He did as he was told, going into the bathroom and retrieving a used washcloth from the side of the bathtub. He passed a mirror that hung over the sink and saw that his face was spattered with red blotches, making him look like he had the chicken pox again.
He returned with the damp cloth.
“Now give them to me,” she instructed. He handed both the cane and the cloth to her and stepped back as she started to wipe the cane clean.
“This ain’t the only thing that needs a good wipin down,” she said, giving him a look.
He promptly turned to go.
“And after you’re done cleanin up, I want you to bring me those filthy clothes,” she told him.
Nodding, he opened the door, and just as he was about to leave, she called to him again.
“How did it feel?” she said.
“Ma’am?” he questioned, coming back into the room, not sure if he had heard her right.
“I asked you how it felt.”
“It felt… good,” he told her, not sure if that was the correct way to describe it.
She chuckled, continuing to rub down the polished piece of wood, removing any stain that might have clung to it.
“You’re a Kavanagh, all right.” she told him, shaking her head with a smile. “Your granddaddy would’ve been proud.”
Chapter 17
TYLER AWAKENED STANDING before a wall of thorns.
“Dammit,” he barked, looking out over the body of thick, constricting vines that surrounded the ancient house.
His house.
He had been pulled down into a narcoleptic seizure and knew exactly who was responsible.
“Are you in there, Tommy?” he yelled over the tangle of thick, thorny vines. “Don’t know what games you’re playing, but you might as well accept that you’re gonna lose. I’m in control now, big guy—I’m the dominant one now, and there ain’t nothing you can do to change that.”
Tyler stood before the vines, waiting for some kind of response from inside the house. The old structure remained silent; the only sound present was the moaning of the wind. He liked the sound, finding it strangely comforting. It had often been his only companion in the times that he’d waited to be activated.
“So it’s gonna be like that,” he muttered, stepping back from the heavy constriction of vines and concentrating with all his might on a particular area. Tyler’s grin grew twice its size as the vines responded, twisting and writhing as their trunk-like bodies reconfigured themselves, forming a path through their mass leading directly to the front steps of the house.
“This is my place,” he shouted, striding down the passageway. “I’m in control here—I’ll always be in control here.”
The pain was sharp, burning, and Tyler looked down to see that he had walked a little too close to one of the thorns and it had torn his shirt and the flesh beneath.
“I’ll always be in control here,” he said, this time more forcefully.
Just in case someone was listening.
Tom and the child walked hand in hand through the darkness.
The bed in which the little boy had been sleeping was far behind them now, a barely visible light far off in the distance.
The child’s hand felt odd in his, the connection of his flesh to the boy’s completing some kind of bizarre circuit. Tom’s skin had started to itch as well, from the moment he’d understood who this child was. He glanced down and saw patches of rough discolorations on his arms and wrists.
Of course … it made perfect sense.
As they walked together, Tom’s mind became filled with strange images, memories bubbling up through layers of mental flooring—flooding the house of his mind.
The remembrances were fragmented, staccato images from a brain not yet fully developed—a brain not yet capable of grasping the horrors of what was being done to it.
He remembered doctors—countless faces, both men and women, young and old—as they pricked and prodded. There were other children too, quite a few at first, and he wasn’t so afraid until they started to go away. Every day there seemed to be fewer and fewer of them—comforting faces not there anymore.
Tom looked down at the child as they continued their stroll through the darkness. The little boy yawned, rubbing his tired eyes with his free hand as they trudged along. Gazing at the child, Tom could not help but realize that this sleepy-eyed little boy was the real Tom Lovett.
The flow of memories surged again, and Tom suddenly remembered the excitement and fear of flying in a plane—a little girl sitting in the seat beside him crying because she was afraid. He’d held her hand, trying to assure her that there was no reason to be scared even though he was terrified too.
Tom experienced the child’s terror as his own, fighting the urge to collapse in tears, to curl into a tight little ball and escape the horror.
From the airplane they were loaded onto a bus and driven to a place—a big old house, a mansion.
The image of the sprawling home filled his mind, and Tom suddenly understood the origins of Tyler’s mental construct. It was where the children had been taken—the original home of the Janus Project.
The memories that followed were an odd jumble of pain mixed with fear, people with lab coats holding clipboards and wearing fake smiles. But one man was nice. He had white hair and glasses and said that his name was Dr. Quentin. The nice doctor told them not be afraid. He assured them that he didn’t want to hurt them.
And Tom believed him.
But the other doctors were different. They didn’t care. They were scary, and they stuck needles into the kids—inside their heads—and strapped them down so that they couldn’t move.
Tom suddenly began to gag, choking on the taste of rubber, experiencing the memory of a mouth guard being shoved into his mouth, keeping his teeth apart. Strapped on the bed, he could see other children like him—including the girl whose hand he’d held on the plane—restrained, and he wished that somebody would hold his hand then, because he was so very afraid.
Tom couldn’t take it anymore, dropping to his knees in the place of darkness. He wished he could take the black that surrounded him and wrap it around himself like a blanket, escaping into the void. He didn’t want to remember anymore—he didn’t want to know the child’s pain.
