Catalyst

by Kristin Smith

  I stare in amazement at the most miraculous thing I’ve ever seen. My fingers brush the once tender area, but all I feel is smooth skin where the incision was.

  “I can’t believe it,” I breathe.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?”

  I gaze at him in awe. “You’re a genius. No wonder the government bloodhounds were willing to cut a deal.”

  Zane laughs and screws the top back on. “Not as much of a genius as my father.” He flashes a broad smile. “But pretty darn close.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this? You’ll lose all you’ve worked for.”

  Zane shrugs. “The accomplishment was the best reward. Knowing I succeeded. Besides, I can still make it for myself. I can even sell it if I want.”

  “But they’ll have it.”

  “And hopefully, they’ll put it to good use. To help others. To heal wounded soldiers. Then it would make the hours I spent in the lab worth it.”

  Zane takes a deep breath and puts the vial back into his briefcase. Placing his hand on the door activator, he turns to me. “You ready?”

  I nod, suddenly too afraid to speak. Afraid that if I try, the tears I’ve been holding in will burst out like a broken dam. I’m overwhelmed by his selflessness. Here Zane sits with something amazing. Something truly wonderful. And he’s willing to give it away. For me. I’m so touched that my heart hurts.

  If he only knew I didn’t deserve his kindness.

  We walk down the curved sidewalk toward the entrance to the building, and Zane reaches for my hand. A sense of comfort washes over me. I know everything will be okay. Zane has made it okay. No more fighting. No more sleepless nights. No more threats.

  I glance up at the flags flapping in the breeze, proudly displaying Pacifica’s symbol of advancement. The thick blue vertical stripe sits beside the white stripe, which rests beside the black one. The black triskelion stands out against the large, center white strip.

  Zane pulls the glass door open and follows me through. Nervously, I glance around. I don’t know what to expect. All I’ve ever seen is the underground lair of the government, with its rock walls and cavernous feeling. Even when I was held captive in this building, I was several floors below in the dank basement. This building is different, built on the inside in a Romanesque style with rounded archways, tall, curved ceilings, and large, white columns. Our footsteps echo across the smooth, white marble floor.

  All I see are Suits. Suits everywhere. They cross the foyer with stacks of papers in hand; the women Suits talk in hushed tones and raise coffee cups to lips stained the color of blood. None of them turn to us with accusing eyes as we cross the foyer to the receptionist counter that sits in the middle of the high-ceiling room. I half expect them to whip out guns and arrest me on sight. My heart hammers in fear, and I shrink back, but Zane finds my hand and pulls me along beside him. The receptionist, a blonde with an oversized chest, eyes us as we approach.

  “Welcome. Zane Ryder, I presume?”

  “Yes.” Zane smiles. “We’re here to see Mr. Chadwick.”

  “Of course. Follow me.” The woman comes from behind the desk, moving toward the corridor on our left. I focus on the back of her white blouse as her heels click down the hall. She does this funny thing when she walks in her spiked heels, like she’s smashing a bug each step she takes.

  She pauses outside a room marked twelve and tries the handle. The door swings open to reveal a single glass table with four metal chairs, two on each side.

  “This is it. He’ll be in shortly.”

  When she closes the door, I have a feeling we’re locked in, and panic hits. I lunge for the door, but it turns easily in my hand.

  Zane gives me a concerned look. “Everything okay?”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “I thought they were locking us in.”

  Zane’s smile is sympathetic. “Don’t worry. I have everything under control.” He pulls out a chair for me. “Here, take a seat. They might make us wait a while.”

  I sit and strum my fingers on the tabletop. After a few minutes, I scoot my chair back, making a loud scraping sound against the marble floor. I pace back and forth, biting the inside of my cheek while my heart pounds. In moments, I could see my mother. What will she think of my short hair?

  The door opens behind us, and a short, stocky man with a bald head and glasses enters the room.

  “Have a seat, please.” He nods to my chair.

  Once again, Zane pulls my chair out for me, but I hardly notice. I’m too busy craning my neck, staring at the door, wondering where my mother is.

