The Academy (The Academy Saga Book 1)

by CJ Daly

  “Kate . . . are you listening?” I dummy-nodded. “Good because there’s

  more.”

  “More?” I whispered even as I knew what he was going to say. I thought

  back to how Mama always knew the right thing to do, her uncanny way with

  people, how she always got Daddy to do her bidding—he was like a whole

  different person since she died. I no longer thought it was just grief that made

  the immediate difference.

  “Not only do I think she was an ex-cadet,” he said, “but I also think she

  was gifted.”

  My head bobbled around for a while before I found my voice again.

  “She was.”

  “You knew?”

  “Just found out ten seconds ago.”

  Pete studied my face. “One more thing . . .”

  I huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Hit me with it.”

  “My mother is a neurobiologist and at one time headed up the Gifted

  Program. One of the markers of the gifted is . . .”—his eyes locked onto

  mine—“enlarged pupils.” We stared into each other’s eyes until I blinked.

  “So that’s why Mama always made me wear those stupid glasses in

  public . . . so my large pupils could be explained by the lens magnifying

  them?” I wondered aloud.

  “Sounds reasonable,” he agreed. “That and to help hide your beauty—not

  that it did much good.”

  “Is that why you told me not to look Ranger directly in the eyes?”

  He nodded. “His father was a biopsychologist who did research with my

  mother in the GAP program, so he would’ve also been familiar with that

  marker.”

  “Neurobiologist? biopsychologist? You say that like I know what it means.”

  • 442 •

  He smiled without feeling at his recycled words. “Let’s just hope you never find out.”

  So Pete had been trying to help me. From the very beginning. I thought of

  all he had done for me, and just like that, the love feeling was back on—only

  times the power of ten.

  “Think back, Kate,” Pete interrupted my thoughts. “Did your mother

  have a scar on the back of her neck?”

  I sifted back to the exact day I laid eyes on it, the visceral memory still

  fresh as a newly dug grave. I was still just a spindly girl with dirty knees,

  Andrew a wobbly toddler. We were out in the pasture on a hot summer day,

  the kind that melts technology left on dashboards. I remembered watching my

  mother lift her dark hair to allow for a breeze. She had hidden beneath that

  velvet curtain, a jagged, ugly scar running the length of her neck that was so

  incompatible with her smooth skin it made me want to cry.

  “Mama!” I’d screamed, running over almost hysterical at once. “There’s

  something real bad on the back of your neck!” I’d had an immediate visceral

  feeling about it that squeezed my throat and made me sick to my stomach . . .

  the same immediate feeling I’d gotten about The Academy.

  Mama turned around to look at me, in that funny way she did when I

  got sudden, strong feelings about things. “This old thing? It’s just a childhood

  battle scar, Katie-Kat, same as the one on your left knee when you fell off that

  swing in kindergarten.”

  She’d lied to me that day, but I let it go because Daddy was nearby, and

  I knew instinctively this wasn’t a discussion to have with him around. So I

  waited until that night when she was tucking me into bed. She said sometimes

  an ugly truth is best covered up with a pretty lie . . . I would just have to trust her on that.

  I looked up at Pete in awe. So many pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of my life

  he’d been carrying around in his pocket, only to hand over to me tonight.

  I thought of the brother who shared my genetic mutation, and the one who

  didn’t. Now that I knew more of what the final picture of my life looked like,

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to fully complete it.

  “Holy shit . . . ake mushrooms!” I cried.

  “You took the words right outta my mouth,” he said like I’d finally given

  him the reaction he was looking for.

  “So-so she escaped, cut out her microchip,” I crunched on those words

  like they were icy pebbles, “married my father, and moved all the way out

  here just so she wouldn’t have to be in your academy anymore! Is it that evil?

  What do they do to you?”

  • 443 •

  He leveled me with another look and recycled his words: “Whatever they want.”

  “Why don’tja just quit?”

  Pete took in another breath, cradling the side of his head in his hand. “You

  can’t . . . so I’ve been trying to get kicked out for years.”

  “How’s that workin’ out?”

  “Not so good,” he said. “My parents keep saving my sorry ass.” He

  grunted, shifting into a more comfortable position; it looked like he was

  having a hard time even sitting up now. “I think botching this mission—

  which I must say I’ve done an admiral job of—would’ve finally done the

  trick.” He mangled a smile.

  I was still in data processing mode when Pete slumped, finally rousing me

  from my self-absorption. Looking closely at him now, I saw that he looked

  truly terrible. His head had stopped bleeding, but clumps of blood matted

  his hair, his face was ashen, and shadows, that had nothing to do with the

  darkness, hollowed his eyes. He looked like he was in dire need of that shot

  he’d given me a few weeks ago. So preoccupied with the onslaught of mind-

  bending information, I’d totally overlooked the fact that Pete was in the midst

  of his own crisis.

