Closed Hearts (Book Two of the Mindjack Trilogy)

by Quinn, Susan Kaye

  He pushed off the wall and nodded to Sasha. “Please put Mr. Molloy out of his misery.”

  Sasha’s face fell blank as he laid a hand on the back of Molloy’s head. Molloy flinched, then his eyes turned glassy, his head slowly slumping forward. Sasha was erasing everything that made Molloy who he was. It would be more thorough than the butchery that Molloy had done on Raf’s memories. More complete, rewriting him permanently into another person. Molloy would be erased, and every part of me felt he deserved every bit of it.

  I was glad he would be gone.

  If that made me a monster, I didn’t care. I was glad there was something worse than being dead, just so Molloy could experience it.

  A shudder rippled through my body. My dad slowly turned me toward him and away from the emptiness of Molloy’s face. He wrapped me in his arms, locking them around me.

  Short gasps were all I could pull in. All the hate I had for Molloy disappeared into the hollow space in my chest. Loving me was the worst mistake Raf had ever made.

  The only tiny consolation was that now he would never make that mistake again.

  It had been a week, and no word from Vellus.

  I shuffled in the back door of the Dutch Apple and past Mrs. Weissmann in her office, tallying up receipts. She didn’t even look up, her thoughts barely registering that I was late for my shift, then she returned to her work. My feet dragged me through the kitchen as I linked into the minds of the staff, intent on their lunchtime-rush prep. There were a few stray thoughts about their normal lives, but mostly they focused on chopping onions or frying burgers.

  I stopped at the employee closet to get my apron and stared at my reflection. My hair was black again, the color it had been before I found myself in Jackertown, on the run from government officials and dangerous jackers. Mrs. Weissmann had let me come back to work even though I’d dropped off the face of the earth for a couple of weeks. My dad wanted me to keep working at the Dutch Apple, for the moment. If Vellus thought I had returned to my normal life in Libertyville, he wouldn’t be so suspicious that we were planning on making a run for it.

  My dad said Vellus would call on me to do my public tru-cast announcement when he decided the political time was right. And before he came calling, we needed to be long gone. My dad was making plans for where we could go. Maybe Texas. He thought it would be easier to get lost in the sprawling suburban wilderness that was Austin-Houston. Mr. Trullite would get us new names again and shepherd us through a series of safe houses—places we could stay without a trail of unos or autocabs or camera surveillance being left behind. Beyond that, Mr. Trullite had used up all his favors with the Senator and wouldn’t be able to forestall him.

  Of course I had no intention of letting my family go on the run to protect me. I would leave on my own, and soon. I had it all worked out: I would sneak out in the middle of the night, leaving a note on my bed so they wouldn’t think Vellus had kidnapped me. It would tell them not to look for me, because that would only make it easier for Vellus to find me, and I would scrit them from a throwaway phone when I could. I was going to do all of those things before my dad finished making his plans. Before Vellus came calling. Soon.

  I just hadn’t managed to make myself leave yet.

  If I stuck around long enough, I could get caught in Vellus’s trap and go on his tru-cast to tell the world how dangerous jackers were. How there were jackers out there that would ruin your life, steal it from you, if they could. It would be the truth, after all. Only then jackers everywhere would be after me and my family, not to mention that I would hate myself for the rest of my life. A jacker like Molloy got what he deserved, in rough Jackertown-style justice, but countless innocent jackers would suffer if I gave Vellus the political cover he was craving.

  No, I was leaving. Soon. I would have left already, except I wanted to make sure Raf got home okay. I even spied on him a few times just to see that he had recovered from the trauma. I stopped when I couldn’t take the thoughts from his family anymore. The tattoo on my wrist still shone bright red, only now instead of interweaving lines, all I saw were the holes. And the two halves that reached for each other, but never really touched.

  I didn’t want to leave, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. In fact, my brain seemed like it had completely shut down since we found Raf. Or rather since I had lost Raf.

