I know I have to return to the Defiance and Idris. I was going to have to go back soon, anyway; this has merely moved my time table up. And made the trip a thousand times more dangerous. I need to cut out my Derrika Ealy locator tonight, so I can’t take the train. I’ll have to make my way over land, on foot, like when we left the Kube. I’m surprised that the prospect doesn’t make me despair. I’m stronger that I was before, I realize. I have confidence in my ability to forage, protect myself, and find the Chattahoochee Belle. The knowledge cheers me slightly.
Before I go, I need to return to the lab. I need my notes from the locust experiments—I’m not taking the chance that my work gets destroyed when my reputation does, when it all comes out that AC Derrika Ealy is really the convicted killer Everly Jax. I don’t think the Prags would cut off their nose to spite their face like that, but I’m not taking the risk. I remember a scientist from another lab saying something about the eradication of the locusts undermining the Prags, and it’s true. I’m no longer naïve enough to believe all public servants works for the common good: there are people who would deliberately keep Amerada in desperate straits to maintain their own power. I don’t think Minister Alden is of their number—I’m almost sure she’ll see the locust eradication protocol implemented no matter what happens to me, but I want a backup. I also plan to check Kareen’s and Anton’s names against the DNA registry; I have nothing to lose now if that sets off a few alarms. In fact, I wish I could be around to see what the response is, but that’s not possible.
For now, I need to return the scooter since I don’t know if the IPF is monitoring my ration card transactions already and I don’t want them worrying that I’m using the ACV to run away. On foot, I wander aimlessly for half an hour waiting for nightfall. The hum and sputter of passing ACVs makes me jump every time, afraid the IPF has found me. The aroma of garlic seeps from a house I pass, making my stomach gurgle. Feeling safer when full dark cloaks the city, I make plans. Everyone will be out of the lab by eight o’clock at the latest. I’ll return then—the guards are used to seeing me at all hours, thank goodness—copy my data, check the DNA registry, and be out within ten minutes, fifteen at the outside. I’ll extract my locator while I’m inside and leave it there, maybe in one of the locust cages. The idea tickles me. If the locusts could gnaw through bone, it might be possible to make investigators think they’d eaten me, but the bugs haven’t evolved to that point, yet. And now my protocol will make sure they never will, thank goodness.
After I leave the lab . . . my footsteps slow as I ponder my options. None of them are good. Traveling at night has its risks, but so does staying put and trying to make my way out of the city in the daylight. All in all, especially given I don’t have any place safe to stay, I decide that I’ll try to make it to the west side of Atlanta by dawn, and hide along the river somewhere. Then, I can follow the Chattahoochee downstream until I come upon the Belle. If I push, and get a little lucky, I should be able to get there within a week.
I’ve got two hours to kill until eight, and it’s cold. My wanderings have taken me not far from the train terminal and I decide to visit the warehouse where Griselda did my makeover. If I can find a way in, I can help myself to eye color tablets, a change of clothes, others items I’ll need on my trip. I dismiss a momentary qualm about stealing—it’s a Defiance safe house and I’ve done my bit for the Defiance. They owe me.
Making sure I’m not being followed, I make my way over railway tracks and past abandoned warehouses. When I draw even with the four adjoined warehouses, I study the right-hand unit from across the street for a moment, every sense on full alert. Even a mile from the city center, there are few lights, so I can’t see the building clearly. I shut my eyes and trust my ears. At first, I hear nothing, but after two long minutes I hear a faint tap-tapping. It comes in fits and starts: tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap. It’s the wind, I decide, teasing a loose shingle or segment of gutter. Not a threat. I open my eyes and make my way across the street and around to the alley behind the buildings.
