I knocked lightly on the door, and it opened further.
Jack tossed marble-sized pieces of first-aid tape into a plastic cup across the room. He didn’t look over at me, so I leaned against the doorway and watched while he inexplicably made four shots in a row into the cup.
The pull was there, stronger somehow in the tight quarters of his room. I wanted to ask him the escape plan, wanted to hear how he intended to get out of here with Finn, and if Jack really thought my dad would be able to save him.
But I couldn’t ask any of this first.
I swallowed, gathering confidence to break the silence. “I saw how you fought for Finn when he was on that table, and I owe you an apology.”
Jack paused his hand in mid-air for his fifth shot. “How’d you see that?”
I debated what to say, remembering Caesar’s warning. But how else would I know?
“Caesar showed me the video,” I said.
“Bastard.” Jack flicked his wrist and the tape ball arched across the room, hit the rim and bounced off. “Dang. I had fifty-six in a row.”
“Jack …” I said. He was probably drunk—which made his baskets into the cup even more impressive.
He dropped his hand in his lap and finally turned to look at me. “Don’t apologize. It was my fault.”
I hesitated, expecting this sort of response, but unsure how to reply to it. “That’s not true,” I said finally. “And I am sorry. Whether you accept my apology or not, I wanted to let you know.”
Jack didn’t reply and I sighed, frustrated, anger welling up. “Listen, if you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. But I do need to know where the cleaning supplies are.”
“I remember you,” Jack said. He carelessly flicked another tape ball. It bounced off the wall behind the cup and landed inside. “The whole first year and a half of your life. Before your mom left with you.”
“What?”
“You lived in New York City. Our moms were best friends.”
Jack ripped another piece of tape off his leg wrap. “Cleaning supplies are in the closet. Tranquilizer gun is right over there.” He nodded to the corner of his room. “So you can knock out the mods before you get into their cages. I’m supposed to be monitoring you, so don’t do anything crazy like leave the west wing and shoot my dad. Then he’d know about the whiskey, then he’d wonder who brought it to me, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Do you remember all parts of your life? That far back?”
Jack turned and studied my face for a long while, as if debating. Finally, he said, “Turn out the lights.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to show you something. The light switch is just outside the door.”
My brow furrowed but I leaned outside the room and flicked the switches. Jack’s room, and the entire foyer and modwrog hall went pitch black. “What if someone comes?”
“I can hear them,” Jack said. “Come over here.” When I didn’t respond immediately, Jack added, “Don’t worry, I won’t touch you.”
So, I felt my way along the wall, my heart rate picking up. The closer I got to Jack, the stronger that force got, like something inside of him was pulling me in.
“That would be my shoulder,” Jack said. “Here. Sit.” He took my hand and positioned me on the mattress. I sat down, unable to ignore the heat where his hand touched mine. His skin was warm—so warm—and if the pull had been strong before, it erupted now and overflowed, completely surrounding me, sitting this close to him.
“You’re smiling,” he said.
“I’m not smiling,” I said, moving my face into a neutral expression. “And you’re touching me.”
“You were smiling.” Jack released my hand. “Okay. Hold up a number.”
“What?”
“On your hands. Hold up a number.”
So I did.
“Eight,” Jack said.
Impressive, since I couldn’t even see my hands in front of my face. I switched out my fingers to a different number.
“Four,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows and changed my hands again.
“Ten.”
Slowly, I lowered my hands. “Night vision?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. We sat in silence. It felt strange knowing Jack could see me perfectly when I couldn’t see him at all. I cleared my throat.
Lightly, he touched my lips with one finger, and I froze. The sensation running through me felt like electricity, and his touch was totally unexpected. “You’re smiling again,” he whispered. Yes, definitely drunk. The Jack I’d met was too guarded to let himself do something like this.
I spoke through the lightness of his finger, searching the darkness for his eyes. “You’re touching me again.”
His fingers grazed my cheek sending a rush of heat through my body. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Slowly, he tucked a loose piece of hair behind my ear. I struggled to keep my breathing even, knowing he could hear it. Then, abruptly, Jack pulled away.
My skin burned long after his touch left my face. We sat there in the dark, completely silent. I didn’t want to move, didn’t know if I should. I stared at where I thought his face was, unable to make myself say anything, afraid to shift at all. My heart beat hard in my chest, and I inwardly cringed, wondering if he could hear that, too. I waited for him to speak. Maybe I’d misunderstood—perhaps he hadn’t officially pulled back? I wondered if the next thing I’d feel would be his lips on mine.
But when Jack spoke again, his voice was cold. “You should go.”
I blinked in surprise. I half-expected him to say something more, to signal that he was joking. I waited a moment longer. He said nothing, so I stood and felt my way along the wall back to the light switches.
I took the tranquilizer gun and left without saying a word. So much for talking about plans to get out of here.
When I reached the stairwell door that would lead me up to see Finn, the sound of exploding glass came from Jack’s room. A few modwrogs responded with hisses from down the hall. I waited. When Jack didn’t call for help, I released my breath and continued up the stairs.
He’d just thrown his liquor bottle at the wall. Hard.
