by K. C. Archer
Pyro began to say something, but Clint waved him off. “Give me a minute,” he said. He stood and moved to the window, deep in thought. Finally, he turned back to face them. “Since you first brought Hyle Pharmaceuticals to my attention, I’ve been looking into what’s been happening there. No one has had access to a pool of psychic individuals to study before—”
“Not since Sector Three,” Teddy interrupted.
Clint’s eyes met hers. “Right. Not since Sector Three.”
Dara said, “And then Whitfield Institute opened. So we are lab rats.”
“Research was never meant to be experimentation,” Clint said. “Although maybe I was idealistic to believe that. But getting back to Yates and his focus on Hyle Pharmaceuticals. The report that Eli lifted outlines specific aspects of the psychic genetic code. They unlocked the code. They found their way in. That’s how they were able to develop a drug that represses psychic power.”
“But that drug doesn’t work,” Jillian objected. “I saw what it did to those poor dogs.”
“You’re right. The drug isn’t ready yet for human testing. But that isn’t the point.”
“What is the point?” Teddy asked.
Clint scrubbed his hands over his face. “Ever wonder why you don’t get sick? The psychic immune system works differently than the nonpsychic. Usually, gene therapies are delivered with a nonthreatening virus, something that’s injected into the bloodstream that carries the healthy genes.”
“Right,” Dara said, “but why would Yates want a drug that represses psychic—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, shit. I get it. Hyle solved the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Teddy said. What wasn’t she following?
Clint continued his explanation. “Psychic immune systems don’t recognize the typical viruses used in gene therapy. Hyle tried to circumvent the problem by creating an artificial virus, one that would deliver genes to suppress psychic ability.”
Teddy shivered. “You mean like a supervirus?”
Clint nodded. “Hyle has jumped some serious steps in terms of psychic genetics research. Think about it—what if this virus carries other genes? Psychic genes?”
“Yates could make his own army of psychic soldiers.”
“Exactly.”
Dara drew in a sharp breath. Teddy couldn’t help thinking of the blood samples that Jeremy had stolen from the infirmary last year. Her own DNA could be used against her.
“So we force Whitfield to shut down Hyle for good,” Teddy said. “Now. Tell him how dangerous this shit is.”
“Do you think I haven’t tried? He won’t do it. He says the research is too important to shut down. He’s added extra security to the lab. I’ll keep pushing him, but so far, he won’t budge.”
“Where does this leave us?” Teddy asked Clint. “I mean, what do we do? How do we stop Yates?”
“We use his own scheme against him.” He looked at Teddy. “How did Yates plan on helping you find your mother?”
Teddy took a steadying breath. She’d known this moment was coming. Dreaded it. But she had no choice but to lay all her cards on the table. She pulled the ametrine necklace from her pocket and set it on Clint’s desk.
“Oh,” he said. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
Clint resumed his seat behind his desk. “Do you remember that afternoon following Professor Dunn’s class when you ended up in the infirmary? You had an astral travel experience and accused me of triggering the episode. But I knew it didn’t work that way. Simply showing you a photo of Marysue in the vicinity of a PC bombing shouldn’t have sent you spiraling back in time.” He pointed to the pendant. “I didn’t trigger the event. Your mother’s pendant did.”
Teddy nodded. She’d known that at the time, of course. But she’d been pissed off. Wanted to blame someone. Clint had been an easy target. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You said that also happened to you at Sector Three.”
“Yes, but—”
“When there is a large energy event, objects that were present then often become imprinted with the memory of the event.”
“So my mom’s necklace has PTSD?”
“Something like that.” He flashed a smile, then sobered. “But there may be more to it. I think Marysue might have been using that necklace as a conduit to send you messages. Warning you about the dangers of medical experimentation by showing you exactly what happened to your father at Sector Three. I think she also tried to warn you about what’s happening at Hyle.”
