Revelations (4 page)

I was terrified.

Christian flung open the garage door, swung open the driver’s side door, and jumped in. I was already in my seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared when Christian threw the Mustang into reverse and peeled out of the garage. The tires left black marks on the driveway and, as we hit the road, Christian threw it into drive and hit the gas so hard smoke billowed from the back wheels.

We flew down the road at top speed, taking corners so hard I thought we’d flip over. The Mustang held onto the road tightly and I was proud of her and proud of the man who handled her. Yet escape was not to be.

We were followed by two men in a black sedan. The driver was as skilled as Christian, and he stayed with us at every twist and turn. I kept my eyes on the car following us as best I could, yet my vision kept drifting towards the road ahead of me. Forgive me, but I enjoyed the ride.

As I said, happily-ever-after was not to be.

We hit a straight stretch of two-lane road, and there were no other cars in sight. The Man in Black driving the sedan took the opportunity. He drove up right behind us and rammed our rear end. Swearing, Christian kept the Mustang headed in the right direction though she fish tailed slightly. Part luck and part training made him keep the car under control.

We came over a rise in the road, trees flashing by on either side of us. The sky was bright blue, and there were few clouds. It was a beautiful Fourth of July day. As we crested the hill, the sedan came up behind us once more. On the other side, we caught sight of a beat-up, red pickup coming towards us in his own lane. The sedan driver swerved to the right, to the left then came back at an angle. When he hit us at just the perfect angle, he pushed the Mustang—she used to pretty, but she ain’t gonna be pretty no more—directly into the path of the pickup.

We struck nearly head on at eighty miles per hour.

What I remember of the crash is limited. I remember breaking glass, the crumpling metal. I heard my father’s cries of pain as the front end of the car pushed up against his chest. The Mustang had no air bags, so when my head slammed against the dashboard nothing saved me. The last thing I heard was an explosion as the pickup truck burst into flames. After that, there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter Five

Three Years Later…

I woke to a scene that would become more and more familiar to me as the years of my life passed by: white tiles ceilings, bright florescent lights, hospital bed with cold metal railings. There were no beeping machines in the room as I half-expected since I’d been in a pretty bad car accident. Yes, I remembered it as clearly as could be expected. The chase. The impact. The breaking glass. The bending, shrieking metal. The cries of pain, both my own and Christian’s. The darkness.

I swallowed hard against sudden panic. My breath pounded in my lungs as I tried to regain my composure. I could not panic. Not now. Not after being pursued and an attempted murder made on my life. I turned my head slowly to test the flexibility of my neck muscles. There was no pain, which I expected. Then again, it is me. I heal up right fast.

My eyes scanned the room to the left of me then I turned and scanned the room to the right. I was alone. A single, silent machine took readings of my heartbeat. I could feel the pinch of something on my right forefinger, though I quickly forgot about that. Instead, I did what I should have done the moment my eyes opened; I scanned the room with my mind instead of my eyesight.

The mind, especially mine, is more trustworthy than the eyes. I’ve known blind people who can attest to that. I sought out every mind nearby, scanned each one and took in what information I found helpful, which is to say I took in pretty much nothing. Each was interested in their own predicament. To that I say, I don’t blame them. The accident that wasn’t really an accident was nowhere in anyone’s head. Except….

Outside the door to my room two men stood chatting, one young and one older. The younger man was my own personal doctor. He went by the name of Michael Daniels. The older man was a visiting physician by the name of Thomas More, almost like the author. Doctor More was being told about the patient in 303, the girl with the utterly miraculous recovery, if only she would wake up.

From Doctor Daniels’s mind, I discovered my head had been smashed in like a melon, crushing my skull and damaging my frontal lobe. This all healed perfectly. My right arm broke in four places below the elbow, seemingly from using it to brace myself against the impact. My right ankle shattered, same as my jaw on the right side. Broken ribs, fractured collar bone. Battered and bruised and lacerated, I’d been brought into the ER screaming at the top of my lungs, which I remember none of. Everything healed eventually. Doctor Daniels had been the attending physician at the time of the accident that wasn’t and had induced coma, which I had been stuck in for the last three years.

THREE YEARS!

Those two words exploded in my head, and I closed my eyes, feeling hot tears creep from beneath my eyelids. My hands clenched into fists. I gripped the bed sheets beneath my palms. A sound escaped my lips. It might have been a groan, or maybe a sob. I’m not sure. Whatever it was, it was heard.

Doctor Daniels was the first into the room, followed by the visiting doc. My heart was beating so rapidly in my chest I thought it would burst. The young doc put his hand down on my clenching right hand. I could feel his gentle touch. I could feel his desire to do right and to help. There was no helping me and no calming my heart.

On the surface of this young man’s mind lay the facts that I’d been alone in the car when it struck the pickup and without identification.

I’d been alone.

It was a lie, and I knew it. Michael Daniels had no information whatsoever concerning my father. Terrified by this fact, I faced the doc. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

“Where is he?” were the first hoarse words from my mouth in three long years.

“What?” the doc asked.

I realized I’d been whispering. My long unused vocal cords vibrated again. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“My father,” I said through gritted teeth. I knew he had no idea of whom I spoke, but I felt the need to ask. I felt sick at heart as a thousand scenarios flew through my fully healed brain.

Michael Daniels ignored my questions and said, “You’ve been comatose for over three years. You were brought here after a car accident. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I remember. I also remember my father was driving.”

“You were alone,” he said gently, his hand still resting on top of mine.

I tightened my grip on the bed sheets and closed my eyes again in an attempt to squeeze back the flow of tears. Finally, I said, “I was not alone.”

“You were,” the doc said again.