His pain.
He felt the soft touch of a hand on his shoulder and looked up into the child’s face. There was strength in the little boy’s eyes, something that would desperately be needed if they were to survive this ordeal.
Tom climbed shakily to his feet, and the child smiled, taking his hand.
The little boy was leading him now, deeper and deeper into the all-encompassing landscape of shadow. And off in the distance, so far away that it sounded like a whisper, they heard a voice.
An angry voice.
And they moved toward it.
The double doors to the decrepit mansion exploded open with the force of his kick, one of the hinges pulling from the ancient wood of the door frame, causing the door to hang awkwardly to one side.
“Where are you?” Tyler screamed.
He had every intention of killing Tom Lovett.
His shoulder began to throb and he glanced at the thorn wound, feeling just the slightest hint of panic. What had started off as a cut, two inches in length at most, had turned into something far worse. The wound was obviously infected, the skin around it an angry red, weeping a thick, viscous fluid. He tenderly touched it with his fingertips. He’d seen these effects when Tom Lovett had taken control and he—and all that defined him—was being absorbed.
Tyler studied the backs of his hands, noticing the blotchy redness slowly beginning to form there. It was happening again.
“No,” he said, his fury growing. “No, I will not allow this.”
He moved farther into the entryway, darting toward the sitting room. “Where are you, Tom Lovett!” he screeched. “Show yourself before I—”
“I’m right here,” said a voice, interrupting his ran
t, and Tyler came to a sliding stop before going into the sitting room. He turned, standing in the archway to the grand old room, watching as Tom descended the staircase.
And he wasn’t alone.
A child was with him; a child, barefoot and wearing light blue hospital scrubs. There was something about the little boy—something calming, peaceful.
Disturbingly familiar.
“We’re here,” Tom said, correcting himself.
“What’s this?” Tyler asked with a mocking laugh. “Found yourself a friend, did ya?”
They stopped on the stairs, both of them staring at him as if he were some kind of freak.
“I found more than that,” Tom replied.
Tyler slowly moved toward them, his thoughts already filling up with the hundreds of ways in which he could eliminate Lovett and the child if he had to.
“Who is he?” Tyler asked. “Long-lost childhood friend dug up from one of the pockets of memory we’ve got lying around in here? Somebody who once shared his juice box with you—or let you play with his dump trunk one day when you was feeling exceptionally vulnerable?”
“You know who he is,” Lovett said, and suddenly a thought—a horrible, horrible thought—flowed into Tyler’s mind, and yes, yes, he did know who the little sandy-haired boy was.
And at that precise moment he knew who had to die first.
Does Tyler understand what this means? Tom wondered, staring down at his more vicious half from the stairs. He certainly hoped so; things would go so much smoother if he’d just accept reality.
The child had seemed drawn to Garrett, navigating the darkness of their psyche, pulling him along with intense purpose. They had emerged from the shadows into the muted light of the endless hallway, Tyler’s screams of rage summoning them to the foyer. For a moment he had been afraid, planting his feet as the child tugged on his hand.
And then the child had smiled at him, and without saying a word, Tom knew that this was the way it was supposed to be—how it had to be if things were ever going to be right again.
Before Tom could say a word, what he had foolishly mistaken for understanding suddenly shifted to burning rage. Tyler darted up the stairs at them, his fist pulled back to hit the child.
Tom jumped between them, blocking the punch aimed at the child’s face.
“Out of the way, Tommy,” Tyler hissed. “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
Tyler lashed out at him, and Tom barely had time to deflect the blow. He punched back, clipping the side of his twin’s face, but Tyler dodged him and his knuckles just grazed his cheekbone.
“Almost got me,” Tyler growled, reaching out to grab him by the front of his shirt. “But almost can get you killed.”
Tyler threw Tom over the side of the stairway. Tom landed in a crumpled heap in the entranceway below. He scrambled to his feet, shocked by Tyler’s incredible strength.
Garrett glared at him from the stairs. “You stay right there,” he ordered. “I’ll be down to deal with you in a minute.”
Tyler turned to face the child.
“Leave him alone!” Tom screamed, racing up the steps. When he reached the top, Tyler spun around, slapping him across the face so savagely he felt his jaw pop out of place as he sailed through the air. He landed in a heap back in the entranceway. The pain was incredible, firework explosions of color erupting in front of his eyes as he fought a growing nausea to get to his feet.
I have to do something, Tom thought feverishly, and he listened to the moans of the wind outside turning to screams in response to his inner turmoil, and he again remembered Tyler’s words on his first visit to the mansion.
This is my place, Tommy, he’d told him. It responds to my feelings.
Through a pain-filled haze he saw that Garrett had one of his hands wrapped around the child’s throat, choking him.
The wind outside roared like a wild animal trapped in a cage, and in his mind Tom saw it that way—like a thing alive—and suddenly the foyer was filled with a raging wind, a wind roused by Tom’s own anger, a wind that was part of an environment that responded to his feelings as well.
