wait until he gives me a reluctant okay and then open my eyes. “The girl is Hunter’s sister. Hit play.”

  Taylor runs the video back a few seconds, and we again hear Bree say she’s ready.

  The unseen voice tells her to start with the phone, and the camera moves in on the girl. Sabrina Bieler has ivory skin with a light sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. She’s missing the same two teeth that her brother is, and her reddish-blonde curls look like they haven’t seen a comb in days. Her lips tighten as she reaches out toward the cell phone. Even before her fingers brush it, I hear a crackling noise. Then the phone’s screen goes black.

  Hunter really wants c
ontrol of my hands so that he can reach out for Bree. But he’s also a little worried that getting too close to the TV when he’s this upset might destroy it.

  At the request of the guard, Bree moves on to the lamp, which sputters out when she touches the base. After that, she trashes the computer.

  The news anchor cuts in at this point, although the video of Bree continues to run in the background. “Senator Cregg, we’re running out of time. But before we go, surely you realize that no one is going to accept a claim like this on the basis of a video? A video, I might add, that could very easily be altered. We have people in the studio who could probably do something like this in a couple of hours.”

  The Senator’s jaw tightens slightly, but then he laughs. “Are you sure you want to admit that, Carissa?”

  She doesn’t return the laugh, and he continues. “Of course I realize that people will need more substantive proof. The video was just . . . shall we say, the teaser for the main event? I’m here this morning to make sure we get the widest possible audience for my press conference on Tuesday. Hopefully, once the media and the American people understand what is at stake, we’ll be able to get some action from our government.”

  “Okay then, Senator.” The anchorwoman gives him a puzzled, almost patronizing smile, and then she moves on to entertainment news.

  Taylor switches off the TV. “Don’t talk about anything important until I get back. I need to pee.”

  Aaron shakes his head as she leaves the room. “Taylor Quinn, the Queen of TMI.”

  I’m still staring at the blank screen. “Why are they doing this? Why would the Creggs want to expose the very program that they’ve taken such pains to hide?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Carova Beach, North Carolina

  November 12, 2019, 12:32 p.m.

  The puppy, whose name is currently Ein, happily chases the ball that Peyton and TJ are rolling back and forth across the carpet. I don’t know why the dog’s name is Ein. Deo says it’s short for Einstein, like in Back to the Future. Taylor says no, the name is from some anime show. I don’t particularly care, since I suspect the dog will have an entirely new name by this time tomorrow. All I know is that I’ve become quite attached to the little guy in the past few days. He can’t exactly run on the beach with me yet, but he’s happy to ride along in my jacket when we go for more leisurely walks.

  Since Magda has us in a holding pattern, waiting to see exactly what the Senator reveals in his press conference this afternoon, we’ve actually had time for leisurely walks the past few days. The weather has been pleasant, despite a brisk wind, and it’s been wonderful to get some fresh air, and even a little privacy. A place like this is a nice break from the city, and I think Porter was genuinely sorry to leave—although that could have partly been due to the fact that he had to drive Michele’s lavender Jeep when he went home.

  This afternoon, however, there’s no time for walks and no privacy at all, since I’m babysitting. After a tense first session with both parents in the room, Miranda brought Peyton alone to the second appointment, and today, Jasper was supposed to come. But Miranda dropped both kids off this morning, asking if we could watch them for a few hours after Peyton’s appointment with Kelsey. Miranda is helping another woman with a cleaning job in Corolla. They need the cash, she says, especially since Jasper has flat-out refused to take any money from Magda.

  Despite Jasper’s surly mood when he was here on Thursday, I was hoping he’d have chilled out enough to come today. I have a ton of questions about my parents, and Jasper avoided me on his last visit. He’s also refused to speak with me on the phone.

  But judging from the condition of Miranda’s face this morning when she dropped the kids off, her husband is the very opposite of chill. I didn’t ask any questions about the bruise on her right cheek, visible even under a thick layer of makeup, but just told her we’d be happy to watch the kids. Miranda was grateful—as she noted, she had nowhere else to leave them—but she also seemed really angry, so I’m guessing that the bruise is from Jasper, not another temper tantrum by Peyton. She seemed angry at me, too. Or maybe she’s just angry at my face, which is so much like that of the woman her husband apparently loved and lost.

  “Do it now, Pey.” TJ bounces the ball and watches as it rises into the air, hovering above the dog’s head, just out of reach. Ein yips. I think it’s more out of frustration than confusion. This poor pup’s understanding of gravity is likely to be seriously skewed by his current playmates.

  Peyton isn’t even looking at the ball now. Her eyes are on the puppy as he backs away, barking. When she looks at the ball again, it comes down. It bounces a few times and then rolls toward my feet, followed by the puppy.