I hear Fiere whispering “Lesson one,” in my ear as I approach the rusted door beside the loading dock. I slide aside the siding segment that hides the iris scanner and hold my eye to it without much hope. Nothing happens. I’m prepared for that, and look for another way in. I try the door. No luck. The tap-tap-tapping sounds closer now and I look around. A piece of webbed strapping tied to the handle of the roll-up door on the adjacent loading dock flaps with the wind’s gusts. That loading dock leads to the bakery where Griselda made me unrecognizable. In fact, there’s an image of a steaming loaf of bread, faded almost to invisibility, painted on the loading dock door. If I can get in there, I won’t have to go through the rigmarole of breaking through the wall. After another look around, I leap the narrow gap between the concrete pad I’m on and the adjacent one.
A new sound, an exhalation of air like a sigh or a moan, raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I freeze. Pressing my back against the building, I look around. No one. The webbed strap flaps and my gaze falls to it. Is it my imagination, or is there a line of shadow beneath the lip of the roll-up door, a gap like the door is open? I’m suddenly sure the sighing sound came from within the building. I’m less sure whether it’s human in origin, or the wind soughing through the narrow opening. Proceed or back away?
I need supplies, a disguise, and ration cards and there’s nowhere else to get them. Grasping the strap, I haul the door up just high enough to roll beneath it. It rises with a smooth movement and only a slight clatter; someone’s been oiling it. I jump up and stand still inches inside the door. I listen. Nothing. I feel the emptiness rising around me and above me. I’m immediately certain there’s no one here, but I listen for another minute to be sure. As I start back toward where I think the kitchen is, I see a glimmer of light ahead, a thin strip at ground level. My steps falter.
There’s no one here, I tell myself. Griselda—or another Defiance member with access?—left a light on. I try to remember if Griselda left a light on when we left the building, but I can’t. I’ve drawn even with the door that opens onto the kitchen. I watch the strip of light, but it doesn’t flicker; no shadow grazes it like would happen if someone were moving around. Despite the uneasiness the light engenders, I listen to my instincts which still tell me I’m the only living creature in this warehouse. The quality of the darkness and the silence and the space breathe emptiness at me. I push the door open.
My eyes focus on the knife. The handle is black with three metal rivets. What I can see of the blade is three inches wide, gleaming steel. The rest of it is buried in Griselda’s chest where she’s tied to one of the chairs. My gaze flies from her blood-soaked torso to her face. Her eyes are open, staring at me, imploring me, and I run to her side. There’s still time. I can save her. I reach for her hand, limp at her side, babbling something about getting help. Her hand is cold, clammy, and indisputably not part of a living person. Close to, I realize her eyes are filmed and lifeless; she’s been dead for hours at least. Has rigor come and gone, or not yet set in? It’s not my field. My breath hitches on a sob and I step back, surveying the scene.
There’s not much blood, other than on Griselda. Only a few drops spot the floor beneath the chair, directly under her hand. I look at it; her killer has broken all of her fingers at the middle knuckle and torn out three of her fingernails. Disarrayed clothes, burn marks . . . she was tortured. I swallow hard and focus on something, anything, other than Griselda’s body. The drawers and cabinets hang open, ransacked. Clothes, hair dye packets, sleeves of eye color changing tablets are strewn around the room. Clearly, the killer was after something specific.
Me. The thought flashes into my mind. Was Griselda tortured for information about me? Is that how the IPF found out about me? Is she dead because of me? Searing guilt makes my stomach cramp, but then logic asserts itself. Griselda had her own mission, and presumably had contact with any number of Defiance agents in the Atlanta area. There’s no reason, other than timi
ng, to think that her death is connected to me in any way. I haven’t seen Griselda since my first day in Atlanta. That’s what I tell myself as I move around the kitchen, methodically collecting the supplies I’ll need to journey to the Belle. It feels cold-hearted, but I’d be foolish to leave without them just because Griselda’s dead.
When I have what I need, I pause near the body again and use my thumb and forefinger to close her staring eyes. “Rest in peace, gray woman warrior,” I say.
Chapter Thirty
I exit the way I came in, and head back to the city center, thinking through the details of my plan.
Time and again, my tongue goes to the capsule buried in my cheek. I’ve been oblivious to it for months, but now I can’t quit probing it.
