He was a good man.
A reliable one.
Alert.
Cali sensed his paranoia, knew he was looking for her and Nix as well as any strange sensations. He was primed to pounce. And she preyed on that. He was looking across the parking lot. She could see what he saw—as if she rented his eyesight. There was open asphalt and faded yellow lines. Several cars were spread out beneath the sodium lights. Nothing moved.
Nothing at all.
Cali imagined what she wanted to see in that open space. She pictured it in her own mind as clear as if she had conjured it up on a screen. She played it out, all the way to the end, made sure the details were rich and convincing. Once through was all she had time for. Once through to make it work.
All at once, she projected it into Sam Craven’s mind. He felt the manipulation first, buzzing at the back of his head like wires had been yanked from a secret door just below his hairline and short-circuited. Alarms fired. He began to look around, began to call for backup, but not before the image crossed his mind like footprints in freshly laid snow.
He saw her pushing a wheelchair. Saw her hustling to get out of sight, surprised when she turned around to see him pursuing. Saw her race the wheelchair to the sidewalk and around privet hedges to the street beyond.
His voice trailed off, shouting for his companions to hurry. He had them. He had them dead to rights. He was in pursuit.
The doorway clear.
Cali slipped out of the loading dock and turned to the right. Her mind open, searching for others, she pushed her brother around the corner, under a rampart and around another corner until they reached an empty street.
She didn’t stop running, despite the weakness in her legs and dimness in her vision. She rushed down the sidewalk, across the street, in the opposite direction of the federal agents.
She hurried toward freedom.
46
Marcus was one of the last to reach the loading dock.
His hard-soled shoes weren’t meant for running on linoleum and he bit it on the first corner out of the cafeteria, catching his knee on the corner of a vending machine. He managed a skip-run the rest of the way, slowing around the corners. He couldn’t feel his leg. His breath labored, heart slamming in his ears.
Craven had called on the radio. Marcus spilled his coffee while he stuffed his laptop into his briefcase. At first, he thought he’d apprehended them. I GOT THEM! I GOT THEM!
The radio crackled with updates as Marcus worked his way to Craven’s position. He couldn’t be sure, it sounded like they were still in pursuit. He couldn’t imagine how they were still chasing after a woman pushing a wheelchair, but there were many scenarios. This was new ground they were embarking upon. They needed to catch these two.
Had to.
Agent Starling was standing on the loading dock. Marcus stopped in the doorway, leaning over to catch his breath. His pant leg was stuck to a dark spot that was growing over his knee.
Starling raised his finger. “That way, sir.”
Marcus nodded. He went down the ramp, hopping mostly on his good leg. His other leg stiffened. He struggled across the parking lot, his chest tightening. The lights turned his skin the color of porridge. He was walking when he turned the corner at the hedges. Across the street, only fifty yards down, three of his men were gathered outside a six-story parking garage. Marcus walked easily, catching his breath when he arrived. The briefcase repeatedly hammered his hip. He set it on the sidewalk.
“Update,” he demanded.
A short man built like a roadblock told him that the suspects had slipped past the automated gate; they were last seen fleeing to the second level. All the exits were covered. Three men were currently searching the levels. They were on the third floor. So far, no sign.
“It shouldn’t be long, sir.”
“Where’s Craven?”
“On the other side of the building.”
“Get him over here.”
Marcus sat on the edge of a concrete planter. His knee wouldn’t bend. He left it out straight. Craven hustled over a few minutes later and stood in front of him. Marcus sat up, but didn’t try to stand.
“What happened?”
Craven went through the details. He was on post at the loading dock when his biomites acted funny, like James had described when the woman and boy escaped. He managed to stay conscious when he noticed them halfway across the parking lot. At that point, he gave chase while calling for backup. Craven saw them enter the parking garage but lost them in the dark as they headed for the second deck.
“And there’s no way they could’ve escaped?”
“No, sir. I took up position next to the elevator and stairwell with the ramp in view. There is no way out of this parking garage, unless they jumped.”
Marcus shook his head. Thinking, thinking.
Craven wanted to go back to his post. He wanted to catch them. Marcus jerked his head, telling him to leave. Craven acknowledged him and stopped to speak with the other agents.
The distance from the privet hedge to the parking garage was only fifty yards. The parking lot was about fifty yards. A guy like Craven—someone fit, lean, and young—could cover that distance in fifteen seconds. Maybe less.
And a woman pushing a wheelchair…
“Why didn’t you catch them?” Marcus coughed.
Craven turned his head.
Marcus pointed back to the hedge, taking a breath. “Why didn’t you catch them?”
“They were almost across the parking lot when I started after them.”
“You said they were halfway across, not almost across. Which is it?”
“A little farther than halfway.”
Marcus stood up. His knee was frozen. “I can’t imagine she could reach the parking garage before you, but I’ll give her the benefit. But how did you not catch her before the second deck?”
Craven thought. “She turned the corner, disappeared in the darkness.”
