by Rysa Walker
Dr. Batra sniffs and wrinkles his nose as soon as the RV door opens.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s one of the symptoms. The first one I noticed.”
Deo is semicoherent when we enter the room. Taylor squeezes past, joining me in the main cabin to give the doctor some space. She looks as exhausted as I feel.
I can’t just sit here waiting, but there’s little room to pace in the RV. So I splash some water on my face in the tiny bathroom. Run a comb through my hair. And then I sit on the bed and pray that the doctor says it’s the flu after all, and Deo just needs rest and fluids.
There’s a tap on the door. Taylor sits down next to me, leaving the door open so that we can keep watch.
“I hate waiting like this,” she says. “I know he’s only been in there a couple of minutes and I know Deo’s not in any more danger right this minute simply because he’s seeing a doctor. If anything, he’s in less danger. But it feels like when we were waiting after Daniel’s surgery. Like his fate is hanging in the balance. Like it’s either a reprieve or a frickin’ death sentence.”
“I know.”
“Aaron called while you were in the bathroom. Magda knows about our side trip to Boston, and she’s cornered him for a debrief. Apparently, Jaden’s mom and Beth aren’t the only Delphi personnel who have been targeted. Two others, that they know of. And he says Bree is hysterical because she’s decided yes, she does want to talk to you after all. Magda says to come get her before she drives everyone on the plane completely—”
Taylor stops when the door to Deo’s room opens. Dr. Batra emerges, setting his bag on one of the barstools. He seems perplexed, and that starts my heart pounding again.
“Your brother is showing signs of cerebral edema,” he says. “The symptoms are oddly similar to the severe altitude sickness that mountain climbers get sometimes. Definitely not something we should see this close to sea level. I’ve given him an injection of dexamethasone and also acetazolamide. They should reduce the swelling. The drugs won’t take full effect for several hours, however, and I’m afraid I can’t clear him to fly. That would most likely exacerbate the swelling.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “We have to drive the camper back anyway. As long as he’s stable . . .”
“I believe he will be,” the doctor says. “I left additional syringes on the shelf, with instructions.”
I shudder. While I’ll definitely make myself do it, the needle phobia I inherited from a former hitcher is strong.
But Taylor is all business. She nods and then asks, “Is Deo’s fever causing the inflammation of his brain? Or vice versa?”
“I really don’t know,” Dr. Batra says. “I’ve worked with Mrs. Bell’s daughters for several years, and I still can’t explain their condition or do anything more than treat the symptoms. And that’s the only thing I can really do for Deo until we hear back from the team that Mrs. Bell has working on a cure, or at least a more comprehensive treatment for all of these patients. If his fever continues after we reach our destination, I’ll give the nod for an MRI and possibly other tests as well, but for now, let’s not beg trouble.” He gives us a reassuring smile and then pulls the bag over his shoulder. “There are a few individuals Mrs. Bell feels I should sedate before travel. I’ll pop back in before we take off.”
As much as I hated seeing the kids come into Sandalford drugged up, Magda probably has a point. They won’t let you smoke a cigarette on an airplane, and someone who can ignite things with just a thought seems like a far greater risk.
Taylor and I walk over to check on Deo. He’s asleep, although I’m not sure if that’s due to the injections or to him being sick. I scan through my memories of Arlene, my hypochondriac hypodermaphobic hitcher. I’m able to place dexamethasone as a corticosteroid, but Arlene must not have had occasion to take the other drug.
“You should get moving if you plan to talk to Bree,” Taylor says. “Magda wants to take off as soon as possible.”
I pull on my jacket and head back outside. The wind has picked up again, whistling noisily as I walk through the gate and onto the tarmac. I glance around for the guard, still feeling like I shouldn’t be able to just walk through without telling anyone. But he’s inside the main building now, talking to the two men who were with Magda earlier. The lights are dimmed inside, and there’s a cluster of tables near the back, with chairs piled on top like we always did when I closed Joe’s deli for the night. I seriously doubt that this airfield is normally open for business at midnight. How much did Magda have to pay to allow for this flight?
