by Jen Haeger
I blink until my eyes finally open, but at first all I see is yellow light. “Did you get the camera?”
“Shhh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay now.”
I try to shake my head, but more just rock it back and forth. Nothing is okay. Slowly, Ben’s face emerges from the blur of light.
“Did you see it?”
He frowns. “See what?”
“On the camera, the WHISP.”
His frown deepens and he opens his mouth, then closes it and clears his throat. “Let’s not talk about it now.”
My languid unconsciousness is falling away rapidly, an anxious mania replacing it as I try to sit up. “No, no. The WHISP, I caught it on camera, it attacked me.”
Ben’s hands are on my shoulders. “Easy, easy. Someone did attack you. Crone is looking into the possibility that the copycat had accomplices—”
“No! It was—”
A nurse enters the room, her face marked by lines of unhappy concern. With her appearance, I’m acutely aware of things like restraints and sedation. I freeze and stay quiet, avoiding her gaze.
“Is everything all right in here?”
I catch Ben’s eye with mine and plead with him silently. He’s struggling, maybe trying to decide whether I’m lucid or not.
“Yeah, she, ah, just woke up and she…she didn’t know where she was, but she’s okay now.”
“I’m okay now.”
The nurse gives Ben a hard look. “All right. I’m just outside the door if you need me.”
“Thank you.”
When she’s gone, he stares down at me and takes my hand between both of his. For a while he just runs his thumb gently back and forth over the top of my hand while I repress my exasperation, so I won’t shout the next time I open my mouth. Finally, he says, “What were you doing there?”
“Didn’t you watch the video?”
His eyes are blank. “Yes. I saw you activate a WHISP generator and sit on a couch with your gun out.”
A pain begins in my chest and works its way into my throat. I can’t believe this is happening. “You didn’t see me get attacked?”
“No.” Wrinkles appear along his forehead like waves on a smooth surface of water. “After you ignored my phone calls, all it recorded was static.”
“Static?”
He nods.
I close my eyes. “I am so stupid.” Why on earth did I think a digital camera was going to work in the presence of an aggressive, untethered WHISP? Tears squeeze out under my eyelids and I draw in a sharp breath which is too much like a sob.
“Listen, never mind, I don’t care, it doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re okay…and that you…you just stop, whatever this is.”
I pull my hand from his and wipe the tears away. “How long have I been unconscious? How bad were my injuries?” In my mind, I’m piecing together input from my body: no cracked ribs, no broken bones, but head trauma and my back…
“What does it matter? Pretty bad. You’ve been out about twelve hours, have a concussion and second degree burns on your back.” Ben runs his hand through his hair like he wants to tear hunks of it out. “Sylvy, please, just relax and rest. Please just, just stop. Just for a minute think about someone other than yourself. I know you feel like you’re the only one who can save the world from killers and…and bad things, but you’ve put in your time. The NYPD even knew it, they kicked you off the case. Now you have to realize it. Let it go. Whatever you’re holding onto, let it go. Please. For me, for your family, for your son.”
His words are a million shards of ice piercing my heart. Anger, nausea, guilt, shame, stubbornness, and emotions I don’t even have a name for are fighting for control of my head and my gut. I can delude myself I’m on this vigilante quest only to save lives, and no one else will accept the truth, but right now all I’m doing is almost getting myself killed and proving to others I’m crazy. And I’m destroying my marriage…again. I’m alone and suffocating in a dark, horrible place and the walls are collapsing all around me, burying me. If I let him, Ben can pull me out, he’s done it before, but only if I let him.
“I…I’m an ass. A self-righteous ass with delusions of grandeur. I know you don’t understand, but I did what I did because I thought it would save lives and I didn’t think there was another way. I’m sorry.”
Ben crushes me in a hug. The bandages on my back rip away and I bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“I know you did, baby, I know.”
The tears are flowing freely now, and my head is pounding, but it feels good. No, not exactly good, but good like when you worry a loose baby tooth right before it falls out. “Did you call Lincoln? I don’t want him to see me like this.”
