Fatal Tide

by Lis Wiehl

  There had to be some kind of mistake, Edmond had said. Perhaps his brother had been ill? He and Reese had always gotten the same scores when they took the same tests. Sometimes Reese even scored higher than Edmond, because he didn’t find studying as tedious as Edmond did.

  There was no mistake, Ghieri said. The test had been especially designed for twins. There was a difference between Edmond and Reese.

  “You are much smarter than your brother, but you refuse to excel because you don’t want him to feel bad. That’s why you score the same. You are only holding yourself back, and it must stop.” Ghieri saw something in Edmond, he went on to say—the potential for greatness. The doctor was willing to take a chance on him, but only if Edmond was willing to step out of his comfort zone, out of his brother’s shadow, and leave Reese behind.

  Edmond had hesitated. And then Dr. Ghieri had shown him a letter from a court-appointed psychologist. The letter stated that Reese had been the cause of their parents’ car accident. They had been driving sleep-deprived after Reese had kept them up for three nights in a row because of night terrors. “A common enough disorder that afflicts the weak,” Ghieri said.

  Edmond felt a multitude of emotions then—surprise, anger, but most of all, pity. He pitied his brother, until Dr. Ghieri explained that pity was (like sentimentality) an emotion no true leader could allow himself to feel. History has no pity, he said—the men who make it require none.

  Later, in the special honors history class, Dr. Wharton had told them stories of St. Adrian’s graduates who’d been persecuted, imprisoned, even tortured and killed for their unwavering commitment to the standards Ghieri had talked about—to pitiless, unsentimental excellence. They were martyrs, men excluded or reduced to footnotes in the standard texts, but whose sacrifices the true student of history—the history that Dr. Wharton taught—would never forget.

  Not long after, the boys had all been given their assignments—their parts in the mission that Ghieri and Wharton had planned. And not long after that, Edmond had been called in to Dr. Ghieri’s office once more. To his surprise and concern, Dr. Wharton was there as well. Dr. Ghieri said they had reason to suspect that Reese was being disloyal to the school. There was a menace in Ghieri’s voice that Edmond had never heard before. He told the two men he was unaware of any disloyalty on his brother’s part. He swore that Reese loved St. Adrian’s. Ghieri and Wharton told Edmond that he needed to choose between his school and his brother. Between his mission and Reese.

  And so he’d cut his brother off—ignored all of Reese’s attempts to communicate, even the ones his brother had made through the special bond they shared. The bond that had made Edmond think that sometimes he could read his brother’s thoughts. It hadn’t been easy. There were still times when he felt like he was with Reese. Felt like—

  He had a sudden image of his brother, then, lying half naked inside a giant egg. It was an almost comical vision, but he couldn’t shake it. Why would his brother be inside an egg?

  Edmond, he heard Reese say inside his mind. You’re being a complete idiot. Ghieri is the one who’s lying to you, not me. He killed Goat Boy. You know I’m telling you the truth. Stop thinking you know everything. Being stubborn and obtuse is not the same thing as being strong. Talk to me!

  Edmond almost responded—almost let down the walls he’d put up inside his mind. Then he remembered that day in Dr. Ghieri’s office, with Wharton looking on so sternly.

  “The mission is too important to let one boy compromise it,” Ghieri had said. “Not you—not your brother. We cannot allow that to happen. We will not allow that to happen.”

  In that instant, Edmond had realized that Ghieri would kill to make sure the mission succeeded. He would kill Reese if Edmond stayed in contact with him. It had been true then—it was even truer now, now that the time was so close.

  For Reese’s own safety, Edmond realized, he could not respond to his brother’s call.

  But this was only temporary, he told himself. After his mission was over, and they’d graduated from St. Adrian’s and were somewhere in college together, Edmond would explain to Reese why it had been necessary to distance himself, and his brother would understand because they had always understood each other. They’d be together again. But for now …

  He turned away from the window, away from the vision of his brother.