  Zane guides me onto the chair, forcing me to sit, but my eyes are still trained on the door behind us. Where is she?

  Zane voices my thoughts. “We had an agreement. Where is Vivian Preston?”

  The man smiles, his beady eyes becoming even smaller. “She will join us in a moment.” He leans forward and clasps his hands together on the table. “You have something for me?”

  Zane nods and pulls up his black briefcase, resting it on the table. After he types in a digital password, the lock clicks open, and there is the vial resting in the specially designed black velvet holder. Zane removes the serum and holds it up for the man to see. The bald man’s eyes practically bug out of his head, and he smiles greedily. He reaches for it, but Zane jerks it back.

  “No,” Zane says, his voice cold. “Not until we have Vivian Preston.”

  The man speaks low into his watch, his eyes never leaving the vial.

  I turn my head, finding comfort in Zane’s eyes and the confident smile he gives me. He reaches for my hand under the table and squeezes it, and that’s when I know. Everything will be okay.

  The door behind us swings open, and I whip around, almost giddy with excitement. But the person in the doorway strikes fear in my heart instead of bringing a warm smile to my face.

  Radcliffe.

  The blood pulses in my ears, and all I can think is that this is a setup. He’s here to cart me away—put me in that underground prison where the smell of urine and the rats are my only companions.

  My hands shake, and I turn to Zane with fear in my eyes. He wraps his arm protectively around my shoulders, tensing up as Radcliffe takes a seat across from us. I get a small sense of satisfaction when I see that the scratches I inflicted to Radcliffe’s face have turned into deep scars.

  “Colonel George Radcliffe,” he says, holding out his hand. His eyes dip over me for a second, and I see the flash of hatred he covers before turning his attention to Zane.

  “Zane Ryder,” Zane says, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t shake Radcliffe’s hand, and I assume it’s because he recognizes the name. The name of the man who tortured me, threatened me, and kidnapped my mother.

  Radcliffe shrugs and eyes the vial. “I see you brought us a present. May I?” he asks, his hand still outstretched. When Zane hesitates, Radcliffe clarifies, “How do I know the liquid in the vial isn’t anything more than watered-down grape juice?”

  Zane nods and hands it over, but he scoots to the edge of his chair as if he thinks by staying within arm’s reach, he can avoid being taken advantage of.

  Radcliffe opens the vial and pours a small amount on his finger, which he proceeds to spread on his scarred face. My stomach twists as I watch the skin heal. I wanted him to live with those forever, but if it means I get my mom back, then I guess it’s worth it.

  “Amazing,” Radcliffe says, staring into the mirror he pulled from his breast pocket. As he slides the vial back to Zane, he grins. “That’s quite some serum you have there.” He lays a heavy hand on the table. “Unfortunately, Zane, there appears to be a misunderstanding. Vivian Preston isn’t being held by us, she works for us.”

  I jump up, knocking my chair over, and slam my hands on the table. “That’s a lie,” I scream in his face. Spots dot my vision, and I use the table to steady myself. I knew they would twist this somehow. It all seemed too easy.

  Radcliffe reaches for something inside his military uniform, a
black suit with blue stripes running down the side with white embroidery. Our society’s symbol, the three running legs, is embossed on each shoulder.

  Radcliffe hesitates and appears to change his mind about whatever he was about to pull out. Probably a gun.

  I glare at him.

  “Have a seat, Preston,” he says coldly.

  Zane uprights my chair and eases me back onto it, but I’m so angry that I could spit fire. I feel the rage boiling inside of me, surging from the depths of my soul.

  “I’ll prove it to you,” Radcliffe says. He speaks into his own black watch. “Abigail, can you send in Vivian Preston, please?”

  Zane’s hand rests on my back, probably as an assurance that I won’t jump out of my seat and strangle Radcliffe. But as I turn to the door, I brace myself for how she might look. Dirty, unkempt, maybe even beaten and bruised.

  I’m not prepared for what walks through that door.