“I did, but his phone just went to voice mail. He must be in the lab. He said he was going to be working on a new project using the particle accelerator and he was pretty excited about it.”
Something like an itch is breaking through the ache in my brain. I lean back. “I thought the particle accelerator was in Lincoln’s old lab, the one he worked in when he started grad school.”
“It is. That’s actually why he’s been allowed to use it, because he worked in the lab before.”
Suddenly the itch becomes a fire and a thought slams home. No. Oh, please no. Rachel Chester was a physics student at NYU. She worked in Lincoln’s old lab, and she even knew him. Lincoln had told me so shortly after she was arrested. She’d spent a lot of time in the lab. It was her home away from home.
“Oh no.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“We aren’t talking about hate. We’re talking about preservation of the human race.”
Excerpt: CAW manifesto
I’m out of the bed before I even know what I’m doing. The I.V. stand clatters to the floor as the tubes attached to my arm pull taut. My bare feet slip backwards on the smooth tile, and when I realize the I.V. line is holding me back, I claw at the tape holding the needle in my arm to free myself. As the needle slides out of my vein, Ben grabs me from behind.
“Syvly! What are you doing?”
The nurse flies into the room before I can answer, sees us grappling and runs back out again shouting, “I need help in here!”
I have no time. I drop to my knees and spin to face my husband. “Ben, please, you have to listen to me. Lincoln’s in danger. We have to go find him. We have to get him out of the lab right now. Please. God, Ben, please. I know you think I’m crazy, but the—my attacker is going after Lincoln. I know it!”
His mouth slightly open, his eyes wide, his face awash in shock and horror, I’m sure Ben’s going to grab me again and help hold me down when they come to sedate me, but then something changes. He closes his mouth and his cheek twitches. His eyes flick to his coat hanging on a hook near the door. Seizing it, he ducks down and scoops me up, throwing the coat around my shoulders. “Here, put this on.”
I’m so grateful I want to fall into his embrace, but instead I thread my arms into the armholes as he half-carries me into the hallway. We almost make it around the corner before someone calls out behind us.
“Hey! Hey you!”
With his arm under my shoulder, Ben and I break into a flat run, turn the corner, and barrel through a set of double doors. Since I have no idea what part of the hospital we’re in, I let him guide me down the hall and around another corner. At the end of this hallway, I spot elevators and a stairwell and surge toward them, but he drags me off my feet and abruptly I’m in a dark room. The automatic overhead lights flicker on and I find we’re crouching in a bathroom. Ben has his ear to the door, but even I can hear the tromping of feet as they pass.
Cracking the door, he peers out and then we’re up and hurrying away from the elevators. We pass through another set of double doors with a sign declaring imaging to be on the other side. We walk quickly, but try not to draw attention as we wind through more corridors with Ben verifying our route every time we pass a map on the wall. When we come upon an unoccupied wheelchair, he sits me in it. I want to a
rgue with him, but I’m too busy suppressing dry heaves to speak.
We reach another bank of elevators and he presses the button then calmly wheels me into the elevator when it arrives. Within the elevator are two doctors, one a tall, black woman and the other a thick-set Asian man, discussing some reality show, and a janitor with a bucket and mop. Neither the doctors nor the janitor do more than glance at us when we first get on, still, my fingers grip the handles of the wheelchair with white knuckles. We were on the sixth floor and the elevator stops at the fifth to let the doctors off then at the third to let the janitor off. Every time the doors open, I expect to see stern-faced orderlies with straightjackets and large syringes, but only an elderly woman with a cane greets us on the third floor and she doesn’t get on because she says she needs to go up.
When it’s only the two of us on the elevator, I expect Ben to start grilling me, yet he remains silent, staring at the digital display for the floor numbers. Then we’re at ground level and he’s rolling me toward signs for the parking garage. My heart flutters in my chest like a caged bird as I picture a blockade of hospital security that never materializes. Eventually, we are out in the structure and I slump in the wheelchair, resting my head on my arm. Gnawing, sickly hunger rakes at my stomach and the world spins behind my closed eyelids. The motion stops and I look up to see my car hastily parked and close to taking up two spots.
