The Delphi Resistance (The Delphi Trilogy Book 2)

by Rysa Walker

  Taylor’s jaw tightens. “Jane. John. Why bother with the stupid fake names? Like he gives a damn about their safety.”

  Senator Cregg tells the reporters that he called local businesses and offered them a cash incentive to close their doors about an hour ago. “I was happy to do this at my own expense. I can’t guarantee that everyone will evacuate, but hopefully we can minimize the loss of life.”

  The camera pans toward the press. Almost every reporter, and a good number of the crowd behind them, has a phone or tablet out, no doubt checking current weather conditions in Tuscaloosa.

  Aaron is doing the same thing. A severe weather warning is in effect for the area, but there’s no mention of a tornado.

  “It will still be a few minutes before you discover that Jane is, as they say, the real deal,” the Senator says. “While we wait, I’d like to introduce another young lady. Unlike our first two guests, she doesn’t have any special talent, but she was held for over a year by the WOCAN separatists and can give us more information on their operation. Oksana?”

  Jaden and Daniel startle at the name, and so do I. Deo, who’s on the other sofa with Taylor, shoots me a puzzled look. Oksana was the name of one of the three women whose ghosts I picked up in the Delphi lab—the ones I call the Furies.

  The woman who walks on-screen isn’t Oksana, obviously. They’ve just borrowed the name. Compared to the other times I’ve seen her, she’s dressed down considerably, in a demure baby-blue sweater set and navy pants. She wears little to no makeup. Her hair has been lightened to a golden brown, a shade or two darker than my own. It’s now shoulder length, with a gentle curl at the ends. The overall effect makes her seem younger, more like a teen than a woman in her early twenties.

  But these are minor, superficial changes. The eyes are still the same ice blue. If I were there in person and close enough, I’m certain that a good yank on those curls would reveal short, nearly black hair beneath the wig.

  Plus, she’s wearing a glove. If I’d harbored any doubts that the woman was Dacia, that fact would have dispelled them. Not the black leather gloves she sported at the police station or the single black glove she wore at The Warren. Just one glove, but it’s cream colored. Dainty, like something you’d see on that show Mad Men.

  Deo is shaking his head. “That’s a serious fashion downgrade.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taylor says. “She’s in photographs on his campaign website, for God’s sake! People have seen her at functions . . .” She starts tapping something into her phone as the Senator and Dacia continue their charade. He’s telling her that she shouldn’t be nervous, that all she has to do is explain what she knows. That this is the first big step to keeping her and the entire country safe.

  The weirdest thing is that Dacia actually does seem nervous, flashing her doe eyes at the assembled members of the press as though she’s afraid they might bite. When she begins speaking, her voice is timid. Her accent, always thick, lapses further into broken English.

  A sick chill hits me. This isn’t the voice of the woman who interrogated me at the police station in DC, or the woman we heard in the forest last week. This sounds like the girl in my nightmares, like Dacia when she was Daciana. When the Senator’s psycho son was forcing her to climb the stairs from the basement and she was pleading with Molly to help her.

  I think it’s partly because Dacia’s a good actress. She’s had to hone those skills over the past few years working with Senator Cregg, shaking hands with donors and colleagues, digging around inside their brains for information that they can use to their advantage.

  But the hint of pain in her eyes as she speaks makes me suspect it goes deeper, that she sounds like her younger self because she’s tapping into those memories. She spends the first minute or so talking about being hired in her native Romania for a job in the United States. A job watching children. They even gave her a picture of the family, and she exchanged e-mails with them. She was only sixteen, but it was a good opportunity. The company paid her expenses and fudged the documents so that she’d meet the age requirements.

  “They bring us in . . .” She pauses, like she’s searching for a word. “Against law. Mostly women, but men, too. They bribe the polițiștii at the port so we get into country. But there is no family waiting. No job. Instead, they give me injecție. Needles. Drugs to . . . change me, to make me do things like you see those children do. But it did not work for me. They test me, and I fail. I want to go home, back to România, but they made us to do . . . diferit work. They sell us to bad men who hurt us. One of them made me to do this.”