As the stairwell door clicked shut behind me, I realized there were sides to Jack that I knew nothing about. Caesar told me to give Jack a chance, that he just had a hard shell.
The thing was, I didn’t think Jack was going to let me crack it.
27
JACK
I listened as Sage climbed the stairwell. The whiskey had burned off long ago while I slept. It wasn’t the liquor that made me touch her, it was the pull. I hadn’t resisted the pull.
My head dropped back against the wall.
Jack, what in the hell are you doing?
28
SAGE
As I crested the stairs, thoughts of Jack faded. The way Finn’s face looked last night haunted me: his skin color, his distended bones, the void in his eyes. My stomach churned.
The part of Finn I loved the most—his intellect, the essence of what made Finn Finn—had completely disappeared. In many ways, it felt worse than him dying—having him here, but not really here. I clung to the hope that somehow my father could cure him.
A sob caught in my throat when I spotted Finn lying in the corner of his cage. He slept with his body curled into a ball, knees hugged to his chest. A few small boils had formed on his arms, and his hair was matted to his head. A few tufts of it already lay on the floor of his cell.
He looked so calm, sleeping there. Such a contrast to last night when he came after me and Jack. Somehow, I had to get Finn to recognize me. The desperation rushed into me all at once. We had to get him out of here. I had to keep him alive.
I placed the tranquilizer gun by the door. A hose hooked up to a spigot near the cage, and I turned on the water. At the very least, I could rinse out his cell and clean off his body.
“Finn,” I said, the water spreading across the concrete in fr
ont of me as I moved toward his cage. “Finn, wake up.”
He didn’t stir until the water rolled up to his fingers lying limp on the concrete. When the water touched his hand, he jolted upright and hissed, scooting to the back corner.
“Water,” I said. “It’s just water, that’s all.”
Finn began to pace, yanking out strands of hair from his head, making this tight, guttural sound.
“Finn! Stop!” I didn’t waste time. The tranquilizer gun was aimed on him in seconds. I shot the dart between the cage bars. He let out a snarl, but I did it again, and then waited. Eventually, he slumped against the back wall unconscious.
For a moment, I stood, unmoving, staring at the body of my brother. Then, numbly, I pressed the button on the wall. When the bars slid open, I knelt next to him and unwound the hair from his fingers, dropping the strands on the ground. I placed my fingers in his warm palm. The familiar shape of his hand was gone, indistinguishable beneath the hardened knuckles. His nails had turned gray and brittle, cracked across the beds.
The back of my hand pressed to my mouth, holding in a sob. I picked up the hose.
Water trickled over his head and I ran my fingers gently through his hair. A few more chunks came out. I scrubbed a dirty spot near his ear and inspected his face. His lips pulled tight across his wide jawbone. The bumps on his skin felt dry and scaly.
“Finn,” I whispered, “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”
I ran the hose over the rest of his body. My tears mixed with the water and fell onto his skin.
29
BECKETT
I slept off and on in the chair, hands still tied behind me. Morning came. Or, at least I assumed it was morning, because a middle-aged lady wearing a traditional black-and-white housekeeping uniform delivered a fresh pastry, a glass of water, and some clothing for me. She took the old plate, pastry still on top. I didn’t try to talk to her.
A few minutes later, Dallamore swung the door open, his new suit crisper than yesterday’s. “We have Buenos Aires coming in a few hours. Time to clear you out. You’ll be driving one of our cars to headquarters. You can’t take your pickup. The police are looking everywhere for you, you know. The FBI, too, so don’t take any detours on your route. Once you arrive, you can check in at the front desk. The address is programmed into the GPS on the car.”
I didn’t need my GPS. I knew my way around the city, and I knew exactly where headquarters was, even if it had been three years.
“You’re just letting me go?” I said. “On my own?”
“Why not? We all know you want to get to the girl. Half your family is dead, the other half is on the island with her. The plane leaves from headquarters tomorrow morning, so I’d suggest you get there.” Dallamore placed his hand on the doorknob to leave. “Giselle, the maid, will let you out. Farewell, then.” He turned and left.
A few seconds later, the door opened again and the housekeeper slipped in. As she worked at the knots around my wrists with a pocket knife, I wondered where Smalls had gone.
“What time is it?” I said.
“Noon,” Giselle replied. My wrists released, and I pulled my arms forward and rolled my shoulders, unable to contain a sigh. Man, that felt good. I stood, stretching.
Giselle nodded at the clothes on the table and left.
I shuffled to the table. It felt amazing just to walk again. I picked up the clothes: jeans, nondescript gray t-shirt, baseball cap. I used the half-bathroom in the far corner, splashing water on my arms and face, washing away the dried blood. My face still looked pretty bad, but that couldn’t be helped.
I got dressed. I ate the pastry. I drank the glass of water.
Giselle led me out, back down the long narrow hall to the front door that I’d walked through yesterday morning. The afternoon sun shone through the giant trees covering the property, casting golden patches of light onto the grass. I squinted at the brightness of the morning.
