‘‘Sure,’’ he tossed her the keys and got out of the vehicle. ‘‘See you after a while.’’
Julie nodded in reply as she scooted over to the driver’s seat and started the engine again. She backed out of the parking space and was out of sight in a moment.
Grant shook his head. What’s eating her? Probably everything.
He’d just reached the door to the parking garage’s elevator, glad to be exiting the nighttime shadows, when a voice said, ‘‘Nice to see you with some forward momentum.’’
Terrific. Her again.
His barefoot friend sauntered into view from an open stairwell beside the elevator. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she was typically smug.
‘‘Admit it,’’ she said playfully, ‘‘you missed me.’’
‘‘Between escaping death within inches of my life—twice—and learning that I may be the culmination of some kind of ancient prophecy . . . no, sorry, you never once crossed my mind.’’
‘‘Might want to spit that bitter pill back out before you choke on it,’’ she remarked sourly. ‘‘So it’s true. You had a little meet-’n’-greet with the one and only Morgan herself.’’
‘‘Why didn’t you tell me there were other people out there like me? Why did you let me think I was the only one?’’
‘‘You weren’t ready to know,’’ she said, dismissing him. ‘‘So how are the genius Loci?’’
Grant said nothing.
‘‘Morgan and her ‘flock’ definitely fall into the ‘good guy’ camp,’’ the girl replied. ‘‘I’m sure she seemed eager to help you. But Morgan has her own agenda, just like everybody else. She sees a lot more potential in you than you do. And she may not be wrong.’’
Grant snorted. ‘‘All of this advice. So which camp do you fall into? Are you one of the good guys?’’
‘‘There are more colors in the crayon box than black and white, hotshot,’’ she countered. ‘‘Everyone’s got their own agenda, and I do mean everyone. And it’s rarely the one they let you see. But I would have thought you would’ve pieced together by now that I’m risking my own life and limb every time I stick my neck out far enough to speak to you.’’
‘‘Then why do you talk to me? Are you manipulating me too?’’ He sighed, irritated and tired. ‘‘Everyone I’ve met since this began has pulled and prodded and wanted a piece of me.’’
‘‘But you keep bouncing back, sweetie.’’ She smiled. ‘‘That’s why I like you. I’m here to watch you. I’m to observe your actions and file reports on your progress. I do the same for the others—the ones I can keep track of, anyway, before they disappear off to Morgan’s little hideaway.’’
‘‘So if you’re trying to help me,’’ Grant said, piecing the story together, ‘‘which is a violation of your ‘orders,’ then why not give me anything more to go on? Why all the vague clues?’’
‘‘You want something solid? Okay, how about this. Drexel intercepted that fragment of the stone tablet—not to learn anything from it himself, not to foil Morgan’s plans—but to lure you to his apartment. A plan your new pal Morgan unwittingly accommodated.’’
‘‘What? But . . .’’ Grant faltered, ‘‘how could he know Morgan would send me to get it?’’
‘‘Drexel may be little more than a cop who knows more than he should, but he knows enough about Morgan to know that she’d pay any price to get that fragment back. Sweetie, seriously, you’re starting to worry me. In case you hadn’t noticed—and clearly you haven’t—this entire ‘game’ you’re playing is completely rigged. Has been from the start. The things that have happened to you over the last few weeks may feel random to you, but it’s all connected.’’
Grant’s brow furrowed, anger rising once more at the layers upon layers of manipulation he’d been subjected to. He rubbed at the ring’s underside.
‘‘If you’re going to play to win,’’ the girl said, conviction in her voice, ‘‘then you have to go off script. And you’ve got to learn not to take ‘no’ for an answer. Do you even know what you’re capable of?’’
‘‘I’m starting to.’’
‘‘You could probably stand to learn a thing or two from your new girlfriend. Mayhem and anarchy—that’s right up her alley, isn’t it?’’
‘‘Who’s swallowing the bitter pill now?’’