As I approach the plane, the door opens. Maria stands in the doorway. Bree is next to her in the BB-8 jacket, still crying, but at least she doesn’t scream when she sees me.
Bree has calmed down now. Not happy, but she understands. I explain about Jaden, too, so maybe he will not scare her so badly now?
I think we’ll be okay on that front. Jaden is gone.
Gone . . . ? Oh. Okay. Maybe that is best. Magda says talk to her out here. We have enough trouble inside with the others. One of The Peepers realized the doctor was giving her friend a sedative and they’re all a little worked up about that.
Okay. I’ll take her back to the camper.
It would have been much easier if Bree had decided to speak to me before we moved her over to the plane, but she’s six and she’s just had a shock. A little inconsistency is probably to be expected.
Maria walks Bree halfway down the stairs and then says, “They need me inside. You will be okay?”
It’s somewhere between a statement and a question. Bree nods, still watching me warily.
“Want to come back to the camper with me?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“It’s too cold and windy to chat right here. Wouldn’t you rather be warm?”
Another headshake.
I look around for other options and notice an open shelter on the other side of the plane. “Maybe we could at least go inside there?” It won’t be much warmer, but it will cut some of the wind.
She hesitates for a moment and then starts walking toward the shelter. I follow. It’s empty, aside from a few small pieces of equipment. At the far end, beyond the fence that encloses the airfield, a lone truck is turning around in the circular drive.
It’s white.
But then so is another truck parked near the outbuildings, and, as Aaron noted, a good quarter of the trucks on the road.
I could still be imagining things. Either way, Bree and I need to make this conversation a quick one. I’ll feel better once she’s back on the plane and I’m back in the RV.
A wooden bench stretches along the wall. I move toward it and motion for Bree to follow.
Hunter, are you listening? We don’t have much time. Let Bree know it’s really you and that you’ll see her in two days at Sandalford.
Okay. She already knows it’s me, though. I just need to let her see I’m . . . safe.
There’s so much irony in that statement coming from someone who is dead that even a six-year-old can’t miss it, and he gives a hopeless little laugh at the end.
“I don’t want Hunter to be inside of you,” Bree says. “He doesn’t belong there. Hunter belongs with me.”
“That’s not really something we can fix, Bree. But . . . I’m going to let him talk to you, okay? You just need to remember what Maria told you. Hunter can’t stay with us. He’s here to tell you good-bye. Hold on . . .”
We start to switch places, but before I can move to the back seat, I’m startled by another gust of wind, much stronger than the others. A can of some sort scuttles through the front of the shelter and across the floor, coming to a stop against the far wall. The wind is so fierce that I hear Olivia Wu’s voice in my head for a second, saying a tornado was headed for Tuthcalootha.
And then I hear Aaron’s voice outside of my head, screaming my name.
The sound of gunfire.
Landing skids appear and hover above the ground.
&
nbsp; Not a tornado.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Near Lake Placid, New York
December 22, 2019, 12:24 a.m.
The spray of gunfire starts even before the helicopter reaches a complete stop. Magda’s security guy is the first one out of the terminal. He’s down before the door closes behind him. The man who held the gate open for the kids earlier is right behind him. He goes down, too, but then manages to pull himself back through the door and inside the building. I don’t see the older man.
My view of the plane is blocked from here, and I don’t see Aaron either. I can only hope that he was able to get the airplane door closed before the shooting started.
I pull Bree farther back in the shelter, where the shadows are darker, and we crouch against the wall. She hasn’t made a sound, except for a brief gasp when we first heard the gunfire.
Two men exit the left side of the chopper, which is still running, and head toward Magda’s plane. They’re both dressed in the same tan uniform that the guards wore at The Warren. One of them is short and stocky, and I’m almost certain it’s the guard that Timmons called Weeks. The third man keeps his gun trained on the terminal building.