  In Tommy’s basement, the lid to the sensory deprivation tank rose suddenly as Reese sprang from the tank, water dripping on the floor. He looked distraught and seemed like he might cry. Dani wrapped the robe around him and handed him a towel, and then she hugged him and told him everything would be all right.

  She sat him down on the couch, and Tommy sat on the other side of him, and after a minute the boy seemed calmer.

  “What happened?” Dani asked.

  “It worked,” Reese said. “I sensed him. I sensed … he’s scared. He won’t admit it to himself, but he doesn’t want to do it. But he thinks they’ll kill him if he doesn’t follow through. He thinks they’ll kill me. He doesn’t understand that—”

  “Shh shh … ,” Dani said. “Did you tell him you’re safe?”

  “I tried to,” Reese said. “It’s not—I know what he’s feeling. He’s trying to be brave, but he’s terrified.”

  “I think that’s enough for now,” Dani said. “We can try again tomorrow. Why don’t you go get dressed?”

  “What do you think?” Tommy said while Reese was changing.

  “I think this was a very good idea you had,” Dani said. “It’s going to work. They want to be in touch with each other. They need to be, even if Edmond is resisting. We can make that work for us.”

  “You’re sure it won’t work against us?” Tommy said. “If we can see into their camp, how do we know they won’t be able to see into ours?”

  “We don’t,” Dani said. “But what we do know is, neither of them wants to hurt the other. If we can get the door open and keep it open, Edmond is going to realize Reese is safe. He won’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  “Good point,” Tommy said. “But if Edmond is in England, he’s probably not aware of what’s going on around here. We still need help.”

  While Reese was in the tank, Tommy had shown Dani more images he’d gotten from the drone’s cameras. Two more limousines and three Lincoln town cars with airport transportation markings had dropped off passengers at Honors House at St. Adrian’s. Tommy had been able to get good photographs of three of the men and partials of the other two. None of them looked familiar.

  “We need to know who these guys are,” Dani said. “You’re right. We need Ed Stanley.”

  She had Tommy forward her the images; then she attached them to an e-mail and sent them on to Stanley, requesting a meeting as soon as possible.

  “I wish we had more information,” she said as they all sat down to a late dinner. “We can’t count on Ed Stanley being as ready to believe as Casey was.”

  “But remember how we’ve been prepared for this moment? Maybe Stanley has too. I wish there were a way to get into the school without going through the front gates,” Tommy said. “That place is like a fortress.”

  “It’s not like a fortress—it is a fortress,” Ruth said from the doorway, where she and Reese stood. She had her hands on his shoulders. “It was built as an army fort.”

  “I know a way in,” Reese said.

  “Reese—this isn’t your job,” Dani said.

  “But I know a way in,” Reese said. “A secret way in. The same way I snuck out. Through the tunnels.”

  “Tunnels?”

  “Beneath the school.”

  “I heard a historian give a lecture once on the Revolutionary War in New York,” Ruth said. “He said forts often had secret escape tunnels so that if they were surrounded, they could get a messenger out to send for relief. Or they could send their generals out, to prevent them from being captured.”

  “You think you could draw us a map, Reese?” Tommy asked.

 
; The boy shook his head. “No. There are too many turns and dead ends. I could show you, though.”

  23.

  December 22

  10:02 p.m. EST

  Dani could not convince Reese that it was not a good idea for him to go back to St. Adrian’s. She admired his courage and knew he would do anything to save his brother. They agreed to sleep on it and plan something for the following night.

  She was exhausted. Even Tommy, ordinarily a bundle of positive energy, seemed tired. Ruth joined them in the kitchen after Reese had gone to bed.

  “He’s a good kid,” Ruth said. “I don’t want to sound a note of pessimism, but if something were to happen to either of you, and I pray that nothing does—you haven’t chosen a successor to be the next Guardian. Somebody’s going to have to coordinate the activities of the Curatoriat. I think Reese might be a good candidate. In a way, his training has already begun.”