  With that, she takes the glove from her hand and holds it up so that they can all see the missing finger.

  The reporters are too busy staring at her hand to notice the look that she gives the Senator. It’s nothing short of venomous. Theirs seems to be an uneasy alliance, born more of common interest than trust. The real question is what that common interest may be. I can’t piece together the Senator’s motives in all of this. Publicity for his campaign? Political cover?

  Taylor has apparently found what she was searching for. She pauses the TV, then leans over and tosses her phone into my lap.

  “You saw his website before. Look at that third photo. Notice anything different?”

  It’s the events page from the Senator’s election site. An array of photos, arranged in a neat collage, displays Senator Cregg talking to people clearly chosen to span as many races, ages, genders, and occupations in as few images as possible.

  The third picture is the same one that Taylor showed me when we were at Kelsey’s beach house a few weeks ago. The only difference is that the woman with short black hair has been changed very subtly. Whistler, Dacia’s bodyguard or keeper or whatever he is, still lurks in the background. The Cregg for Our Future banner is still there, along with all of the Unify America signs.

  “They altered it,” Taylor says as I hand the phone back. “It’s a decent Photoshop job, but I know Dacia was in the picture before. Just wish I’d thought to download it.”

  “But we should still be able to find it online,” says Deo. “We can check the Wayback Machine, or someplace like that, where they archive website content.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not how the conspiracy game works, D. You know that. The Senator’s publicity people would just say the original picture was the one that was tweaked. And”—I point toward the TV, where Dacia is frozen in the act of revealing her mangled hand—“then they’d say how awful it is that people would call this poor, poor girl a liar, when she has suffered such horrible abuse. Facts are irrelevant to people like that. If they shout it loud enough and repeat it with conviction, they can convince people to believe anything.”

  They’re all looking at me. Deo has heard me rant on more than one occasion about the darker side of conspiracy theories, but I think the others are a little surprised at my ferocity. Sure, the alien stuff is fun. I even enjoy the occasional Elvis or Bigfoot sighting. But having Bruno as a hitcher also made me very aware of how easy it is to get people to believe utter garbage, and the situation has only worsened in the years since his death.

  “Well, it’s true,” I say, leaning back into the couch cushions so that they can’t see that I’m blushing.

  “Of course it’s true,” Aaron whispers. “And it’s also true that you look adorable when you’re angry, but I’m not going to say that because it would be very sexist.”

  My blush deepens, but I can’t entirely stifle the laugh. I give him a gentle dig in the ribs with my elbow, and look back up at the screen.

  The reporters are in midgasp when Taylor starts the press conference again. Dacia holds her hand up for a moment, making sure everyone gets a good look, before slipping the glove back on.

  “Go ahead,” the Senator says. “Tell them about the soldiers.”

  Dacia holds his stare for a moment, her eyebrow twitching slightly. “The two children you see before? They are not the only ones with these powers. T
his group, the WOCAN? Now they have soldati . . . soldiers. Adults who take the drug, but it work for them. At first, it worked better on the girls, but then they fix the drug, so now it works on men, too. I see people light fires with just their minds. People who can know all of what you think. Some can even make you do things you would never do, to hurt yourself or people you love. They put their thoughts into your head so you do not even know what is real and what is a lie.”

  “How many soldiers?” he prompts.

  “Maybe thirty women. Twice that many men. Maybe more. I did not see all—”

  Jaden stirs, and I think he’s about to say something, but then my attention is jerked back to the television.

  “Tornado!” one of men yells out from the back, waving his tablet. “Birmingham news station just reported it touched down outside Tuscaloosa.”

  One of the mics picks up a muffled f-bomb, which I think is from one of the reporters. A few begin searching on their own devices to confirm the story.

  The Senator nods for the Man in Blue to escort Dacia from the stage. When the guard takes her arm, she gives him a withering look and yanks away, walking behind the banner without his assistance.