That part didn’t make sense. Teddy frowned. “By showing me a bombing that happened in New York in 1998? How could the two possibly be connected?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Go back in, Teddy. See what she wants you to know.”
Teddy instinctively recoiled. She didn’t want to go back in time. She couldn’t watch that building explode again, knowing that people inside would die horrible, senseless deaths. She cast a panicked glance at Dara, suddenly understanding what her friend been talking about earlier that summer. A death warning was fine. Using a psychic skill to help someone avoid imminent danger was one thing. But to simply stand by and watch people die with no way to save them? Unbearable.
Pyro stood. “You can’t expect her to just—”
Teddy’s heart skipped. There he was, as always, standing up for her. Nick never did that, not really. But she looked at Clint. “I’ll do it.”
Clint dismissed Pyro, Dara, and Jillian. He dragged a sturdy wooden chair across the room and plopped it in the middle of his office.
“Sit,” he said. “My instinct is—has always been—to protect you. But I can’t shield you from everything. I can’t shield you from the truth. You need to see what happened, and how, and then we can figure out why and stop it from happening again.”
Once Teddy was seated, Clint turned his attention to the pendant. Picked it up. “I remember when your father gave this necklace to your mother,” he said, a small, sad smile on his face. “It was well before you were born, before I left the base for good. Richard was actually nervous. He wondered if it was too grand a gesture. But he wanted her to know how he felt.”
Teddy felt her eyes welling up. She hadn’t been prepared to hear something so personal about her father. He had become nothing more than a character in a story. A man who had been driven insane, who had turned violent, shot up a base, and died. But now she was faced with another man. A man who loved a woman so much that he gave her a giant stone that screamed Be mine forever.
“Your mother wore it every day. Like a wedding band.”
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, wiping her tears on her sleeve.
“Empathy. It’s a psychic’s most important tool. People are complicated. They do good and bad things. We all do, including your parents. Remember that when you see whatever you’re about to see.”
Teddy nodded. She told him about the excruciating pain and discomfort that came during the transition when she traveled. Clint nodded. Now that he knew about the necklace, he said, he could give her new tools for traveling that should alleviate most of the discomfort. He reminded her of the dangers of travel. She couldn’t try to change the past. And any injury would be carried back to the present.
He put his hand on the stiff wooden chair. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Your feet planted on the ground, your posture fluid and upright, your head high and chin aligned with your chest. You are connected to the earth and the sky, to the universe.”
Teddy relaxed her body and followed his instructions.
“Close your eyes and take hold of the stone.” He placed the necklace in Teddy’s hands. She wrapped the delicate silver chain around her palm and curled her fist around the stone. She felt the warmth of Clint’s calloused hands braced over hers.
“In the past, you were dragged behind the stone, a wild horse you were barely holding on to. This time, I want you to command it to take you somewhere.
Feel the warmth of the necklace in your hands and demand it take you where you want to go.”
The stone began to heat in her hands, a subtle glowing warmth that grew steadily stronger. Take me to New York City, Teddy commanded firmly, directing her astral self to be taken to a specific place at a specific moment. October 27, 1998. Show me what Marysue wants me to see.
This time, she was in control. No fishhook grabbing and jerking her away. The pressure on her chest was immense but bearable. She plunged into the Pilgrim’s Tunnel as though surfing an intense wave—one wrong move and the whole thing could collapse on top of her. She clung on, rocketing forward, until she emerged on the other side.
She was there.
New York City. Cars and trucks and pedestrians swarming all around her. A ceaseless stream of movement and noise. People carrying on with their day, oblivious as to what was about to happen.
Battling a surge of helpless anxiety, she watched the now familiar scene: Yates placing the leather briefcase under the bench, signaling to the burly man on the pay phone that the device was ready. She caught the faint smell of something familiar. Sweet and nutty. C-4.