  “Pete! God! Sorry! I forgot you’re still hurt and . . . messed up,” I said for

  lack of a better word. But it was more than a little apt, and I felt terrible for

  adding to his pain. I just realized all he was giving up: his parents, security, the whole of his life as he knew it. I’d seen the fear on his face when he appeared

  on my doorstep. I thought of all the stress he was under now because of the

  risk he took to warn me and was beyond grateful for his help. And it was

  beyond time for me to start helping him back. A strong, compulsive urge to

  hug him overcame me, so I did.

  “We can talk about this later. Right now, let’s get you inside and fixed

  up.” Stiff-jointed, I struggled to my feet first, then helped Pete do the same.

  “Told you,” he said, swaying a bit. “We can’t talk in there.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a much better place to perform surgery than the cold, hard

  ground . . . with a dirty knife.”

  “That’s what the alcohol was for.”

  “Well I hate to tell you, but I just drank the last bit of sanitizer.”

  Pete leaned pretty heavily on me now, a sacked quarterback. “Come on,”

  I urged him on. He objected, but in a pro forma way that led me to believe

  he was very nearly on the verge of collapse.

  Together we trudged back to the house, the glowing lights from our tatty

  trailer a welcoming beacon from the cold darkness and grim news.

  • 444 •

  39

  HACKJOB

  “We can do the deed in the bathroom and then you can sleep

  in my bed,” I announced, helping him up the porch. My

  thoughts—and my body—immediately warmed at this

&nb
sp; idea. “Daddy’s always the last one up in the morning, so I can sneak you out

  early.” I craned my neck around. “Where’s the Hummer?”

  “I came on a motorcycle; it’s parked in the shed,” Pete answered then

  hesitated in the doorway. “Listen, Kate . . . there may be more bugs in the

  house than I know of. We’ll have to be extremely careful in case they’re

  listening in.”

  After I nodded my understanding, we stumbled our way into my bedroom,

  where Pete immediately face-planted across my wagon-wheel bed. Relieved of

  my load, I stepped back and took a moment to soak him in. He was in pretty

  bad shape, like one button-snap away from coming undone. My own nerves

  were jangling wildly about. Gah! I hit him pretty good and hoped he didn’t have a concussion. Maybe he just had too much to drink? I tried to convince myself.

  I leaned over his inert form. “Wait here while I get some supplies,” I said

  unnecessarily, because he wasn’t likely going anywhere anytime soon. He half

  groaned an acknowledgement.

  I pushed back everything I’d learned tonight to the back of my brain

  so I could concentrate. I was good in an emergency—steady. The kind of

  person you’d want in your foxhole . . . or so I’d always prided myself on. Pete

  deserved me at my best, after all he’d done for me. I’d only repaid him with

  anger, violence, and a hard time. I wouldn’t let him down now. In his hour

  of need. He was obviously falling apart on me. It wasn’t like him to be so

  unprepared. I thought of him pouring alcohol, from a flask he was guzzling

  • 445 •

  from, over a paring knife confiscated from my kitchen. For me to cut his—I mentally cringed— microchip out. Sloppy and haphazard: two words I’d never

  associated with Pete Davenport.

  I scurried to the bathroom and wrenched open the medicine cabinet. Doh!

  We were running low on bandages and didn’t have near the size we needed.

  Growling, I grabbed alcohol and the last web of gauze before adding tweezers,

  surgical tape, and clean washcloths from the linen closet to my stockpile. I set

  them all out on the counter, then stood, tapping my fingers. Oh yeah. Digging back in, I came away with a sticky tube of antibiotic cream and my bottle

  of “happy pills,” just in case. Then I hustled to the kitchen and rummaged

  around some more for our handy-dandy role of duct tape and a Sharpie before

  heading off to Daddy’s bathroom to nab a razorblade from under his sink.

  While slipping it out of the cartridge, I noticed, on a side note, that his scotch

  stash was almost depleted.

  Back in the bathroom, I dumped the remainder of the supplies and swiped

  down the whole area with alcohol. The sharp chemical smell dizzied me, so

  that I was well on my way to hyperventilating myself into passing out. I went

  into the hall to get some air and calm down, pacing and prayer chanting Please

  God let me get this right! over and over until my hands stopped shaking. And it was with a calm demeanor that I went in to rouse my patient for surgery.

  “Pete.” I shook his shoulder. “It’s time.”

  His obsidian eyes opened, and I saw the whites of his eyes, usually so

  brilliant against the dark iris and black pupil, were veined with red—stress

  and lack of sleep—I knew the look well.

  I drew his hand to my chest. “Pete, are you sure?” Eyes tightening with

  determination, he nodded. “Okay,” I said, “. . . come on.”

  He hoisted himself up only to slide to the floor, reaching around under

  my bed for a second before coming up with a small metal disk. Like the boys

  with their creepy acquisitions, he held it in his palm for my inspection, this

  thing more revolting than any insect. I shook my head at him. He grimaced

  back at me and hung his head. I exhaled some sharp air and helped him back

  up (he almost helped me down), and we made it to the bathroom, where

  he immediately flushed the dang thing down the toilet. Then he stood,

  unconsciously stooping a little beneath the low ceiling, eyes roving over the

  array of crude surgical instruments lined up on the counter. He picked up

  the black marker.