  Once all eyes are again on the Senator, he launches into a spiel about how the tornado couldn’t have possibly been faked. Then he starts taking questions from the reporters, telling them a lot of stuff we already know about the origins of the Delphi Project and the initial testing on military. I feel myself tuning him out, and, looking around the room, I see it’s not just me. The only one who remains fully immersed, still furiously jotting down notes as Senator Cregg speaks, is Taylor.

  When the anchor finally switches to the next topic, Taylor turns off the TV and flings the remote disdainfully across the coffee table. “Pure political theater.”

  Aaron nods in agreement. “The stuff about the WOCAN group is obviously a lie, and so was a lot of what Dacia said, but the lies were balanced out by a good bit of truth. The big question is one that Anna asked the other day—what could the Senator possibly gain from revealing Delphi like this?”

  None of us has an answer, and that question runs around my mind for the next hour while we wait for Magda to call. Kelsey and I use that time to get Miranda and the kids set up in one of the suites in the remaining empty wing on the second floor. After seeing her reaction during Cregg’s conference, I’m convinced that keeping Peyton at least somewhat separate seems like a smart move. She’s a stick of dynamite on her own, and we have no idea what kind of psychic skills the kids who arrived earlier today possess.

  The lead guard from Vigilance joins us as we’re setting up for the meeting with Magda. Aaron introduces him as Miller. He looks to be in his forties, although that could just be due to his receding hairline. What hair remains on his head is blond and cut close. His tan uniform is a shade or two lighter than the one the Delphi guards that Jaden calls Fudds wore, but it gives off the same correctional vibe. While he’s several inches shorter than Aaron, he outweighs him by at least sixty pounds. Some of that may be pudge, but I’m pretty sure that if you punched him in the gut, your hand would meet a solid wall of muscle beneath the padding.

  Aaron tries to engage the guy in conversation, but it’s fruitless. Miller answers a few questions about guns and perimeter cameras but never offers any info or asks anything in return. He doesn’t even sit down, saying he’s been driving all day. Aaron finally gives up, and Miller just stands there next to the floor lamp like he’s on sentry duty, eyes traveling in a circuit around the room. They rarely land on Kelsey and linger a little too long on the rest of us. His wary expression makes it clear that he knows we’re Delphi adepts, just like the kids who are still in a drugged stupor downstairs.

  Magda must not have gone into much detail about our specific gifts, however. Aside from Daniel’s ability, which Magda doesn’t even know I have, none of us could do anything that would affect Miller. But he’s on edge nevertheless, his eyes twitching our way each time one of us moves.

  Taylor crosses behind the couch where Aaron and I are sitting and whispers, “Is that a gun in his pocket or is he just happy to see us?”

  “Not a gun,” Aaron says. “Wrong shape. Probably a taser.”

  Deo and I exchange a look. He received a very personal lesson on the effects of a taser at The Warren.

  Taylor whacks Aaron on the back of the head and then says loudly, “Gah! You are such a dweeb, Aaron!” It seems like a total non sequitur, until I see Miller watching us.

  Magda rings us about ten minutes later than we’d agreed. Aaron had planned to patch in Sam, but he phoned a little while ago saying he was stuck in traffic and wouldn’t be able to make it in time. And they’re running some sort of tests on Daniel this afternoon—that bit of information made Daniel cringe—so Michele said to call later and fill her in.

  Magda scans the room. “I see we’re all here. Did the children make the trip without any problems?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Miller says. “Slept like babies. Still sleeping, actually, since the nurses felt it would be better to keep them on a normal schedule. Before we get started, though . . . can I just state that this place is going to be a security nightmare? It’s isolated, but there are sliding doors in almost every room leading out onto the decks. That’s going to make it really difficult to lock down, especially as others arrive. I may need additional staff.”

  “Understood. Do what you can, and we’ll discuss this later.” Magda appears even more tired than when we saw her a few days ago. She rubs her forehead distractedly before looking back up at the camera. “I’m glad to see that Taddeo is feeling well enough to join us this time.”