  I scoop the dog into my lap and roll the ball toward Peyton. “How long can you float it in the air?”

  “She can hold it a loooong time,” says TJ. “I got the LEGO TIE Fighter for Christmas, and Peyton made it fly all around the living room. The wing came off when she landed it, but it was easy to pop it back on. That was so cool.”

  Peyton beams. This time, she doesn’t bounce the ball to get it started. It just levitates slowly upward from her hand and floats toward me, hanging in midair a few inches in front of my face. Her eyes stay on the ball while it’s moving, but then she looks back at Ein next to me. He’s standing on the very edge of the love seat, trying to figure out how to get down to the floor where the kids are.

  And then Peyton’s invisible hands lift Ein from the love seat and plop him on the carpet. He rushes over to the girl, climbing over her legs. I’m worried that he’s going to snag her tights, but then she falls backward on the floor, giggling as the puppy tumbles off her belly.

  The ball continues to hover in front of my nose, not moving at all. When I pluck it out of the air, Peyton’s eyes glance my way for a second, but then Ein takes off, and she follows on all fours, pretending she’s a puppy, too. Ein growls playfully when she reaches him, tugging on the edge of her sleeve.

  TJ’s eyes are still on me, even if his sister’s attention has strayed. “She can do it a lot longer than that. Bigger stuff, too.” He lowers his voice. “Especially when she’s mad. She don’t mean to hurt anybody, but . . . little kids get mad real easy.”

  As I watch his sister with the dog, Miranda’s words from the other day come back to me. No telling what Peyton might do if she got scared or if it scratched her.

  When Peyton is laughing and playing around with TJ and Ein, it’s all too easy to forget that she isn’t a typical preschooler and that there’s a dangerous side to her gift.

  I retrieve the puppy—just in case. Deo is out on the deck, so I tap on the patio door to get his attention.

  He slides the patio door open. “What’s up?”

  “I think the puppy might need a little time outside.” I shoot a meaningful glance toward Peyton as I hand him the pup.

  “I wanna go out, too!” Peyton says.

  There’s a whiny note in her voice that makes me nervous. But I have several lifetimes of parental memories at my disposal, and I know how to swing a diversion, especially when there are decent bribes at hand.

  “How about later? It’s snack and movie time! Let’s go see if there are any ice cream bars left in the freezer.”

  Deo’s mouth twists as he closes the door, so I’m not entirely surprised to find the freezer bare, despite the fact that there were three full twelve-count boxes when Miranda and I cleaned the house six days ago. I stop and send a text, adding ice cream to the shopping list on Taylor’s phone. She’s gone into town with Aaron to pick up groceries and meet with a firm Magda contacted to add security features and do some other renovations to the house.

  The kids settle for Oreos and milk. Peyton shoves the cookies into her mouth so quickly that I’m scared she’s going to choke, and then asks for more, saying she’s really, really, really hungry. I start to say no but then remember Taylor’s appetite after she does a remote viewing. Peyton might actually be hungry after
her tricks with the ball and the puppy just now.

  “I could get you some fruit? Or maybe cereal?” I ask, feeling a little guilty for not scrounging up a healthier snack.

  “More Oreos.” Her lower lip juts out angrily. I’m reminded of the scene where Veruca stomps her foot and sings “I Want It Now!” in the Willy Wonka movie.

  I glare back at her but then sigh and put the pack of cookies on the floor. Peyton is not my discipline problem, and there are a lot of fragile things in this house. Better to give the little Wookiee what she wants.

  Once I find a movie that satisfies them both, I go into the adjoining dining room with Aaron’s iPad. No reason I can’t babysit and research at the same time.

  I’ve already combed through the files Sam sent concerning my parents so many times that I could pretty much cite the facts verbatim, but I reflexively click on the link anyway. Leah Elaine Johnson was born in 1978 to the Reverend Thomas Johnson and his wife, Betty Fredericks Johnson, and grew up in a small town near Glen Burnie, Maryland. She had one sister, Rowena Rachel, who was eight years younger. Leah joined the military on her eighteenth birthday, three weeks after graduating from an unaccredited religious school. She was eventually stationed at Fort Bragg, in the PSYOPS unit.

  According to newspaper articles written after the shooting, that’s where she met Scott Pfeifer, which gels with what Jasper said. Pfeifer was nearly ten years her senior. He began working at Fort Bragg as a civilian consultant during his final year of grad school at Duke, where he earned a PhD in neurobiology. They were married in 1999 but divorced a few years later. My father was found incompetent to stand trial shortly after the shooting and was committed to a hospital for the criminally insane in Jessup, Maryland.