From the front steps, I watched someone steer my truck out of the circle drive. The Kansas license plate grew smaller, and I knew I was seeing the truck for the last time. It was ten years old, nothing special, just something discreet that Uncle Jeff had bought me at the used car lot in downtown Canta. The air conditioner didn’t work half the time. I wasn’t particularly attached to the blue chunk of metal, only what it symbolized. That truck was the last piece of my old life that remained. And now, it rounded the corner and disappeared, and I had nothing left. I was back where I started three years ago, shouting from the back of Peg and Jeff’s car.
I was alone.
A shiny black BMW pulled up in the place where my truck had been parked. A chauffeur climbed out. On the steps next to me, Giselle cleared her throat.
I glanced over at her, so lost in my own thoughts that I’d forgotten she was standing there. “Where’s the dog?” I asked.
I thought I saw her face soften a little. “The dog is with the gardener. The keys are inside,” she said. “You’re free to go.”
I nodded, absently.
Maybe it was the tone of Giselle’s voice, the way she hesitated before she said “you’re free to go.” It gave me a sinking feeling. I opened the car door and settled into the leather seat. I placed my hands on the wheel, ignoring Giselle’s stare and letting myself take three deep breaths.
In another life, Giselle could be my mother, standing on the stoop, saying farewell as I headed to college after spring break. In this dream, I had a family who cared about me. Sage waiting for me on the green manicured lawn of some prestigious university.
Yes, I knew what this sinking feeling was. I’d been to Vasterias headquarters three years ago, and many times before that. But this time, so many lives were at play in the game. It was different when it was just Jack and me. This time, I wasn’t sure if we would all make it out of the Corporation’s claws alive.
30
SAGE
The cafeteria looked different at lunchtime. Brighter, more energy. The recruits had endured only half a day’s worth of workouts, and it showed. They talked louder than they had last night at dinner. Two tables down, a boy grabbed his friend in a headlock, rubbing hard on his scalp before releasing him, laughing. In the food line, two girls appeared to be practicing assault moves with their eating utensils.
All of them looked so healthy. So alive. So normal … Nothing like the recruits I’d encountered this morning in the west wing.
Across the table from me, Imogen pushed a bite of garbanzo beans into her mouth. The midday sun poured in through the wall of windows and created a glowing halo around her auburn hair and porcelain face. The picture contrasted the version of Imogen I’d seen yesterday, tearing apart that boy in the dirt.
“How bad was it?” she said. “Cleaning out the cages?” She’d already heard about Jack and Finn from Caesar.
I placed a piece of bread in my mouth, chewing without tasting. I shrugged.
“Worse than horse stalls. You don’t have to tranquilize horses.”
My chest contracted at the thought of Beckett and his parents back home with all the animals, trying to figure out what happened to us.
Imogen took a few more bites, hesitant when she asked her next question. “And how was your brother?”
I bit the inside of my cheek, unable to maintain eye contact with her. I stared down at my tray, green, just like the color of Finn’s skin. “Like all the others,” I said.
Imogen’s face darkened. “The doctor will pay for what he’s done. We’re going to make sure of that.”
We took a few bites in silence.
“I saw them kill my mother,” Imogen said, so matter-of-fact that it took me a moment to register that she was serious. “I pretended I didn’t know. I wanted to exact my revenge from the inside, ya know? When I got here, Jack caught me making plans. He told me I could join him.”
She cleared her throat, as if she was choking on memories. “Anyway, we leave in four days. Your dad is sending a helicopter to the other end of the island. Caesar tol
d me to let you know.”
“My dad has his own helicopter?”
Imogen shrugged, like it made no difference one way or another. “I’m pretty sure your dad has access to as many helicopters as he wants. From what I’ve heard from Caesar, even before Vasterias came along with their offer, your dad and Dr. Adamson had already made plenty of money.”
I had no idea how much “plenty of money” was, but apparently it was enough to employ helicopters whenever he pleased. My mind flitted to the years of my family struggling to earn enough money just to get food on the table. Millie with her gangrene. Plenty of other times we’d had less than enough to run the farm. I clenched my jaw, suddenly furious. It was the least my dad could do to get Finn out of here and help him get better again.
“Four days is soon,” I said, thinking of Finn and the way he responded this morning.
“It’s all we’ve got,” Imogen replied.
“I’m not leaving without my brother.”
“We know,” Imogen said, throwing her napkin onto her empty tray. “So get him ready.”
31
BECKETT
Left hand draped on the wheel of the BMW, my eyes flickered from the road to each car that passed me on the highway. The sinking sensation from earlier haunted me. But I’d made my decision before I left Canta: get Sage and Finn to safety or die trying.
I hated Vasterias. I hated that I was walking right into their schemes. But until I could get to Sage, what could I do besides play along?
The BMW was a smooth ride. Jeff and Peg had money to get a nice car, but in a town like Canta, the newest luxury car driven by a farmer—or his son—would attract way too much attention. The last time I’d driven a classy vehicle was when Jack and I were sixteen. Our dad had a thing for sports cars. One night, Dad was out at some function at the mansion. He had taken a limo to the event, so Jack dared me to take Dad’s latest sports car for a joyride.
The Mod Code Page 11