  I slid my apron over my head, tying it in back, then tapped the Dutch Apple nameplate until Lucy came up. Through the swing door, the mental volume of the diner notched higher, the readers’ simultaneous conversations bouncing thought waves all over the room. I let it wash over me, like the miniature waves of Lake Michigan. I stood in the threshold and waited for someone to notice me.

  No one did.

  I had to buy another apron from Mrs. Weissmann, because I’d ruined the first one in the city. The fabric of it was crisp and new against my neck, but I was the same old me in the same disguise. Just a different day. As if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t lost my best and only true friend in the world.

  I sucked in a breath and let it out slow. I couldn’t think about Raf without crying and that wouldn’t be mesh here in the diner. People might wonder why my thoughts didn’t match my face.

  Table seven is waiting to order, Tracey thought as she sailed by, flying two plates of fried chicken, one in each hand.

  I’m on it. I willed my feet to move away from the swinging door before I caused a traffic jam or a waitress collision.

  The couple at table seven couldn’t have been cuter, holding hands with their Second Skin gloves and gazing into each other’s eyes. Their thoughts were almost linked, in spite of not touching, because they were so in tune with each other. The hole that sat in my chest full time whistled like a ghostly wind blowing across an open grave. It literally hurt to watch them, but I gritted my teeth and linked to them, Can I take your order?

  Burgers? Yes, burgers! Wait no, what’s the special? I think it’s corned beef? No, the special is the pie, that’s what this place is famous for. We can’t have pie for lunch, that’s silly. I think we should be silly! Pie for lunch!

  Their thoughts tumbled over each other, like playful puppies. I almost couldn’t bear it.

  I recommend the Dutch Apple, I thought. Everyone loves it.

  Apple? I think I like peaches better. Peaches aren’t in season yet. You don’t think? No, no! They’re no good unless they’re from Michigan anyway, and those aren’t in season yet. What about cherry? Wisconsin has great cherries and they have to be in season by now.

  I was tempted to jack them both into having the lemon cream pie and loving every bite. I resisted.

  Cherry! thought the boy. He was slightly older than Raf. His hair was dark like Raf’s, but without the curls at the tips. His eyes turned up to me, dark chocolate-brown pools filled with happiness, just like Raf’s when he looked at me. The wind whistled a little stronger across the grave in my chest. We’d love to have cherry pie, for both of us! thought Raf.

  I blinked. No, not Raf. Just some boy, a reader, who was in love with someone else.

  Of course, I answered. I’ll get that right away.

  I turned away from the table and nearly ran into Tracey gliding past. As I recovered, the thought waves in the room sharpened and shifted as a tru-cast came on the corner screen. I had figured Mrs. Weissmann would have tossed out the screen by now, but apparently no. Angry red words inched across the bottom. Senator Vellus with his gleaming white teeth dazzled the young tru-cast reporter who was interviewing him.

  There was a breach in a high-security containment facility downtown last week, Vellus thought. I was just now informed of it, but I wanted to assure the people of Chicago New Metro that the Chicago Jacker Police Detail have every officer looking for these escaped prisoners.

  The vast amount of lying that Vellus seemed capable of still stunned me. The reporter’s doe eyes went wider. Do you think there’s a danger to reader-citizens in the suburban New Metro areas? she asked. Is it possibl
e that these dangerous jackers will leave the city?

  Well, I don’t want to alarm anyone, Vellus thought. But that’s certainly possible.

  The acrid taste of fear rippled through the Dutch Apple. Of course Vellus was trying to alarm everyone. That was the whole point of disclosing this supposed breakout of dangerous jackers. Unless there was some other radical group breaking in and out of Kestrel’s facility, I was pretty sure he was referring to me and Julian and the other mages.

  Can you tell us about this Jacker Police Detail? the tru-cast reporter asked. Are they specially trained in dealing with jackers?

  Yes, they are. Vellus beamed, apparently excited to talk about his new toy. They have all the latest anti-jacker technology at their disposal and with the new laws that our representatives in Springfield have had the foresight to pass, they have even more flexibility to apprehend these criminals.

  It’s a good thing the Vellus Detention Center is up and running, thought the tru-caster. I assume that’s where the jackers will be housed, when they are apprehended?