  “A Sharpie? Duct tape?” Humor infused his tone.

  I nodded sagely. “Never underestimate the power of duct tape.”

  • 446 •

  He lifted half a lip. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Suddenly, he yanked me forward. “Kate,” he searched my face, “are you sure you wanna do this?”

  We were leaned in whispering, in case of waking sleeping boys or bugs

  without antennae. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “It’ll be quick and I have my

  leftover pain pills to give you. . . . I know you’re not supposed to take them

  when you’ve been drinkin’ alcohol, but I think maybe you should take just

  one before we begin.”

  He looked at me intently for a long moment. “No. I mean take the boys

  and run away with me—it’s the only way I know you’ll be safe, and we can

  be together.”

  My eyes widened a split second before I jerked my head up and down. I’d

  never been more sure about anything. Pete rewarded me with a sloppy smile

  and fastened his hand behind my neck, bringing our mouths so close together

  I almost forgot why we were standing there. We stared, forehead-to-forehead

  and pupil-to-pupil, until all I could see was my own reflection.

  “Okay, Nurse Kate—let’s do this thing.”

  I smiled as if lit from within, ridiculously happy despite the morbid

  circumstances. “Don’t you mean Dr. Connelly?”

  He huffed out an amused chuckle. “Right. I’m all yours, Dr. Connelly.”

  “Okay,” I said, shifting into business mode again. “First, take this.” I

  handed him one of my happy pills and Mikey’s Spidey cup filled with tap

  water.

  “Bottoms up,” he said before downing it like a good boy.

  “Sit down.” I indicated the stepstool. He obliged immediately, and I drew

  his head forward, cradling it to my stomach. Brushing aside the soft fringe at

  the nape of his neck, I fingered along the edge of the thin, precise scar. Sure

  enough, there was a small sliver of a foreign object. Really real y hard, is how I tried not to freak out while I marked it with the Sharpie.

  Pausing there to breathe, I detected, right beneath Pete’s euphorically

  sweet smell, a sharp whiff of sweat coming off him—the odor of anxiety.

  And my heart squeezed for all the trouble he’d gone to to save us Connelly

  kids from the same fate. I squeezed him to me, taking a moment to knead

  the worry knots from his back. After his muscles began to relax, I very gently

  felt along the side of his head for the small lump. When I bumped up against

  it, he immediately flinched.

  “Look at me,” I commanded, staring deeply into his eyes again. I knew

  these eyes—had been examining them for the better part of two months.

  Except for being clouded with fear and pain, they still looked the same—no

  concussion.

  • 447 •

  “Now take off your shirt,” I ordered.

  Pete tilted his head, looking up at me with one eye closed. Grinned. “Yes

  ma’am” slid out the corner of his mouth before he reached for the bottom of

  his torn shirt and yanked it over his head.

  Oh man! I paused to
swallow. He nearly knocked me out. I had to focus, and staring at his bare chest was not the way to do that. After a little throat clearing, I said, “Okay, kneel down and hold your head over the sink.”

  He obliged, his neck exposed as one before a guillotine. I picked up the

  intimidating, straight-edged blade and made to make my first incision.

  “Kate, wait!”

  Swear to God, my head almost crashed through the ceiling I jumped

  so high. “Pete! Dagnabbit! Don’t ever do that again!” I hissed. “You almost

  made me slice your dang neck off!” One hand flew to my chest like it could

  regulate my heartbeat.

  “Sorry. It’s just . . . I can’t guarantee I won’t make any noise.” Pete rose

  to his feet again, unbuckling his belt before unlooping it from his jeans.

  I couldn’t help notice how they slipped down an inch or so lower on his

  hips, revealing an extraordinary V-shape I was suddenly very interested in. I

  swallowed again.

  He placed a strip of belt in his mouth, biting down to test the pliability

  of the leather. He nodded at me.

  “Right. Of course,” I hastily said as though I were perfectly in control. So

  that’s what he was doing outside earlier. Remorse hit me, like a slap in the face.

  “Ready?” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to him or me.

  He nodded his head again, leaned back over. I swabbed the back of his

  neck, my hand, and the edge of the razorblade with alcohol. After a deep

  breath and a quick finger cross, I proceeded to slice open the beautiful,

  smooth flesh of his neck. Bright blood bloomed along the incision line,

  making it impossible to see my marked line immediately. He sucked in a sharp

  pocket of air but otherwise remained quiet while the blade parted the thin

  layers of dermis like I was skinning a chicken. (But with the added burden

  of my subject being alive and bleeding.) His muscles alternately clenched and

  spasmed, but he held his head steady as was humanly possible with someone

  slicing into you with a razorblade. Finished with my incision, I put down the

  blade to lift up the flap of skin and probe for the chip.

  My heart sank—the incision wasn’t deep enough.

  I would have to recut deeper, down to the bony segments of cervical

  vertebrae. My stomach lurched at the thought of butchering the one depending

  on me to get it right. As I relayed what more I had to do, I tried to keep my