It’s almost eight o’clock, and I head for the MSFP building, making several random turns to ensure I haven’t been followed from the warehouse. I slow as I approach the ministry and stand a block away to observe it, kneeling to tie my boot. Light gleams from one window, but it’s not on my floor. Some other lab rat obsessed with his or her work. I wish them luck. No one enters or leaves. I stroll around to the rear. Nothing unusual. No watchers that I can see. Satisfied that the IPF isn’t waiting to pounce, I enter through the front door as usual, greet the guard and let him scan me, and head upstairs. My heart thumps half again as fast as usual, even though there’s no imminent threat. I blink rapidly to clear away images of Griselda.
The lab is dark, silent, and deserted and I let out a whoosh of relief. Inside I feel safe—safer than outside, anyway. There’s no logic to it since the IPF is more likely to find me here than wandering randomly around the city, but my heartbeat returns to normal. Without activating the lights, I reach my workstation and bring up my display. The computer whirs as I find a portable storage button and isolate files to copy. While I wait, I get a sterilized scalpel—no shortage of instruments in a research lab—and make the quick slit in my forearm that lets me winkle out the grain of rice-sized locator. Gritting my teeth to stop the wooziness I always feel at the sight of blood, I’m about to tape up the small incision when I realize it would make a great place to hide the data button. With the data uploaded, I ease the button into the space under my skin, and seal it up, hoping it doesn’t get infected.
Tuning out the sting, I use my access codes to get into the DNA registry. This is the point of no return. Once I put in Anton’s and Kareen’s names, I’m committed to leaving. Even if what Halla overheard turns out to be a huge misunderstanding and no one has connected Everly with Derrika, once I call up Anton’s and Kareen’s data, I’ve betrayed myself. There’s no possible way to explain how Derrika would know their names. I suck in a deep breath and give the computer Anton Karzov’s name.
It processes the request in less than .02 second and spits out the result: No record. I supply Kareen O’Connell’s name and get the same response. No record, no record, no record. The words ricochet in my head. It’s what I was expecting, and yet I’m still numb with shock. My eyes slide to the database total and note that it’s fifteen lower than when I last checked. Saben took seventeen people to the mysterious facility. If I assume two babies were born and entered into the database since then, the numbers match. Someone is erasing people, disappearing them.
I want to make noise about this, announce that someone is disappearing people, but I’ve got no proof. The absence of a record isn’t proof unless I can prove there was ever such an individual, which I can’t. The conundrum frustrates me. Yes, Kareen had friends and colleagues who would remember her, but I have no way to track them down. Even if I did, suppose the someone doing this was smart enough to move Kareen’s DNA to another name, like mine has been moved to Derrika’s? Then, if a sample of Kareen’s DNA is fed into the system (pulled from a hairbrush or old toothbrush supplied by family members), the registry will announce she is living (or had died) as someone else. A fictional someone. It would be easy in Kareen’s case since she is widely known to be dead; the government can simply argue she faked her own death and ran off to start a new life apart from her husband and children. An uneasy feeling creeps through me: I suspect most of the disappeareds are people no one would miss, no one would raise a fuss about. Anton said something like that when he talked about how the test subjects were chosen for the vaccine experiments.
While I’m trying to process the hideous implications, a gentle ping tells me I’ve got a message. From Allaway or one of the Iberian scientists I’ve been corresponding with, I figure. I access it, glad of a distraction. Enlarging the display, I notice an unfamiliar address. The message is brief and cryptic: “Dr. Usher asking questions at Kube 9 about a former AC and an AC no one remembers. My provisional hypothesis is that you’re in danger.”
Dr. Ronan! The phrasing of the last sentence makes me sure it’s him. I don’t know whose computer he used, but I know he is smart enough not to have written from his lab. I re-read the message. Keegan’s not visiting his mother; he went to Jacksonville, to Kube 9, to ask questions about Everly Jax and Derrika Ealy. There’s no way he didn’t discover the truth. No one down there would recognize the name Derrika Ealy, but plenty of ACs and proctors alike would recognize Everly Jax’s exploits. Damn him.