‘‘The point is, you need to start putting your handy-dandy new skills to work and break down some doors, pal. It’s time to stop playing by everyone else’s rules.’’
‘‘Sounds like you’re applying to be my coach,’’ Grant joked, but she made no response, positive or negative. He found he was fast warming to the idea of coloring outside the lines. ‘‘Okay, then. I want to know your name. And I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.’’
A smile played at the corner of her lips, and her eyes became narrow openings. But he could tell her annoyance wasn’t sincere.
‘‘Fine,’’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘‘My name is Alex.’’
Much to her relief, Julie found her apartment exactly as she’d left it.
But truth be told, she had little interest in checking the mail or paying her bills. She bypassed both on her way to the spare room she used for storage.
Boxes, unused and broken appliances, and a multitude of college textbooks crammed the room. So much had been taken from her early in life that now she had a hard time parting with anything. Julie had difficulty finding her footing, as very little of the carpet was visible. Goose-stepping around the poorly organized room was the best she could manage.
‘‘Where is it. . . ?’’ she mumbled, rifling through box after box.
One hour and thirteen boxes later, she had a eureka moment.
This is it.
Now she could show Grant some cold, hard facts about this conspiracy he was caught up in. She had evidence in her hand that proved that none of what Grant was experiencing would be solved via lunatic prophecies. She’d heard quite enough of Morgan filling her brother’s head with bizarre theories for one lifetime, thank you very much.
Julie could handle the ‘‘enhanced mental abilities’’ thing. She could deal with the ‘‘Shift.’’ She could even swallow the notion that Morgan had somehow read every single one of the thousands of books lining the walls at the asylum.
But this ‘‘Bringer’’ nonsense was going too far.
Grant had enough on his mind trying to sort out the truth, his anger issues, and even his very identity, without complicating matters with ideas better suited to the realm of mythology.
Leaving the room, she seized three spare college textbooks on her way out.
Morgan would probably enjoy reading these. Just because she’s misguided doesn’t mean I can’t be nice to her.
This is not happening.
Lisa glanced down at the LCD clock on the dashboard of her Honda Civic, which read 3:42 A.M. She looked up, saw that the light had turned green, and jammed her foot down on the gas pedal.
She flew through traffic, swerving around the few cars on the road at this hour with her blinkers flashing like mad. Eyes wide, she gripped the wheel with both hands as the next light turned red, and slammed on the brakes. Her tires squealed as she barely avoided colliding with the car that had already stopped in front of her.
Lisa swallowed, her eyes frantically searching for nothing. It was still dark out, but the streetlights cast an eerie orange glow onto the streets.
Who would do something like this? Her mind raced, recalling the few things Daniel had told her about his past. From what she had been able to glean, she knew that he had once been the golden boy at a megacorporation—though she didn’t know which one—working on something revolutionary. It didn’t end well, but she knew whatever he had worked on there was somehow related to what the two of them were studying now.
The light turned green and she slammed her foot onto the gas pedal once again, swerving around a massive black SUV.
Her thoughts went back to the phone call sh
e’d received only minutes ago. The woman on the phone, with all the sweetness in the world, evaded Lisa’s questions and simply told her, ‘‘It would be good if a friend or family member could get here quickly.’’
They don’t usually say that about people who are alive, do they?
Her heart jumped into her throat and soon tears were spilling out of her eyes.
Another light turned red and she stopped once again, now barely able to see through the haze of tears, and she broke down, no longer caring about the light.
The car jarred as something bumped it from behind, and she looked into her rear mirror. The black Expedition had caught up to her, and now the light had turned green.
She was bumped again, a little harder this time.
All right, all right . . .
Lisa hit the gas, but quickly realized she wasn’t moving under her own power. The monstrous SUV behind her was pushing her down the road, literally bumper to bumper. Bright light poured in from the Expedition’s headlamps blinding Lisa off her rearview mirror and she was so taken by surprise that for a second she could do nothing. The two vehicles plowed ahead, gaining frightening speed, as cars passing the other way blared their warning.