Teddy had learned in Wessner’s class that bomb makers often had a signature, a way of doing things. Whoever made this bomb had made the IED she’d discovered at Whitfield’s party. She was certain of it. Teddy fought an urge to grab the briefcase and run. It all seemed so pointless, her being there, if she couldn’t stop the bomb. Just then, Marysue lifted the briefcase and carried it into the office building.
Teddy raced after her, this time following her mother inside the building. She knew she shouldn’t be in there. If the bomb went off and she was within range, she could suffer horrible and real consequences. But still she felt compelled to follow. She rounded the corner and saw her mother pause, leaning against the shiny lobby wall. Was she having second thoughts? Maybe she wasn’t the one who’d done the bombing after all? Then her mother steeled herself and turned toward the elevator, but not before reaching out and pulling the fire alarm.
The loud, repetitive bleat of the alarm drove people into the lobby. In the ensuing swarm of fleeing office workers, Marysue slipped from view. Teddy followed the stream of the building’s occupants—who looked alternately confused, bemused, or annoyed—out of the building and into the street. A few lit cigarettes, and others peeled away to grab a cup of coffee. Their lives saved by Marysue’s action. Teddy had missed the fire alarm going off the first time she’d been there. She wondered now what else she’d missed.
She hunkered low, bracing herself. When the explosion came, it was every bit as staggering as she remembered. The shattering of dark glass and the propulsive shock of the blast nearly knocked her off her feet. But she had to see what happened next.
Even as prepared as she’d been, she nearly missed Marysue in the resultant chaos, the screaming terror that filled the street in the aftermath of the bombing.
Her dark coat flapping behind her, Marysue raced away. Teddy followed. Her mother made it one block, then two. She reached a pay phone and ducked inside, pulling the clear glass door shut behind her. Teddy saw tears streaming down her cheeks.
The pay phone began to ring.
Marysue took a deep shuddering breath, then lifted the receiver. “Colonel,” she said. “Target hit. Confirmed kill.”
Teddy expected her to hang up. Instead, her knuckles white, Marysue clung to the receiver, listening. A look of anguish overtook her features. “No. You said this was the last one. You promised you’d let me go.”
The door to the pay phone was slammed open by the same large, menacing man Yates had signaled earlier. Teddy gaped in stunned surprise, helpless to do anything but watch as he wrapped one thick, beefy arm around Marysue’s waist and the other around her face. He pressed a white cloth over her mouth and nose. The sharp, cloyingly sweet scent of diethyl ether burned Teddy’s nostrils. She watched, her heart thudding in fear, as Marysue bucked against him, struggling to break free, then went limp in his arms.
If only the butterfly effect hadn’t loomed so large and portentous. Butterflies were stupid insects, if you asked Teddy. It took everything she had to keep herself from charging in to save Marysue from whatever the hell had happened to her.
A black sedan skidded to a stop at the curb. An attractive woman with white-blond hair stepped out of the vehicle. She flung open the rear passenger door. “Stanton, over here!”
Stanton dragged Marysue’s limp body to the sedan and stuffed her inside. “Drive, Nilsson.” He leveraged himself into the back seat and slammed the door while the blonde jumped behind the wheel. The car peeled off.
Teddy wanted to throw herself in front of the vehicle. And it wasn’t just Wessner’s Secret Service training that made this urge so strong. It was something else. She wanted to save her mother. But there was nothing she could do. She felt like she was being ripped in two. Just like when she traveled, a thousand tiny hooks tearing her apart. She wanted to go but knew she should stay. The sedan sped off and disappeared into the heavy stream of midmorning traffic, and Teddy wanted to be with her.
But she couldn’t.
She was alone. Her mother was gone.
No.
Instantly, she felt like she’d made a mistake. She should have followed her mother. Her mother, who hadn’t really wanted to hurt anyone. Clint had been wrong. She began to run, fighting against the measure of time itself. If she could get to the car, then what? She felt something grasp her middle. The wind was knocked from her lungs.
No. No.