  Heels click, and a woman wearing a tight red suit and pearls, her red hair twisted into a classy up-do, enters the room. She carries a clipboard, and her face breaks into a smile when she sees me.

  It’s my mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Leaping from my chair, I fling myself into her arms as her clipboard clatters to the floor. I’m so happy to see her that I don’t even want to think about what gimmick they are trying to pull.

  All the emotions I’ve been feeling for the past week surface, and hot, wet tears sting my eyes and wet my cheeks. I breathe in the smell of her, the familiar scent of baby powder and lavender. I cling to her, too afraid to loosen my grip. Afraid I might be dreaming and at any moment, I’ll wake and find myself in my eight-by-eight sterile cell of a room. Alone.

  My tears leave a dark spot on her red blazer, but she doesn’t seem to mind. And then I remember that it isn’t just the two of us. We aren’t alone, but in fact, are being watched—no, scrutinized—by three other men. One good, and two bad.

  I pull back, dry my eyes with my palms, and sniffle back the snot that threatens to trickle out. Her hands immediately fly to my hair—or lack of it.

  “You cut your hair?” Her eyes look sad, but then she smiles. “It looks good on you.”

  I step back and eye her outfit. “You’re wearing a suit?”

  She hesitates, and then breaks out into another broad grin. “Yes. I wear it for work.” She spins around, a little unsteady at first, but then she regains her balance. “Do you like it?”

  My eyes narrow. Something’s wrong. I grab her arms and force her to look me in the eyes. “Mom, don’t you remember?” I turn and point at Radcliffe with an accusatory finger. “They kidnapped you, threw you in a cell with rats, and refused to let me take you home.” I shake her. “Why are you acting like nothing happened?”

  Her eyes widen and she looks stunned for a moment, but then she covers her confusion with a smile. “No, sweetheart. That was all just a bad dream. I’ve been here the whole time. Working.”

  My hands drop to my sides. I don’t understand what’s happening. Why is she lying for them? She knows what happened.

  “Miss Preston…” Radcliffe’s voice is cold. “It appears you are disoriented. Confused.”

  “I’m not confused! I know what happened,” I shout. I turn to Zane in desperation. Surely, he believes me.

  But Zane’s face is filled with doubt.

  “This isn’t surprising given your condition,” Radcliffe continues, completely unfazed by my anger. “You’ve been having these episodes lately, have you not?”

  My eyes shoot fireballs of hatred. “What are you talking about? What episodes?”

  “Have you even told your boyfriend the truth about who you are?” Radcliffe asks in a sickly sweet tone.

  Oh no. I know where this is headed. My stomach tightens and my knees go weak. I place my hand on the back of my chair to keep upright.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I snap. I feel Zane’s eyes on me, but I avoid his gaze. I have to get Radcliffe to stop talking. This isn’t how I want Zane to find out.

  “Boyfriend?” Mom says, leaning back to get a better glimpse of Zane. “My, he’s handsome.”

  “He’s not,” I seethe, “my boyfriend.”

  “Can you please stop saying that?” Zane mutters. “I get the point.”

  “Hey,” the bald man breaks in, “is there any chance I can hold on to that serum while you all discuss this?” He flashes a hopeful smile.

  I ignore him and turn my attention to Zane. He needs to hear it from me before Radcliffe twists the truth. I sink down on the chair opposite him. “Zane, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

  His jaw clenches, and his eyes darken.

  “Preston,” Radcliffe says, “why don’t you tell him about sneaking into his company and stealing the computer chip.” He shakes his head. “You know, it’s never good to start a relationship with lies.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Or, you could always tell him how you tried to kill his father.”

  My mother gasps behind me. “Sienna, is this true?”

  I turn from her shocked face to Zane’s hard, cold one. My head swivels back and forth between them, trying to decide who I should comfort first.

  “You used me,” Zane says under his breath.