I glared, unclenched my fists, and sat bolt upright in the bed. My hands flew out before me and wrapped around his throat. “Where is he?!” I hollered, finding my hands tightening around his neck, cutting off his air.

To my great surprise, Michael Daniels simply brought his hands up to mine and pried my fingers off his throat. I didn’t have as much strength as I desired, for this was an easy task for the good doc.

“Take it easy,” he said to me, pushing my arms back down to my sides then forcing me to lie back down. “Everything will be okay.”

“No, it won’t,” I muttered. My hands went to my face, my chest hitching with a sob. I couldn’t fathom what happened to Christian. I probably didn’t want to know.

Michael Daniels put a hand on my shoulder and asked, “Do you know your name?”

It was such a silly question to me I managed a laugh through my tears. “Yes,” I said. “I know who I am.”

“Good,” he said, “because I don’t.”

I smiled just slightly. “Christiana Fletcher.”

“Okay, Chris,” he said. I put up a hand before he could say anything else.

“Don’t call me Chris,” I growled.

He put up both his hands in submission. “Okay then. Christiana. What do you remember about the accident?”

“My father and I,” I said with emphasis, “were in his Mustang. We were chased. A black sedan with two men in it rammed us from behind and forced us into oncoming traffic. We hit a pickup. The truck exploded. That’s all I remember.”

“Good enough,” Michael said. “Sit tight for a moment. I’m going to go find a nurse, and we’re going to run some tests and draw some blood.”

I shook my head. “No. I need to find my father.”

“You’ve been comatose for three years. The entire medical community wants to know how you managed to heal up to perfection with absolutely no surgery and no apparent atrophy. You’re a medical miracle.”

I shook my head again. “No tests,” I said, knowing the truth about me would be discovered if they began drawing blood and poking me with needles.

“Okay, not right now. Just rest,” he said. “I have a phone call to make.” He gestured to the older doctor, and both men left the room.

I lay in the bed alone. My eyes stared at the white ceilings. When I fell asleep, I couldn’t say. I woke, and I was greeted by a pair of blue eyes set deep in a face I did not recognize.

“Who’re you?” I asked as I pushed myself up on my elbows.

He didn’t immediately answer. My attempt at reading his thoughts told me enough. He was a blocker and therefore a mind reader of some kind. Of indeterminable age, he might have been thirty or sixty. Small wrinkles formed at the edges of his smashingly beautiful blue eyes. His blondish-brown hair had been cropped short above his ears. He was neatly dressed in a white-collared shirt and black slacks. I knew, without being able to see, he’d be wearing highly shined black shoes.

He still didn’t speak, so I did. “So you’re the visitor Doctor Daniels talked about.” Though the good doc said no such thing, I’d plucked this thought from his mind. “Who are you?”

When he spoke, his voice was sharp, toned, and almost musical. “I think the better question is who are you?”

I lifted one corner of my mouth. “I think if you didn’t know who I was you wouldn’t be here. So you know who I am. How about the question of who the hell are you?” I articulated each word to make sure there was no misunderstanding.

“Philip Morris,” he said simply. He held out a hand.

I refused the handshake and kept my hands tightly at my sides. “Okay,” I said, “you have a name, Cigarette Man. Good for you. What are you doing here?”

“I think you already know why I’m here,” he said. “I’m here because I know who you are.”

“And?” I said, dragging out the word.

“And I know what you can do.”

I was silent.

I was scared.

“You’re a mind reader,” he said. He left it at that. A quick slip into his well blocked mind— something I could get past with a little effort, which I employed here – and I knew he knew nothing about the power within my hands. I pushed this information into the back of my mind, securing it safely away. I wasn’t about to tell him either. Either way, the cigarette man continued. “I have been your only visitor during these three years. Your healing is miraculous, but only because of how you are made. I know many more like you. Like myself. I’ve come to offer you a home.”

Curiosity overwhelmed me and caused me to say, “A home? What do you mean?”

“I own a place, a refuge of such, in the California desert. Right now there are nine residents including myself. I would like for you to come and be the tenth. We’ll protect you, keep you secret.”

I always knew there were others like me. Well, maybe not like me but
made
in the same types of places I’d been, by the same type of mad scientist that created me. I had no memory of ever meeting any even though I’d spent time in government labs. Philip would be my introduction to the reality of life as an experiment. There was nothing to lose in accepting his offer. Christian was gone. Nobody near me knew anything about his whereabouts. I could think of no way of finding him now. If the gov held him then I’d probably never find him again. I had to accept that. My father was gone. That left me alone.

Here was this man whose name gave me a vision of a Fifties cigarette add. I had no idea who he was, what he was here for besides me, or where he was taking me. Yet I had nothing else. My decision was quick.

“Okay,” I said quietly, feeling those dreaded tears in my eyes again.

“Okay, what?” he asked.

“Take me with you, to California.”

Philip Morris gave me a smile, letting me know I’d said the answer he wanted. So I smiled back through my tears.

“Doctor Daniels will want to keep you for a while,” Philip said, “but don’t worry. He knows what you are. He won’t reveal your secret.”

“Good,” I said. “I think he’d be very surprised if he ran a few tests.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “If any other doctor got a hold of you, you’d have been front page news years ago.”

“Don’t remind me,” I muttered. I tried to smile.

Ignoring my comment, Philip said, “Now, get some more rest. You need it.”

“I’ve been asleep for three years,” I said. “I don’t need any more rest.”

“If that’s how you want it,” Philip said.

Philip Morris gave me a brilliant smile and left me in my hospital bed. I had very little to think about and very little to do except lay there and contemplate my situation. Apparently I really did need some more rest, for soon I fell into a troubled sleep plagued by nightmares and violent retellings of the accident that claimed more than three years from me. The accident that took the only living person in the world who loved me.