  Dani had already considered the idea. The Vademecum Absconditus, left for them by the previous Guardian, Abbie Gardener, contained the names and contact information for the other members of the Curatoriat, including telephone and even Skype numbers for video conferencing. Abbie hadn’t been technologically up to speed, but it was time, Dani knew, for her and Tommy to tell everyone to raise their shields and man their battle stations.

  “I think you could be right,” Tommy agreed. “Dani?”

  “We should probably make a decision soon,” she said. “But maybe not right now. I’m exhausted.”

  As tired as they were, they looked like well-rested teenagers compared to Quinn, who stumbled into the kitchen around ten o’clock. As he filled them in as to what he’d learned from his assistant over drinks, singular on his part, plural on hers, Dani found herself studying the lines on his face and the bags under his eyes. The stress—or the tumor—was getting to him.

  “So clearly,” Quinn said, “I need to find a way to get to the BSL4 lab in the basement of Building C. But I’m sure the security is formidable.”

  “You could pretend you’re delivering a pizza,” Tommy said. He looked around the room. “What? I don’t hear anybody else offering suggestions.”

  “I’m thinking the answer is in this,” Quinn said, holding up his corporate thumb drive and turning it over in his hand before setting it on the table. “This is what opens doors. We just have to figure out a way to tell it to open more doors.”

  “Can you do that?” Tommy asked.

  Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and first finger. “I can’t,” he said wearily. “There must be somebody who can.”

  “What about your friend Illena?” Tommy asked.

  “I can’t find her,” Quinn said. “Allison thought Linz might have transferred her somewhere else, but frankly … I’m afraid. I think they may have done more than that.”

  “Are you okay?” Dani asked Quinn. “You look a little—”

  “Just a headache,” he said brusquely. “Nothing twenty-four straight hours of sleep won’t fix. How did it go with Reese?”

  “We’ll tell you in the morning,” Dani said. “Get some rest.”

  “I can’t be the only one who’s tired. We ought to sleep in shifts,” Quinn said. “Though we’re a bit short-handed, with George and Julian gone.”

  “Casey is in,” Dani said. She briefly explained what had happened that afternoon—Wharton’s death and the detective’s “conversion,” as it were.

  “It’s good to have Casey on board,” Quinn said. “Is it good news or bad news to have Wharton out of the way? I can’t tell.”

  “The demons don’t age, but the humans do,” Tommy said. “Maybe they’re replacing him?”

  “With whom?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “We should still keep an eye out for—what are they called?”

  “Beasts of Gevaudan,” Tommy said. “But the alarm will tell us if anything gets inside the perimeter. Physical or otherwise.” He’d double-checked his settings. The night Wharton showed up in his pond, he’d armed the cameras but not the motion sensors. It was a mistake he could not afford to make again.

  “So we’re good for now. You can go.” Dani pointed definitively in the direction of Quinn’s room. “Sleep.”

  Quinn seemed about to protest once more, then nodded. “Yes, Dr. Harris,” he said.

  Dani watched him slouch down the hall, then turned to Tommy. “He doesn’t look well,” she said.

  “We’ve all looked better—except you, of course.”

  Dani smiled. “How are you feeling?”

  “Why?” Tommy said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You’ve been acting odd.”

  “It’s not acting,” he said. Did she know he had an engagement ring in his pocket? He wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Okay,” she said, laughing. “How do you do it? It’s the most amazing thing about you—in the middle of all this, you can find a way to make me laugh. How can you make jokes?”

  “It’s like what Abraham Lincoln said,” Tommy told her. “Someone in his cabinet asked him how he could keep making jokes in the middle of something as terrible as the Civil War, and he said, ‘If I didn’t laugh, I’d die.’ Or words to that effect.”

  She rose, leaned over, and kissed him good night.

  “We’re meeting Ed Stanley tomorrow morning at the diner,” she told him. Stanley had sent her a text earlier, stating that the photographs they’d sent had “raised issues of concern.” “He said he has names for us, but he wants to talk in person. Have you heard from Cassandra?”

  “No,” Tommy said. “But she’s not going to risk checking in with us if there’s nothing to say.”

  “I suppose. You’re okay tonight? You sure?”