A red light ahead finally roused Lisa from her stupor. She didn’t know what intersection waited for her, but it was a busy one, and the SUV was pushing her toward it at fifteen, now twenty miles an hour. Cars poured across from either direction and she was headed straight for them.
She had seconds to react. Maybe less.
With too many cars ahead of her in the right-hand lane, Lisa saw her only hope.
Foot off the gas, she waited for two cars to pass headed the other way, and then simultaneously swung the wheel hard to the left and jammed on her brakes.
Squealing tires and the horrendous sound of something tearing at the back of her car filled the air, and the Civic swung into a devastating arc, crossing the double-lines then corkscrewing across the two oncoming lanes before slamming into parked cars outside an Asian grocer.
It was over. It was now 3:45 A.M. and yet Lisa felt like the last few minutes had taken hours.
The SUV!
She whirled to see what had become of the vehicle but it was gone. The light was green at the intersection and now early morning L.A. traffic rolled toward her, slowed to gape, and then headed off. Sirens blared somewhere in the distance. Headed to help her.
She glanced at herself in the mirror. A thin line of blood snaked down her face and both her head and right shoulder ached—she must have banged them sometime but couldn’t remember—yet otherwise she felt okay. Daniel was the one who needed help. Daniel was the one in the hospital.
Lisa let up on the brake, which she’d still held slammed to the floor, and offered the Civic some gas. It groaned but moved. The sound of sirens grew closer, but she didn’t look back. She pointed her car back toward the hospital and drove, but it was only Daniel’s battered, torn face that she could picture in her mind as the car lumbered its way toward him.
26
‘‘Wake up,’’ a voice called out of the darkness. ‘‘Collin?’’
‘‘Hannah?’’ Grant mumbled. ‘‘Alex?’’
‘‘Sorry to disappoint you,’’ Julie replied, sitting on the edge of his bed. ‘‘And who’s Alex?’’
‘‘What time is it?’’ Grant mumbled, sitting up. He saw that the clock by his bed read 4:22 A.M. ‘‘What’s going on?’’
‘‘I found something I need to show you,’’ she replied, plopping the three heavy college textbooks she’d retrieved onto the bed, where they bounced.
He picked up the first book. A History of Modern Sociology.
‘‘Not the books themselves,’’ she said, retrieving a handful of small envelopes from inside. ‘‘These.’’
He opened one of the envelopes and unfolded its contents. ‘‘Looks like a love letter from Dad to Mom.’’
She nodded. ‘‘About half of what I found are those little love notes, but the rest are formal letters written by Dad to a friend of his, another officer. I think the guy was his superior, but from the letters it sounds like the two of them were close friends. Collin, this man—this friend of Dad’s—his name was Harlan Evers.’’
‘‘Evers?’’ he replied, groggy. ‘‘Where do I know that name?’’
‘‘From that guy MacDugall at the Inveo plant. Didn’t he say his big, secret customer from years ago was named Evers? I know it’s not an uncommon name, but there could be a link.’’
‘‘Right, right . . .’’ he began to catch on, but was still too sleepy to catch the implications of what she was saying.
‘‘Here,’’ Julie pulled something small out of her purse and handed it to him, ‘‘take a look at this.’’
It was a small, round piece of engraved metal with an ornate ribbon attached.
‘‘I found that among some of Dad’s old things, along with the letters. You remember Dad was an Army tactician, right?’’
‘‘Barely.’’
‘‘Well, he was,’’ she continued, gaining steam. ‘‘I looked through his entire service record—the parts that are unclassified, anyway—and Dad was never awarded any medals.’’
He was examining the medal but stopped at this revelation, catching her eye.
‘‘But Mom was.’’
Grant sat up straighter. ‘‘Mom was in the Army? You never told me that.’’
‘‘I didn’t know,’’ she replied. ‘‘Dad never mentioned it. She must have been discharged before we were born. But I read through all of these letters, and it sounds like their mutual Army affiliation was how they met. I’m guessing that when she got out, Dad chose to stay in. I don’t know, maybe they decided one of them had to stay home with the kids.’’