I start to reply to Dr. Ronan, but then delete the words. I don’t want to put him in more jeopardy. I don’t even know if he’ll be able to access messages to that address. Breathing a silent “thank you” to him, I make myself consider my situation. Bottom line: no worse than before. I’ve got a piece of data I didn’t have—Keegan is clearly the one who betrayed me to the IPF—but I don’t see that it changes my situation. My display goes into sleep mode and the lab goes dark.
While my eyes adjust, I sit and think. How have things fallen apart so quickly? Yesterday I was on top of the highest mountain, breathing the rarefied air of success, acclaimed by my peers. Saben told me he loved me. Today . . . today I find out I’m staring death or surrogate slavery in the eye. However, today is still better than tomorrow will be if I don’t get moving. I slide back my chair and start to stand. A faint skree freezes me. In the dark I see nothing, but I sense movement near the door.
A guard making rounds? The IPF? Unlikely—it feels like a single individual. Do I speak up and act all innocent about being here, or try to hide and hope whoever it is goes away?
The lights blaze on.
Chapter Thirty One
I duck. The workstations between me and the door hide me from view, I hope, but did the newcomer see the glow from my display? Apparently not, because there’s no outcry. Footsteps cross parallel to my position, and then there’s a pause, a click like the iris scanner makes when it identifies someone, and lights go on in Keegan’s office. I lick my dry lips with an equally dry tongue. This could not be much worse. No way can I make it to the door without him seeing me through the clear walls of his office. Chair wheels scrape against the floor and his computer hums on. He’s catching up on the work he missed while he was in Jacksonville, I guess. Damn him for being so conscientious.
I don’t waste two seconds on wondering if I can talk myself out of this. Based on Dr. Ronan’s message, I’m certain Keegan is the one who fingered me for the IPF. If he sees me here, it’ll be less than a nanosecond before he summons them. I wonder briefly if I can outwait him, hunker here until he finishes up and leaves. My muscles already feel cramped and I have to pee. The thought of hiding for what might be two or more hours makes the need that much more urgent. Still, it’s the best option available. If I move, he’ll see me. Trying to make myself even smaller, I huddle against the workstation partition, keeping below the clear part that starts at waist height.
“Aaaghnooo!”
The tortured cry from Keegan's office brings up an image of Griselda splayed on the chair. I wince away the picture and make the partition shiver. Did he see? Crashes and shatterings sound from the office now. I raise up on my knees to see. Keegan’s standing, sweeping everything off his desk in a rage. Computer, papers, readers, and more go fly
ing. When the desk is clear, he dashes to the long table and uses both arms to fling the models viruses off. They smash against the walls and splinter into fragments on the floor. I shrink instinctively. What has set him off?
“Damnherdamnherdamnher,” he bites out in an ever louder voice. “Damn the bitch to hell!”
I’m suddenly sure he’s talking about me. He’s just read or seen something that told him about my breakthrough and my presentation for the Premier. The jealousy that drove him to try and kill me as a kid has roared to life again, if it was ever dormant. He stands in the middle of the chaos, chest heaving, hands clutching at his hair. It stands out around his head like a fiery halo. Shaking his head—To deny the damage? To deny what he’s learned?—he returns to his computer. I can hear him giving voice commands, but I can’t make out the words. My calf cramps so painfully I have to straighten it. As I’m flexing my foot up and down to loosen the muscle, my display suddenly springs to life.
I suck in a quick breath. What—? Has Keegan seen the glow? I risk a peep. He’s still bent over his computer. I’m reaching up to shut down my computer when file names start flashing across the display, a stream of letters and numbers. I stare uncomprehendingly. Then I realize. It’s Keegan. He’s deleting my research, my notes, my correspondence, everything I’ve done. He’s wiping out the locust solution! As the lab director, he’s got access to everything. I strangle the scream of fury and despair that wants to rip from my throat. I can’t stop him. It’s already done. At least I’ve got the data on my button. Feeling pain in my hands, I open my fists to see my nails have gouged bloody half-moons in my palms.
Incineration (The Incubation Trilogy Book 2) Page 22