Another two people get out on the far side of the helicopter, and then a wheelchair is lowered to the ground. One man maintains his position near the helicopter door, but the wheelchair moves toward the nose of the chopper, followed by a guy who is a lot younger than the others. He has dark hair that hangs down into his eyes, and he’s wearing a Fudd uniform, like the rest, but he doesn’t look any older than Deo.
I don’t recognize the boy, but the man in the wheelchair is Graham Cregg. He’s lost at least ten pounds since I last saw him, and his cheeks have the sunken look of a cadaver, but it’s definitely him. I scan the dirt floor around us for something to use as a weapon. The only candidate is a large wrench about a yard in front of me, but grabbing it will require me moving out of the shadows.
And if Cregg gets into my head, any weapon I’m holding could be turned on me. Or on Bree.
That brief thought pushes Hunter into a panic.
Daniel. You need Daniel. He has to wake up!
I think back to what Daniel told Ashley earlier—that using his ability again could end him. I’d love to believe that was hyperbole meant to convince Ashley to come with us. But the fact that I’ve heard nothing more from Daniel, the fact that Jaden was worried enough to take an early exit to free up a little extra mental energy for Daniel’s use, the fact that Hunter is screaming inside my head and Daniel still sleeps on? All of those things tell me it wasn’t an exaggeration.
And what could he even do against Cregg? Their ability is basically the same. And I’m guessing that right now Daniel is the weaker of the two, especially since he’d be working through me as an intermediary.
I don’t stop Hunter from trying to wake him, though. Bree is in danger, too. And if I don’t make it back to Baltimore, Daniel doesn’t make it back to his body.
But he will be my option of last resort, and not simply because he’s ill. The more immediate reason is that Daniel can’t nudge anyone from behind my walls. And I can’t risk leaving them down.
I stack the mental bricks as quickly as possible, walling Daniel and Hunter inside, but more importantly blocking Cregg from getting in. And once I have the wall in place, I start on a second row.
Cregg’s wheelchair passes the shelter and continues toward the terminal building, prompting the guard stationed on that side of the plane to abandon his post. The guard is yelling something at the boy, but I only catch smatterings of what he’s saying over the noise of the propeller.
“. . . saw movement inside the building . . . take him inside the shelter until we get the area secured!”
Cregg doesn’t look particularly concerned, but he pivots the chair and heads back this way, stopping only a few feet from the wrench I’d thought about grabbing. The boy follows. Neither of them appears to be armed, but they have several men with automatic weapons who will no doubt come running if they call. And Cregg, of course, is a weapon all by himself.
“Gellert’s probably right.” The boy’s voice is high and thin, almost comically so. “I thought I saw someone, too.”
“And you all know, security is mortals’ greatest enemy,” Cregg mutters. It’s another quote, although the boy doesn’t seem to be paying attention. Hamlet? No, I think it’s Macbeth.
“I can’t believe Timmons and Gellert let them get away,” Cregg says. “It’s going to take four or five flights to get them all back to the silo, since we don’t exactly have a place to land that plane.”
The boy nods and then says, “We could steal the camper out fr—” He stops suddenly, almost as if his breath is cut off. At that same moment, Bree clutches my arm with a viselike grip. Between the hydrogel and the painkillers, I’ve barely noticed my burned hand in the past hour, but now it throbs again. I don’t pull away, though. I barely even breathe.
“Someone is in here,” the boy says. “Two people, I think? One of the kids. And someone else, though I can’t get a good reading. But it’s not the girl you’re looking for, the one we messaged.”
He falls silent, and I hear voices beyond the shelter, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
The boy’s face is slack, and when he speaks again, his voice is robotic. The words gush out in a single beat, without any inflection. “Don’t let him find me I don’t want to go back you’re going to die you son of a bitch I want to stay with Hunter send you to hell I can’t breathe Anna you’re squishing me you’re—”
The boy stumbles backward as he sucks in air. He sits cross-legged in the dirt, holding his head in his hands, rocking back and forth.