“Disappeared?” Marcus looked through the entrance. “Did it occur to you that the corner is a hundred feet up the ramp?”
Craven remained still.
“So you were on her and then she reached the end of the ramp in, what… three seconds?”
Marcus limped in front of him.
“Pushing a wheelchair.”
Craven’s lips worked without words, running the memory over and over. He was sure it was there, it had happened. He saw it.
“You said you felt the buzzing,” Marcus continued. “When did it stop?”
“Right about here.”
Marcus nodded. He started back toward the hospital.
“She’s in there, I saw it!” Craven shouted. “My eyes weren’t buzzing; I saw that person inside the parking garage. They’re in there!”
Marcus waved without looking. He slung his briefcase over his shoulder and abandoned the parking garage. They could stay there, finish the sweep. They wouldn’t find anything. And Craven would continue to swear what he saw. The fact was, if he doubted it, he’d fall apart. If he faced the reality—that he saw something that wasn’t there—he’d never trust his senses again. He’d be done as an agent. When they turned up nothing, he would convince himself and others that the woman and her brother had somehow slipped out an uncovered entrance.
Somehow.
Marcus limped over to the loading dock. His knee was working a little more fluidly now that he was moving. The briefcase, however, felt like a bag of concrete.
“When did you arrive?” he asked the agent posted in the doorway.
“Sir?”
“When did you get here to guard this exit?”
He thought. “About a minute before you arrived.”
Marcus looked around. The parking lot was surrounded by brick walls and shrubbery to his right. There was a sidewalk to his left that went around the building. He handed the briefcase to the agent, telling him to hold it. Told him there was sensitive data in there. It was the most unadvisable thing to do, hand someth
ing like that over, but he cared a lot less than he did only fifteen minutes earlier.
He made it around the corner, making his knee bend as he went. He followed the path beneath a portico and past the entrance to another building to the street beyond. He stopped there, looking left and right.
It was almost 4:00 a.m.
Crickets were the only thing that disturbed the distant interstate.
He reached inside his coat and took out the phone. It was time to make a call. Time to tell his superiors what had happened.
Tell them it was over.
47
THE KEYCARD SLIPPED FROM CALI’S fingers. The corner rebounded off the standard hotel carpeting and bounced to the other side of the hallway. She put her hands on her face. Her fingers cold. Cheeks burning.
Legs quaking.
We made it. We made it this far.
She steadied herself on the wheelchair’s handles. Nix’s head rested at an odd angle. The clerk at the front desk was more interested in a magazine than the sleeping kid in a wheelchair, and checked them into their room.
We’re on our way to meet family, Cali told her. Just running a little late.
The clerk pursed her lips, tapping at the keys. Jenny Meggett?
Yes, that’s me.
Tappity-tap-tap-tap. The girl coded a keycard and handed it over. She didn’t ask for a credit card; there was already one on file. Cali hesitated at the desk, then pushed towards the elevator. She wanted to ask if a little girl had checked into her room, but thought better if she didn’t. She wanted to know, but thought better if she went and looked herself.
So now she was on the second floor, staring at raised numbers on the door. The keycard on the floor. Nix sleeping.
She held on and bent over, prying the keycard off the dense carpet with a fingernail. The plastic was slick, the edge biting into her palm. She aimed it at the slot and stabbed the lock with a quick motion. A green light ignited. Gears turned.
She stared until the light went out.
Again, she keyed the door. This time she pushed the handle down before the light expired.
It was dark.
The smell of clean drifted from the room.
Cali backed inside, pulling the wheelchair with her. The light switch was around the corner. She locked the door and stood there. The heavy curtains were drawn. The beds made.
TV off.
“Avery?” she whispered.
Cali’s hands shook with renewed force, her fingers rattling over her lips as she covered her mouth to keep any more sounds from squeaking out. She was a horrible mother. She’d sent her little girl out on her own to wait for them and they almost never made it. What would’ve happened to her if they were shut down? Where would she have gone? She had no one if Cali disappeared.
No one.
Cali looked on the other side of each queen-sized bed, the corners crisply made and tucked beneath. She pulled the curtain aside and looked down into the city. The street was empty and wet. Drizzle streamed down the glass like tears.
“Momma?”
The bathroom door opened. And her little girl, her treasure, stood there with a toothbrush, wearing her nightshirt, the one that said Little Princess. Cali fell on her knees with such force that, despite the carpet, pain shot up her legs. She held her arms out and her little princess jumped. Avery smelled like Colgate.
“I’m so sorry,” Cali whispered. “I’m such a bad mother. Such a bad, bad mother.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the best.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, over and over.
“It’s okay, Momma. It’s okay. I just waited for you.”
“I know, I know… I just…”
And she squeezed her girl harder than a girl should be squeezed. And it felt good. A momma holding her cub to her bosom, never letting go.
Never letting go.
“Is that Uncle Nix?”
“Yes,” Cali said. She held her hand and knelt next to her brother.
His breathing was shallow. Drool hung from his lower lip. His complexion was still yellow but blotchy with patches of dry skin flaking off like scales. Like a new body pushing away the old.