Ben is at my elbow and helping me to stand. Again, I want to tell him I don’t need his help, but I do, and the lie would only wind up with me on the ground. He eases me into the passenger side then dives into the driver’s seat and starts the car almost simultaneously, throwing it into reverse and backing out. I pop open the glove box and reach inside, rummaging until my fingers close around the emergency candy bar I have stashed there. With shaking fingers and a groaning stomach, I peel back the wrapper and shove fully half of the bar into my mouth. It’s too big a bite to chew comfortably, but I manage to get it down without choking despite Ben taking the turns of the parking structure at breakneck speeds.
He slows as we reach the exit, but just long enough to slide his credit card through the unmanned pay station kiosk. Moments later, we’re peeling out onto the street and I’m hanging onto the arm rests for dear life. When the car stops fishtailing, Ben speaks without taking his eyes off the road.
“Tell me.”
Knowing he’s not really going to believe me, but hoping that he continues driving toward Lincoln anyway, I swallow the rest of the candy bar and cough roughly as a peanut chunk goes down the wrong pipe. Finally, able to speak, I lay it all out.
“It’s complicated, but like I said before, I think Chester is somehow using Ray to murder people. It seems like she can do it anywhere if she’s there, which is how she got blood on her clothes, but while she’s stuck in prison, she can only send Ray to places she’s lived or spent extensive periods of time, and she can only murder people with Ray if they have a WHISP. She worked in Lincoln’s old lab for almost a year…and he has a WHISP.”
Ben’s face is smooth and blank. “She can’t know he has a WHISP.”
I shake my head. “It was in the paper, in the article by that horrible reporter calling me a WHISP bigot.”
As a flash of remembrance brightens his eyes, Ben licks his lips. I don’t know what it was, but something I’ve said has started the gears of belief spinning in his head.
“All of her victims had a WHISP?”
“Yes.” He knows this, but I can see he needs to hear it again.
Now he’s chewing on the bottom of his lip and mumbling to himself. I recognize a smattering of physics terms in the mix. We turn a corner and Ben slams on the breaks, barely avoiding rear-ending a Chevy Impala. All the traffic ahead is at a dead stop.
“Dammit!”
For a fleeting instant, I fight the impulse to jump out of the car and start running, but we’re still at least two miles away and I’m in no condition. Also, my feet are bare and I’m wearing nothing but a hospital gown and a coat. Ben is scanning the traffic, his face a contortion of wild frustration.
“Sylvy, grab my phone. It’s in my coat pocket.”
Digging my hands into the coat, I locate the phone and turn it on. “Got it.”
“Find me a way around this fucking mess.”
The traffic has inched forward since we stopped, but there’s no obvious cause for the backup, so no way to know how long it will last. Unlocking the phone, I bring up the map. The app has helpfully indicated there is an accident ahead of us.
“There’s an accident on 29th near 3rd, take 2nd if you can.”
But I can see Ben has other ideas. He’s spotted an alley on our left and his hand is poised over the switches that activate the car’s lights and siren. This could cost me my pension.
“Do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“These aren’t tech-junkies we’re talking about, these are everyday people: mothers, teachers, sons, daughters, doctors. Normal people manifesting WHISPs every day.”
Interview: Dr. Darshana Grover, The Center for WHISP Wellness and Research
With lights flashing and siren blaring, we careen over the curb and onto the sidewalk, something I’d never done before as a police officer. It’s liberating and terrifying at the same time as pedestrians stop in their tracks to avoid coming into our path. My eyes dart back and forth, watching for bicyclists, nuns, and runaway strollers, but the way to the alley is blissfully open. Ben clears the entrance and begins weaving to avoid dumpsters and piles of cardboard boxes that might house the homeless.