She could fight this. She wasn’t ready to leave yet. The world tilted sideways, spun out of her grasp, then righted itself. When she opened her eyes, her heart was racing as though she’d just completed a 5K.
“You’re okay, Teddy. You’re here in my office.” Clint’s voice.
“She didn’t—she didn’t want to do it.” Her guilt at not being able to help her mother was tempered by a sense of relief. Her mother hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. Marysue was being forced to work for the PC. That was why she had set off the fire alarm to warn as many people as possible before the bomb went off. And the people who’d abducted Marysue? The very same pair who’d broken in to Eli’s apartment.
She felt Clint’s huge, strong hand on top of hers. She looked up into his eyes. “You were right, Clint. My mother was trying to tell me something.”
“What?”
“Who’s behind this. Identifying the PC members we’re tracking. Exactly what you’ve wanted all along. You’re right that she’d lead us to them. The man we’re after is named Stanton. The woman is named Nilsson. They broke in to Eli’s apartment. They’re responsible for the IED at Whitfield’s party. And I can give you detailed descriptions of both.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TEDDY KNEW HOW LAW ENFORCEMENT worked. The wheels of justice tended to grind rather than spin. But that hadn’t prepared her for days that would drag into weeks without a sighting, let alone an apprehension, of Yates, Stanton, or Nilsson. Nick, on Clint’s request, posted an APB. Local authorities were given background and descriptions. Highways and public transportation throughout the Bay Area were monitored. Teddy knew it was a long shot. They were trained professionals, masters in the art of disappearance, and now they’d vanished completely.
So had Eli, even though half the teachers at Whitfield were looking for him. General Maddux was looking, too: he had discovered the connection and named Eli as a prime suspect.
Although she tried to focus on her studies, Teddy’s mind was so clouded with worry that she didn’t see Wessner walking down the corridor toward her. They nearly collided. Teddy stopped short and mumbled an apology. But as she turned to leave, Wessner stopped her: “Just a minute, Miss Cannon. As it happens, I wanted to speak to you anyway. I have another assignment for you.”
Wessner looked at Teddy expectantly. Clearly, she was waiting for some kind of reaction about getting a special assignment, so Teddy plastered a smile on her face. “Oh? What’
s that?”
“Whitfield’s grandson, Miles, is vacationing at the family’s ski lodge in Lake Tahoe. We think it would be wise for him to have security.”
An upscale ski resort. Most people would be thrilled. But Teddy and snow didn’t get along. Still, a temporary change of scenery might be good. And Tahoe was only a couple of hours away. If something did happen, she could be back on campus almost immediately.
“And everyone involved thought that was a good idea?” she asked.
“Well,” Wessner said, “you must have made some impression on Miles, because he requested you specifically.”
Teddy hadn’t seen Miles since Whitfield’s party. So he remembered the brief conversation they’d had in his grandfather’s study. He’d been so out of it at the time, she hadn’t thought he would. “Sure, I’m happy to help.”
“I’m glad you’re so agreeable, Teddy. Because the assignment is over Christmas break.”
“Christmas?”
Another holiday ruined.
“Is that okay?”
Teddy exhaled. Having to miss another trip to see her parents seemed ridiculously unfair. Only this time, a part of her was also the tiniest bit relieved. She didn’t want her parents to worry about her. And the only way to accomplish that was to put on an act that everything was fine at school. She wasn’t convinced she could pull off that farce for the entire two-week break. “Fine,” she said.
“Good. I’ll send you a dossier. Whitfield has made it clear that he doesn’t want Miles to feel like his vacation is being ruined by a security detail. He made a special request for a laid-back approach—not the usual Secret Service protocol—more like a vigilant friend.”
“Got it.” Teddy thought for a moment, then said, “Anything going on with HEAT?”
Wessner hesitated. “Hollis Whitfield received two untraceable phone messages making vague remarks about what would happen if Hyle continued testing on animals.”