  Tommy grabbed the pump-action shotgun from where it leaned against the wall and sat in the reclining chair next to the computer screen displaying his security feeds, the weapon across the arms of the chair.

  “Otto and I got it covered,” he said, and just then the cat leapt into his lap. Tommy smiled. “Correction,” he added. “Otto and Arlo and I have it covered.”

  The cat sniffed at the gun.

  “Never give a cat a gun,” Dani said. “That’s one of the first things cat owners learn. We think we know what they’re thinking, but we really don’t.”

  24.

  December 22

  11:42 p.m. EST

  Tommy decided to have a walk around the house before settling in for the night. He synced the security feed to his GPhone, found his barn coat, clipped Otto to his leash, and closed the back door behind him to make sure Arlo couldn’t get out.

  “You handle things in here,” he told the cat.

  He circled the house, leash in one hand, shotgun in the other, night vision goggles strapped to his forehead, ready to flip them down if he needed them.

  The night was moonless, but the stars were out. The weather had turned warmer, in the forties now, and the snow on the ground melted in the places that received sunlight. It would have been easier to see if everything had stayed white. In a landscape of black-and-white patches, you could hide a herd of Holsteins.

  He checked the garages, the greenhouse, the barn, and the chicken coop, shining his flashlight into each and using his infrared scanner. Otto was on his leash and not in his tracking harness, but he worked the ground all the same, zigzagging in front of Tommy, nose and muzzle to the dirt, tail up and wagging like a small airplane propeller.

  With the dog still on the leash, Tommy scaled the outcropping of rock beyond the pond. He stood as still as possible and listened. He thought he heard the sound of the wolves howling from their rescue sanctuary two miles away, but it might have been a distant police siren. He flipped the night vision goggles down to scan the woods and saw nothing but green trees and black shadows. Otto raised his nose to the air, picking up the scent of something. When Tommy raised his flashlight and pointed it into the woods to supplement the natural starlight, holding the beam high beside his he
ad, he saw a dozen sets of eyes, reflecting as red dots. The Beasts. Still there. Still watching him, waiting. For what?

  He turned the flashlight around and shone it on his own face, to stare them down and let them know he was still there too. He used to give opposing quarterbacks the same stare. One opposing quarterback had said, “It’s like looking up and seeing a train about to hit you.”

  He turned off the light, but by the way the eyes had blinked back at him, he guessed that light made the creatures uncomfortable. If they had indeed evolved or lived in caves, and only came out at night, it made sense. It also meant they could see everything he was doing in the dark.

  He walked the perimeter of his property, inspecting his deer fence, even though the eight-foot-high wire mesh was probably not strong enough to stop the bogies if they decided to mount an attack. He made a mental note to himself to look into some way to wire the fence with electricity. It might not stop the things entirely, but it might slow them down. At the corner where the south wall met the east wall and the road, he found a pair of raccoons cowering. He held Otto, who strained against the leash, and told him to sit. The dog obeyed. Ordinarily the raccoons would have scaled the fence and made their escape.

  “You don’t want to go out there either?” Tommy told them. “Fine. You can stay here until the morning. But leave my garbage cans alone.”

  In the kitchen he’d just refilled Otto’s water dish and settled in for the night in front of the monitors when he saw a window open on his computer, then a blinking telephone icon, accompanied by a beep and a box asking him if he was willing to accept a video call from Dr. Julian Villanegre.

  He hesitated. He’d made arrangements to have the old man’s body flown back to England. It could have been someone calling from Villanegre’s home computer to confirm or to ask for further details. Yet the call had come on a Skype account they’d set up specifically for calls between the Guardian and the Curators. It was possible, but unlikely, that Julian had inadvertently given someone back home the private number. For purposes of security, only the Guardians knew the identities of the Curators; the Curators knew the Guardians only by function, not by name or by photographs, nor did they know the identities of the other Curators. There was a way to pixelate his own image to conceal his identity, but he didn’t know how to do it yet. There was also a filter to scramble his voice, but he didn’t know how to work that either.