  “It’s just Deo,” he says. “And yes, I’m feeling much better.”

  “At least for now,” I add, ignoring Deo’s glare. “The other person who was given the amplify serum had a relapse after a few weeks. Have you had any luck locating the scientist you mentioned?”

  “Yes, actually. I sent a sample to her this morning.”

  I wait to see if she’ll volunteer anything else. When she doesn’t, I push on. “So . . . did she give you any idea how long it might take to—”

  “She will get back with me as soon as she has time to analyze it thoroughly.” Magda enunciates each word carefully, using the same tone you might take with a child asking are we there yet on a car trip.

  Kelsey gives me a look of sympathy, which Magda must catch, because she says, “Dr. Kelsey. We spoke on the phone during the interview process, but it’s nice to put a face with the name.”

  I seriously doubt that this is the first time Magda has seen Kelsey’s face, given the plethora of information that Magda had on the various people we interviewed at Fort Bragg and, as I’m sure she would note, the many more that we failed to interview. She’s much more polite to Kelsey than to the rest of us, so maybe she’s impressed by Kelsey’s medical degree.

  Once she’s done with the pleasantries, Magda puts on her let’s-get-down-to-business face. “How much of what Senator Cregg revealed today is accurate? I have my own ideas, but I want to get input from those of you who were at the facility. And also from Anna’s—hitcher, as I believe you call him? Let’s start with the obvious area of concern—the soldiers.”

  “That part is false,” I tell her. “At least based on everything that Jaden and I saw. Most of them were kids and a few teens who are second-generation adepts, like me. And then there was a group of girls who were brought in from Eastern Europe, as Dacia mentioned at the press conference.”

  “That was Dacia Badea today?” Magda looks startled. “The person you believe to be responsible for the murders at Fort Bragg?”

  “Yes,” Taylor says, “it was definitely her. They’ve altered the images on Cregg’s campaign website to hide the fact that she was working with him earlier. And they changed her appearance a bit. But we’re positive it’s her.”

  Magda nods and then looks back at me. “Continue.”

  “As I was saying, they tested so
me guys in the Eastern European countries, as well, at least at the beginning. But they had the same problems with mental instability as the recruits who were given the drug a few decades ago. Violence, suicide, and so forth.”

  “I find that puzzling,” Magda says. “The second-generation adepts seem evenly split between male and female, based on all of the information at hand. And with rare exceptions, even the ones who make it to adulthood show few signs of mental breakdown. Certainly not to the extent of murder or suicide.”

  “I think I may have an explanation for that.” Kelsey repeats the theory she explained to me earlier about the Delphi drug being aimed at the fusiform gyrus and unintentionally affecting the nearby amygdala, adding that the effect might be different for males and females, depending on the age at which they were given the drug. “The amygdala continues to grow in males for several years longer than females. It’s larger in males, as well. Anything that overstimulated the amygdala could cause fear, anxiety, aggression, even visual hallucinations.”

  “Why wouldn’t this affect the brain of a second-generation male adept?” Magda asks.

  “Well, I have only actually encountered one second-generation male subject to date,” Kelsey says, nodding toward Aaron. “So I can’t entirely discount the possibility that it does affect them at some point. But it’s also quite possible that the brain adjusts. Those who inherit the altered DNA have it from the time they are born, so it’s less an issue of putting new pressure on the amygdala than of a brain with a slightly different layout. The two parts grow in tandem, so it has less impact. This is just a theory, of course.”

  Magda asks Kelsey a few clarifying questions, including whether she could test any of this if she had the proper equipment, and then she returns to the press conference. She agrees that “John” is Dillon Lentz, based on the photos in her records. She also has info on “Jane.”

  “Her name is Olivia Wu,” Magda says, checking a paper in front of her. “I wish that her mother and the Blake woman had taken us up on sanctuary when it was offered. Do we have any clues on the identity of the children in the videotape they supposedly retrieved from the Delphi facility?”