  “No! It’s his fault,” I say, pointing at Radcliffe. “I needed the money, so yes, I did break in and steal the chip. But he forced me to try to kill your father. He threatened to expose what I’d done in the Match 360 facility.” I grab Zane’s hands and try to get him to look at me, but he slides out of my grasp. “Zane, please, this man is evil. He’s been playing me from day one.”

  I want him to get angry. I want him to punch something or yell at me. Call me a liar. Something. But he’s quiet. Still. And that’s the worst reaction of all.

  Zane shakes his head and rises to his feet. “I’m sorry, Sienna,” he says, “but it looks like I’m the one who’s been played.” He slams the briefcase shut and strides out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “You,” I say as my eyes light on Radcliffe. Anger, like a hot fire, creeps up my spine and inches along the back of my head. I think I could kill him with my bare hands. “You did this to me.”

  Radcliffe smiles and clasps his hands together, resting them on the table. “No. You did this to yourself.”

  “Would someone mind telling me what’s going on here?” Mom asks.

  I glare at Radcliffe and search his face for the best place to land a punch. Where did Trey tell me to aim to render a man unconscious?

  “Oh, and because of your little escapade inside my facility, I was able to pull facial recognition for all three of your friends.” I hate the way he says friends, as if it’s a word I should be ashamed of. “Didn’t realize I had the leader of the Fringe at my fingertips.”

  “You leave him alone,” I warn.

  “Ah, seems like you have a crush on not one, but two boys.” He leans forward and gives me a dirty smile. “You aren’t so little anymore, are you, Sienna?”

  His look makes my skin crawl.

  I stand quickly and take a hold of my mother’s arm. “We’re leaving. Come on, Mom,” I say as I drag her to the door.

  She resists, and I want to smack her. “Sienna, I’m not leaving. I have work to do.”

  “Drop the act, Mother,” I snap. “There’s no one here to see it.” I grab her arm again. “We’re leaving.”

  Laughing, she breaks free and dances to the other side of the room. “I’m not leaving, Sienna. I don’t want to.”

  I turn hate-filled eyes to Radcliffe. “What did you do to her?”

  Radcliffe shrugs. “Nothing. Guess she likes being here more than being with you.” His lips curl into a sneer. “You are kind of a disappointment, Sienna.”

  His words hit me where they’re meant to. My core.

  It’s true. I am a disappointment. I’ve sold my soul to the real devil that drags you down to hell. I’ve lied, cheated, stolen, and almost k
illed. I’m unlovable. No wonder she doesn’t want to be with me.

  “She’s sick. She needs rest,” I say.

  “She’s been receiving treatments for her lupus. I’d say she looks well, wouldn’t you?”

  I shake my head. “But lupus is untreatable—”

  “Maybe for you, but not for us.” Radcliffe’s grin is sly, reminding me of a fox.

  I turn my attention to my mother. “Mom,” I choke out, “what about Emily? Or have you forgotten all about your five-year-old daughter?”

  The smile on her face freezes. “Emily?” she whispers, like she’s unsure of the name.

  “Yes, Emily, your daughter,” I snap.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t have a—” She stops as recognition dawns in her eyes. “How is my little Emily?”

  “Missing her mother.”

  Mom’s eyes are pained. “I’m happy here,” she says in a soft voice. “The happiest I’ve been in a long time.” She walks over to me and pats my cheeks, so uncharacteristic of her. “I’ll be home soon enough. Besides, you do a much better job of looking after her than I ever did.”

  “That’s not true,” I start to protest.

  “Yes, it is, and you know it.” She walks over to the door and opens it. “I think you should leave now.”

  I feel as though someone has taken a knife and is carving out a chunk of my heart, but all I can do is stare at her, trying to decipher her expression. If this is her choice, why do I see fear in her eyes behind that self-confident smile?

  I wrap her in my arms, hoping that somewhere in there is the mother I know and love. The one who used to fix pancakes on Saturday mornings and dance around our home listening to “oldies” music while she dusted the furniture. I squeeze her tight, like I might be able to crush out the bad and replace it with the good.

  When I pull away, her eyes are moist. “Good-bye, Sienna,” she says before walking out the door.