Some of the thoughts he just plucked out of the air were clearly Bree’s. But he must be picking up from someone else, too, since most six-year-old girls don’t curse quite that fluently. And it wasn’t me—while I generally favor the idea of Cregg going to hell, I wasn’t thinking about it just now. At least not explicitly.
“Anna!” Cregg says as he looks around. “So you are here. And exactly who is it that you are squishing? She was thinking about someone. Hunter, Hunter . . . why is that name familiar? Oh, yes. That would be Sabrina Bieler’s brother. One of the children my father had murdered.”
Bree whimpers and slides a few steps away. I follow, keeping myself between her and Cregg.
“This doesn’t need to involve anyone but you and me, Anna. Jeffrey, why don’t you take Sabrina to the helicopter?”
Jeffrey, who I’m pretty sure is also known as Snoop Dogg, breaks rhythm slightly at the sound of his name but continues rocking. Cregg sighs.
“It seems we’ll have to wait a moment for him to reboot,” he says conversationally. “You’ll be okay, Jeffrey. Just breathe. It will pass.”
Cregg turns his attention back to me, rolling closer. “If you think your actions are keeping Sabrina—or any of them—safe, Anna, then think again. You would have been wise to answer my messages, instead of trusting a wolf in sheep’s array. Assuming you would like to keep the adepts alive, you and I have a common goal and a common enemy. Magda Bell will turn on you in an instant if it is in her interest to do so.”
He’s no longer moving, and his eyes are fixed on mine. Last time, I remember hearing a noise almost like a hum when he was trying to break through my defenses, but if it’s happening now, I can’t tell over the noise of the rotor. I’m pretty confident that my walls will keep him out, but, unfortunately, they can’t stop him from influencing Bree. The only thing that might help on that front is distraction.
“You say you want to save these kids. That it’s your father who’s the murderer. Is that what you tell yourself when you’re forcing people to snip off their fingers, Graham Cregg? When you’re forcing them to kill? How many kids died at The Warren?”
“You think in such simplistic terms, Anna. It’s a shame. I suspect you’re capable of much more. And I’ll admit I may have pushed Daciana in Molly’s cas
e, but if you believe that anyone is forcing her to kill now, you’d be very, very mistaken. She has developed a taste for it. That’s one reason she’s with him now, and not with me.”
As he speaks, Cregg’s voice remains calm, his eyelids barely open. His body is perfectly still in the wheelchair. From past experience, both mine and Molly’s, I know that means he’s focusing, amassing his strength for an attack. I should jump out and tip the chair. Disrupt his concentration. The boy, Jeffrey, is still huddled on the ground, and I don’t think he’d be of much help to Cregg. It’s possible that he doesn’t even want to help him. But the other guard could be within shooting range in only a matter of seconds. All it would take is one scream from Cregg.
Instead, the scream comes from me, barely a second later, when Bree sinks her teeth into my wrist. It’s not a gentle nip, and her teeth rip my skin as I pull away. It could have been worse—if not for the gauze holding the hydrogel pad in place, she would have gotten a solid chunk of flesh.
I shove Bree away, hoping the physical motion will break Cregg’s control. It does, briefly, and I take the opportunity to grab her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides. She can still kick, but it eliminates her arms and teeth as weapons.
Not that it matters. As I expected, one scream was all it took to draw the attention of the guards—not just one, as it turns out, but two. The first Fudd moves inside the shelter, pointing the gun at me, and I feel like a total coward for holding her in front of me. Anyone watching would assume I was using the poor kid as a shield.
The second guard hasn’t quite made it inside the shelter, however, when the helicopter, motor still running, skids backward toward the runway. He hurries toward the chopper, waving his arms, and the other guard’s attention is also pulled away. For a moment, Cregg’s attention is even on the chopper. Only Jeffrey seems oblivious, still rocking on the floor.
I take advantage of the momentary reprieve to back farther into the shelter with Bree, but I’ve taken only two steps when something rustles behind me. I want to turn and look, but taking my eyes off the Fudd with the gun seems like a very bad idea, especially now that he’s decided to ignore whatever drama is happening with the helicopter.