It was as if a tornado had touched down in the mansion entryway, and shielding his eyes against the flying debris kicked up by the powerful winds, he watched as Tyler Garrett was yanked away from the boy, picked up by the maelstrom, taken from the stairs, and hurled into the far wall.
And as abruptly as it had started, the wind died down to a haunting moan. Tom knew that his time was limited, that the killer would quickly recover.
Lurching past the stairs, Tom checked on the child and found him sitting there, clutching the wood railing, a surprising look of calm on his face.
“Get out of here,” Tom told him, gesturing with his hand. “Go on and hide someplace before—”
“There’s no place the little bastard can hide here where I couldn’t find him,” Tyler said, sailing across the room toward him.
The heel of his foot connected with Tom’s face, sending him lurching backward.
The pain was kicked up another notch. Tom could almost hear the grinding of his broken ribs.
“I liked that trick with the wind, Tommy,” Tyler said, touching the back of his head. His fingers came away red. “Nice to see you thinkin’ on your feet.”
He wasn’t exactly sure how he did it, but Tom managed to stand, charging across the room at Tyler. Garrett knocked him back down with ease.
“You’ve lost, Tommy,” he said. “The strongest one of us has won—get used to it.”
Tom pushed himself up from the floor. “You’re wrong,” he grunted, managing to rise to a kneeling position.
“No,” Tyler answered with a shake of his head. “I was always the real deal,” he continued with a chilling smile. “It was you they tacked on, cobbled together from bits and pieces of different personalities.”
Tyler darted forward, lashing out with his foot, kicking Tom on the side of the head and sending him sprawling back to the floor.
“You were just a mask to disguise a killer,” he said.
And Tom started to laugh. Even though his head was spinning and his mouth was filled with the taste of blood, he couldn’t stop himself. He just couldn’t believe that his other half could be so stupid.
“Good to see that you didn’t lose your sense of humor,” Tyler said. “Wonder which one of the techs gave you that?”
“I don’t believe you,” Tom said, pushing himself up again into a sitting position. He looked at the killer—a twisted reflection of himself—and no longer felt fear or hate. He actually felt pity for Tyler Garrett. “You actually believe that pile of crap you’re shoveling?”
He watched a look of confusion creep across Garrett’s face. It was true; Tyler didn’t understand at all.
Tyler pulled back his arm, ready to strike as Tom stared at him defiantly. “Go ahead, smash my face in,” he shouted. “It won’t change the fact of what we are—what we both are.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Tyler screamed.
“Neither of us is real,” Tom replied sadly. “We’re both masks—artificial personalities grafted onto a preexisting one—one that never got a chance to develop.”
The expression on Garrett’s face was one of shock and horror. “It’s not true,” he spat, spinning around to see that the little boy was standing directly behind him. “It’s not true!” he screamed at the child.
Tom got up from the floor, the pain in his side, on his face, having become a dull throb. “It is and you know it,” he said, moving closer.
The child was looking up at him, a peaceful calm registering on his face. Tyler recoiled from the boy, jumping backward, afraid of what was coming next.
Tyler bumped into Tom, spinning around to look frantically into his eyes. “I’ll … I’ll kill you both,” he said halfheartedly.
“No,” Tom said. “We’re way past that now.”
Tyler looked away from him and to the child. Then he looke
d at his hands, at the dark, discolored blotches that were blossoming there. “I don’t…” he began, turning to Tom again. “I don’t want to die like this.”
Tom remembered noticing the blotches of discoloration on his body when he’d first realized the truth of what the child represented. Yes, it was disturbing, but just a part of the process.
What did Dr. Quentin call it? he thought calmly. Unification.
He had no idea what the final outcome would be. As far as he knew, his personality could completely cease to exist, the assassin that he’d shared his mind with becoming completely dominant. It could happen, but it was a risk that needed to be taken. Tom couldn’t live like this anymore.
“It’s not about dying,” he said, coming to stand beside the little boy. Tom reached down to take the child’s hand in his. “It’s about becoming whole.”
The boy held out his other hand to Tyler Garrett.
A low rumble could be heard—felt—throughout the ancient mansion, the floor shaking beneath their feet. Huge jagged cracks like lightning bolts appeared on the walls; chunks of plaster dropped down from the ceiling to shatter on the floor.
It won’t be long now before this place ceases to exist, Tom guessed as the house continued to crumble around them. It won’t be needed anymore.
Tom watched as Tyler tentatively reached for the child’s hand.
“I wonder if it’ll hurt,” the killer personality thought aloud, taking the boy’s hand in his, seemingly resigned to his fate.
“Don’t know,” Tom said, reaching out with his own hand to Garrett to complete the circle. “We’ll just have to take that chance.”
The wind was screaming now, sections of the roof being torn away by destructive elemental forces to reveal a pitch-black void outside.
“Then what are we waitin’ for?” Garrett asked with typical bravado, taking hold of Tom’s hand. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
There was a searing flash as their hands entwined, a light so bright that it burnt all away.
Everything old was gone, leaving behind only the new.
Sleeper Agenda Page 15