  I looked away from the screen. The news transfixed every patron of the Dutch Apple. The bitter tastes of fear and anger flavored their minds, along with the sour-milk taste of outright hate. But that wasn’t what made my stomach twist in knots. The time when Vellus would ask me to join him in his anti-jacker campaign seemed to be rushing at me.

  I stuffed that fear down while I stumbled to the pie rotisserie and tugged out the cherry pie. I carved two slices, dished them, and was carrying them back to table seven when the quiet bell on the door chimed, and Raf walked through the door into the diner.

  I stopped in my tracks and stared at him, which was possibly the dumbest thing I could do. He stared back, frozen in place, torn between turning around and coming all the way into the diner. His thoughts of shock and anger drew the collective mental attention of the diner patrons away from Vellus’s anti-jacker rambling.

  Right to the jacker in their midst.

  A pie plate crashed on the floor next to my foot, and the sound jarred me out of my fog. I turned and dashed into the kitchen, still holding the second pie plate. I set it down on the counter and wove my way through the staff, trying not to cause any more breakage on my way out. The staff parted before me, then turned toward the kitchen door.

  “Kira!”

  I lurched to a stop. Raf had followed me into the kitchen. I slowly turned to face him.

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” His voice was cold and split the air. The staff froze, their faces shocked at the spoken language that filled the kitchen. Tracey had followed Raf and stood stunned in the swing doorway.

  I didn’t answer. The entire diner now knew I was a jacker. How I could fix this? Could I jack Raf to walk back out? I would have to jack everyone else too, tamper with their memories, erase the last minute of time from their lives.

  The hair raised on the back of my head. I could do it if I had to.

  When I didn’t say anything, Raf mumbled, “I remember some things.” What did he remember? My heart nearly exploded with hope. Maybe a remnant that Molloy had implanted had driven him here. Maybe it wasn’t just chance.

  Louder, he said, “But my parents explained everything to me.” His words sliced the hope into shreds. “They explained how you’ve been controlling me all along. Making me love you.” He grimaced. “What kind of monster are you, that you would mess with someone that way?”

  I wanted to tell him it was a lie. The truth was that he had loved me. But those words would only hurt him. And me. Because they were no longer true.

  “I keep remembering these things…” He pressed the heel of his hand to his head. “These snippets that I don’t understand! I can’t help it if I end up places where you happen to be. I don’t want to…” He searched for the words. “…stumble across you in my life.” He pointed a finger, like he wanted to stab me with it. “I don’t want you controlling me anymore!”

  My lips trembled, but I pinched them tight and spun around, nearly mowing down tiny Mrs. Weissmann in her tied-up tight gray bun.

  “You!” Mrs. Weissmann said, making me nearly jump out of my skin. For a split second, I thought she was yelling at me, but she shook her tiny fist at Raf. “Get outen my kitchen!”

  Raf glared at her, then stomped his way out of the diner. The bell crashed when the door flew open and made a tiny ding when it slowly closed. The kitchen staff stared at Mrs. Weissmann and me. My mouth worked, but I came up with nothing to say.

  She turned her back on me and stalked to her office.

  The kitchen eased back into its normal motions. Silence fell as everyone returned to mindtalking. I didn’t bother linking into their heads—the look on Tracey’s face, still standing by the swing door, told me what they were thinking. Unless I was going to erase all of their memories, I could never come back to the diner. And there was no point in erasing their memories, unless I tracked down Raf and erased his too.

  Which I didn’t even consider.

  I forced my legs to walk down the hall to Mrs. Weissmann’s office. Raf not only forgot he loved me—he believed the lies that his parents told him. I shouldn’t have expected any less. It was just my spectacular bad luck that he ended up in the diner and outted me to Mrs. Weissmann’s patrons. I should have left sooner—that way Mrs. Weissmann wouldn’t have to pay the price for employing a jacker.

  I stood in her doorway. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Weissmann.”