“Look out!”
A man with ear buds jammed in his ears is taking out the trash from the back of a restaurant and steps into our path before seeing us. Ben jerks the steering wheel and takes out the blue plastic trashcan but misses the man and I fit myself back into my skin. Then we’re coming to the end and he’s pumping the brakes so we don’t shoot out into the stream of traffic. Praying people hear the sirens, I brace against the dashboard as Ben steers the car out of the alley, over the curb, and back onto the street then floors it again. Normally, he’s conservative on the roads, so I’m dazed and wondering where he’s been hiding this inner NASCAR driver.
“Hold on!”
Leaving screeching tires and honking horns behind us, Ben makes a left turn from the right lane at a yellow light. The adrenaline rush twitches the corners of my lips, but then I focus. I have to believe we’re going to get there in time, but how can we protect Lincoln from Ray?
“What would a particle accelerator do to a WHISP?”
Teeth clenched and bared, Ben is threading the needle between two buses. “What?”
“WHISP, particle accelerator, what would happen?”
“It would fly apart…but you’d have a tough time getting it in there. The walls are meant to keep super accelerated particles in, so you’d need it to go through an open access panel.”
My mind is whirling through possibilities, but none strike me as valid. We need something like a reverse grenade, something we could toss into the particle accelerator which would go off and suck the WHISP in after it. Maybe some kind of remote electromagnet? But then I remember Lila Grant’s chilling words about the pain tearing a person’s WHISP away from them causes. It would have to be something we could shield Lincoln’s WHISP from. I need to figure this out with Ben, I need time, but we’re nearly there and something is going on.
For one agonizing span of breath, I think we’re too late, that the commotion ahead of us has been caused by the mob of police cars and ambulances responding to Lincoln’s attack. Everything goes silent except the beating of my heart, loud and frantic in my ears, then I see the scene for what it is. Students are gathered in the street blocking traffic and the police cars are for patrolmen helping to contain the demonstration. In the chaos, one sign, white with red paint, stands out from the others. On it are the words, ‘WHISP RIGHTS.’ Right now? Seriously?
“Fuck!”
Ben slams on the brakes a
gain, and only the locking of my seatbelt prevents my limp body from impacting the dashboard. Recovering quickly, I jab at the belt release and cinch Ben’s coat tight.
“There’s no way around, we have to get out.”
Abandoning the car, we head toward the crowd. Ben is helping me over a barricade when an arm grips my shoulder and spins me around.
“Whoa, hey ma’am, are you okay? Detective Harbinger?”
Schmitty’s wide eyes wander from the bandages around my head to my bare feet on the cold cement. His lips move but no words come out.
“We have to get through to the physics lab.”
Seeing a stern-faced Ben, Schmitty releases my arm. “Is there trouble?”
Schmitty might be able to help us, but there’s no time for explanations. “No, not—”
“It’s fine. We’ll make it ourselves.”
Ben vaults the barrier and I grip his arm for support. Together, we leave a slack jawed Schmitty and press into the throng of chanting students. Feeling like a sailor in the middle of a hurricane, I cling to Ben’s arm like a life raft as we get bumped and jostled. My bare foot gets stomped on and I almost go down, but Ben’s arms are around me and we’re on the move again. He gets clipped by an enthusiastic sign waver and I see a crescent of blood on his cheek. The sign wielder gets in front of Ben stammering an apology, and he knocks the boy aside with his shoulder to clear the way.
I’m shocked at the size of the protest and can’t see the edges of it. All I can see are bodies and signs and angry faces…and WHISPs. Once I spot one of them, they are impossible not to see mixed in among the other students, and my pulse reaches a frantic staccato as the familiar strangling fear of my phobia takes hold. Ben must feel me tense and slow because he turns to me.
“What is it?”
“They’re everywhere…”
He tugs at my arm, but my legs are trembling and refuse to carry me forward. So many shadowy clouds; they’re closing in around me. Ben takes my face in his hands.