Grant leaned back against the bed’s headboard, and looked far away. ‘‘Okay . . . So you’re thinking that this Harlan Evers man probably knew Mom and Dad.’’
‘‘Right,’’ she nodded. ‘‘And I keep thinking about that story I told you, about how Dad had your mental acuity tested when you were very young. If this Evers guy is still alive, maybe he can explain that. At the very least, his connection to Inveo Technologies seems way too coincidental.’’
It took him a moment to put it together.
‘‘You think he might be able to explain what’s happening to me,’’ he concluded.
‘‘At the very least, it would be worth looking into, just to find out if he’s still alive.’’
Everyone in the waiting area gawked as Lisa rushed into the emergency room at full tilt. She came to a sudden stop in the middle of the room, trying to find the admitting desk.
‘‘Daniel Cossick!’’ she yelled, sprinting to the desk. ‘‘Where is he? Is he alive?’’
The nurse looked up, and her eyes widened in alarm. Lisa knew. Blood had dried on her face and more than just her shoulder ached now. Her right eye had already started to swell a bit and her entire right leg throbbed. It didn’t matter. Only Daniel did.
‘‘Are you the woman I spoke with on the phone?’’
‘‘Yes!’’ Lisa shouted. ‘‘I’m Lisa Hazelton! I’m his assistant! Is he all right?!’’
‘‘He’s in surgery, Ms. Hazelton.’’—She motioned toward the waiting room—‘‘Please have a seat.’’
Lisa didn’t budge. ‘‘What happened? Did they find whoever did this to him?’’ Her voice was loud enough for the entire emergency room to hear.
‘‘Please sit, before you fall over.’’
Lisa stared at her for a moment but finally caved and collapsed anxiously into one of the waiting room chairs.
The woman took a seat beside her, sitting on the edge of the couch.
‘‘My name is Evelyn,’’ she said gently. ‘‘Does Mr. Cossick have any family that should be notified?’’
Lisa shook her head. ‘‘His mother lives in a nursing home upstate, but she’s not coherent,’’ she said quickly, still staring at the woman.
‘‘As near as
we can tell,’’ Evelyn said, ‘‘Mr. Cossick—’’
‘‘Doctor Cossick.’’
‘‘—was attacked outside a parking garage in the warehouse district.’’
Lisa nodded impatiently, prodding her to speed up. ‘‘Yeah, his lab is on the second floor, it’s where we work. Did they take anything?’’
‘‘They never entered the building,’’ Evelyn continued, ‘‘and we found Dr. Cossick’s wallet still in his pants when they brought him in. The police said it looked as if he was leaving for the night, locking up, when several individuals snuck up from behind—we believe there was more than one of them because of the extent of his injuries. A homeless man found him lying on the ground outside the building and believed he was dead. He found your boss’s phone on the ground and dialed 911. But while on the phone, he noticed that Dr. Cossick was still breathing.’’
‘‘Will he make it?’’ Lisa asked, quieter.
Evelyn was silent for a moment, as if trying to decide how to say it. She reached out to put a steadying hand on top of Lisa’s, but Lisa jerked away.
‘‘His injuries were extensive, Ms. Hazelton,’’ she said tentatively. ‘‘He’s in critical condition.’’
‘‘Just tell me if he’s going to live.’’
Evelyn hesitated, but finally spoke. ‘‘He has three broken ribs and a punctured lung. He has a fractured wrist, both of his legs are broken, and his right ankle has been shattered in three places. There are some broken fingers; he’s covered in bruises. And he has a severe concussion. The doctor believes there could be brain damage. They’ve gone to surgery because the doctor feared there could be internal trauma. Normally, we would never risk keeping a patient unconscious this long after a concussion, but the doctor felt there was no—’’
‘‘What are his chances?’’ Lisa whispered. The tears had appeared out of nowhere as the elder woman had listed Daniel’s injuries, and were now pouring openly down her face. She made no attempt to wipe them away.
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