  “Sorry?” she said. “What do you have to be sorry for? That boy should be sorry! Coming into my kitchen and causing a scene! He’s a strubblich bum, nothing more.” She coughed to clear the roughness from her throat. It was the first time I had heard her speak out loud. Her Pennsylvania Dutch accent was even stronger verbally than it was mentally.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” I said even quieter. “I’m sorry…” I gestured to the kitchen down the hall. “I’m sorry that people will think badly of you for hiring a jacker.”

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She waved her hand at me as if fanning away my words. “Enough of dis sorry. One does what one has to, Kira. You wait tables. I pay you. There’s no need for sorry.”

  She had called me Kira. I smiled through the pain that was tearing the hole in my heart wider. It was the first time she had used my name. The first time I had known for sure that she knew who I was. When did she know? Did it matter? It didn’t seem to matter to her. Mrs. Weissmann would keep me on, let me earn money for my family because she knew we needed it. Even if I was a jacker. Even if everyone knew it. A peculiar shame burned my cheeks, like I didn’t deserve her kindness.

  I slowly untied my apron. Even though Mrs. Weissmann meant well, I was done with other people paying the price for who I was. I pulled the apron over my head and bunched it up until I found the nameplate among the folds of fabric. I tapped it several times, scrolling through the names. Not finding the one I wanted, I jacked into the mindware interface and scrit a new name.

  Kira.

  I handed the wadded up apron and nameplate to her.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Weissmann,” I said. “For being a good friend.”

  She frowned, but took the apron from me. “It’s not right.” Her voice was soft. “What this criker Vellus is doing.”

  I nodded.

  It wasn’t right, and it would get worse. Because, ultimately, Vellus was right. Jackers and readers couldn’t coexist. They couldn’t love one another. They would hate and fight and with someone like Vellus leading the way, the dangers of being a jacker—or a jacker sympathizer—would only get more extreme. It wouldn’t only be dangerous for good-hearted people like Mrs. Weissmann who intentionally hired me to work in her diner. It would be dangerous for anyone I rooked into thinking I was a reader.

  I walked out the back door of the Dutch Apple and pulled out my phone to hail an autocab. A few minutes later, it whispered up to the dumpsters behind the diner. I fed it every last uno that I had from tips, climbed in, and set an autopath for the lake. I didn’t l
ook back as the Dutch Apple got swallowed up in the endless, winding suburban streets.

  The bright afternoon sun glared the windows, making it difficult to see the thin stretch of beach. Weeds and blown trash snarled the sand, which rose and fell in mounds tufted with grass. This was where Raf and I would have come, if we could. If the world hadn’t gone demens.

  If things were different.

  Different? Raf’s voice rang in my memories. Different how? He had wanted to know why I wouldn’t kiss him, that long ago day in the chem lab, when I still thought I would be a zero my whole life. When I thought not reading minds like everyone else was the worst thing that could happen to me. I should have kissed him and not cared what other people thought.

  Instead, I said, If I was different. It was the only truth I could tell him then. If I was different, things would have been different between us. But all my wishful thinking hadn’t changed the world one bit, and now I was the only one who remembered that moment—Raf’s version was lost forever.

  I pressed my hand to the autocab window, peering through my fingers at the weak waves lapping the shore. The beach was just as unreachable as it had ever been.

  People like Vellus and Kestrel and that diner full of readers would never let me pretend I was someone I wasn’t. No matter where I ran, no matter how well I hid, I would always be in danger of being found out. I could leave my family behind, but anyone else—any friends I dared to make, any employer I tricked into hiring me—they would always be in danger of getting caught in the cross fire when my past caught up to me. There would always be the threat of dangerous jackers or ruthless reader politicians dropping in and ruining their lives. Running away would only delay the inevitable.

  There was only one place I could go where that wouldn’t be true.

  One place where I would have no danger of running into Raf ever again. Where I wouldn’t be alone and I wouldn’t have to hide. Vellus was right: the future would be a fight. It would be readers versus jackers, and with Vellus’s anti-jacker crusade, Kestrel’s experimental torture chambers, and more and better anti-jacker technology, jackers would lose.