A new breed.
“He smells funny,” Avery said. She leaned closer, wrinkling her nose. “What happened?”
“He’s been sick.” Cali pushed her brother’s hair off his forehead. Clammy and wet.
“He’s better?”
Cali nodded. “Yeah, he’s better.”
She smiled.
“He’s a lot better.”
Avery, despite the odor, wrapped her arms around Nix and pressed her head against his. Toothpaste dried on her lips like primer. The little princess smiled with her eyes closed, glad to see her uncle home and safe.
Home and safe.
48
There was no sense of time.
Like anesthesia. Like a portion of consciousness snipped from his life. If he had to recall his last moment of awareness, and it took great effort to do so, Nix remembered the silver doors of an elevator closing. Remembered his reflection looking back and his sister standing behind him. She said something—
Fire and furnace.
The images of hallucinatory dreams marched through his memories like pink elephants.
And now there was darkness. Blackness so perfect, unmarred by variations of smudging or the hint of shapes and depth. Just black.
Just night.
He wasn’t sure that time was passing, although it seemed to be, since he was aware—on some level—of this absence of light. Of this night that went on forever, where there was no sensation. There just was.
Just is.
Until there was a pinpoint of light.
He wasn’t even sure when it appeared. As he became aware of it, he was thinking that perhaps it was there the whole time. That perhaps he just didn’t see it.
And then there was another. And another.
Like a black sheet draped across the sun and something poking through it. Some holes bigger than others, some brighter, but none bigger than the head of a needle. All there, filling his vision, filling the darkness like a can of sparkly paint flipped from a brush to spatter the night.
Stars. Those are stars.
Nix was grossly aware that he had a realization. That there was thought in this world. Before, the dark and the pinpoints of light were just knowledge, something that he just knew. But he felt a movement—something shifting—when he recognized the lights for what they were. That they were stars.
That he was lying on his back, looking into a pristine night sky.
And, like the lights had eased into his awareness, so did the sound of water beyond his feet, ebbing and flowing and shooshing and crashing. The heartbeat of the ocean was somewhere beyond his vision, but he could hear it. He could smell the salt, the sea life within it. Feel the sand beneath him.
And he lay there, motionless. Watching the stars glitter. Listening to the ocean call. He stayed that way for longer than he would remember, for a period of time that he could not measure, remaining in the present moment.
Just seeing.
Just hearing.
Smelling. Feeling.
Until smoke was in the air. Wood burned and crackled somewhere to his right. Nix turned his head, the sand grinding against his ear. He saw the fire glowing, flames licking the darkness somewhere between the hard-packed sand and the line of trees. Sparks danced like insects.
Perhaps he knew where he was and didn’t recognize it. Of course he wouldn’t. Because never before had he ever experienced the inner world with such clarity. Never could he smell its richness, breathe its wonder. Feel its beauty. Perhaps, he thought, he was somewhere in the outer world. That, holding that last memory of the elevator and sister closely, Cali had taken him far away from the hospital. Perhaps they were in paradise, after all. Just like she promised.
They escaped.
Because, if this was the lagoon, if this was his inner paradise, his dreamland,
surely he would see—
She would be—
And a form stepped from behind the fire, the light flickering on her dark skin. Her bare feet pushing through the sand, hips swaying. Arms swinging at her sides. Her features faded as she stepped closer, the firelight now at her back, hiding the smile that touched her lips.
Nix went up to his elbows. He sat with arms crossed on drawn knees. He looked at the star-choked sky and cresting waves. Felt his longtime companion near him. Fully aware that the new-breed biomites had fleshed dreamland, made it as vivid as skin and bone.
Or maybe this is real.
Raine’s hands were warm.
Her embrace soft.
49
MARCUS RAPPED THE COUNTER WITH his fingernails, tapping a rapid succession of bullets with no particular rhythm, just something to cut through the barbiturate fog. His leg, stabilized in a blue wrap, still pulsed.
The doctor was late.
It was cold in the room with jars of tongue depressors and old magazines. Marcus tapped and stared straight at a poster—the only adornment in the room—framed in a thin black border beneath a layer of clear plastic: a picture of an old man and his wife walking through Hyde Park. He was two feet in the air, clicking his heels like a goddamn fairy on Broadway.
BIOGEN. Stem cell biomite technology to have you on your feet and out the door. Ask your doctor if it’s right for you.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A week had come and gone. Still in Chicago.
The pain, excruciating. When the adrenaline was exhausted, he’d smashed against the reality of a shattered knee. He attempted to fly home but was told to stay in Chicago. The investigation was ongoing and they needed him there to mop up. And in the meantime, get that knee fixed.
They knew he wouldn’t take the biomites. They knew his stance. And he knew they kept him there to let him stew in the raw scream of nerve endings that blared like never-ending fire alarms. Sometimes pain brought a man’s beliefs down, shattered the foundation on which he built his life. Pain, when there was enough, broke down all ideals.
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