Rogue Alliance (44 page)

             
“Wait, you’re not going right now, are you?”
he asked.

             
“What’s the point in waiting? Why would I just sit on this information, Shawn? Like you
said, it needs to be addressed,” Shyla
stepped around him.

             
“Fine,” he sighed,
“
I’m going with you.”

             
Spinning on her heel, she faced him with a look of defiance.

             
“No, you’re not. I have an understanding, a…certain kind of trust that I’ve been building with Brennan that I can’t afford to breach. I’m going alone.”

             
Shawn’s ski
n began to flush hot with anger.

             
“Dammit, Shyla, this is so typical of you. Haven’t you learned yet that this whole ‘I
work alone thing’ isn’t working?
You damn near got yourself killed last time you insisted on going by your own rules.”

             
Refusing to feed off his anger, she remained calm.

             
“This is completely different,” she said,
“
I’m not going anywhere near Victor.”

             
“No, just his sidekick.”

             
“Say what you want, Shawn, but I’m going alone. Besides, we still haven’t found Carmen. That’s the station’s priority right now. As soon as I talk to Brennan, I’ll be joining you. The more time passes, the lesser chance we have of finding her. You know that.”

             
Shawn pursed his lips.

             
“Fine. Keep your phone on you, and don’t, for any reason, go anywhere near Victor.”

             
It still baffled Shyla, how protective Shawn was over
her. She patted her back pocket.

             
“I’ve got my cell phone on
me,” she said,
“a
nd I’ll have Brennan meet me somewhere neutral, somewhere safe.”

             
“Sounds good,”
he nodded, “
I’m going to drive over to Mrs. Dunsworth’s and see if she’s heard anything yet. I’m hoping the father will be there. We still haven’t had a chance to talk with him. I’d like to hear what he has to say, get a feel for him.”

             
“Great. I’ve never met him, either. Maybe he can give us a better idea of where Carmen might have taken off to. I’m
not going to be long with this;
I’m too worried about her. I’ll call you in an hour.”

FORTY-EIGHT

             
As he crossed over the Sundial Bridge
, Brenna
n
spotted Shyla sitting at a park bench not too far off the trail from where he’d seen the doe and fawn with her earlier that summer. Though he knew she would have heard his approach, he noticed she kept her back to him. Her long, dark braid trailed down her straight back. She wore jeans and a blue rain parka.

             
As he rounded the bench she looke
d up at him pensively
.

             
“Good morning, Brennan.”

             
He didn’t like the way her lips were pinched together. Glancing down at the small manila envelope that sat under her folded hands, he suddenly felt like he had walked into some sort of trap. Snapping his gaze up to meet hers, he skipped greetings.

             
“What’s going on?”

             
She held his gaze for a breath of a second then
,
without saying a word
,
slowly opened the envelope and pulled out a thin layer of papers. Setting them on the park table, she turned them his direction so he could see them straight on. His heart rate quickened as he stepped forward and looked down at the top sheet.

             
Nothing could have prepared him for seeing his own face staring up at him. He was younger, more vibrant, with a hint of defiance in his eyes, but it was unmistakably him. A flash of memory passed behind his lids; the sound of a woman’s laughter, the smell of stew cooking in the crock pot, and him rushing down the stairs of a two storey house which felt like home. Recognition was clear. His house. His mother. A thousand breaths of history blurring together.
A chill ran down his spine.

             
             
Reaching down, he picked up the flyer. It felt as if he were in slow motion, moving through thick molasses as the world around him ceased to exist. Only the photo held between his thumb and forefinger existed. Scrolling down
,
he focused on the text below the photo.

             
“Brian Miller,” he whispered, his c
old breath coming out in plumes,
“Brennan Miles…Brian Miller…not so different.”

             
He looked over the paper and down at Shyla. She was quiet, staring up at him patiently.

             
“Not so different at all,” she said.

             
“Somewhere, in the back of my mind, it’s all there. It always has been,
just waiting to be rediscovered,
”
he said before pausing.
There were hundreds of thoughts, ideas, revelations, rising to the forefront of his mind, all of them vying for attention. It was overwhelming. He sat down on the bench across from Shyla
,“w
here did you find this? I mean, how…”

             
“Shawn came across it early this morning while he was sifting through missing person files. We’re still looking for Carmen.”

             
Dist
racted, Brennan nodded his head.

             
“Of course.”

             
“They’re probably
still looking for you, Brennan,
” Shyla’s voice was softer than usual but the statement cut through the haze of his chaotic state of mind.

             
He looked back down at the paper in his hands. His younger self looked up at him as if waiting for him to connect the dots and find where he had been hiding all those years.

             
Sliding the flyer behind the others, he saw that the next was a photocopy of a newspaper article. In the upper right-hand corner was a picture which altered his universe. It read; John and Clara Miller stand united as they make an appeal to anyone who might have information in regards to the whereabouts of their son.

             
His parents. John and Clara Miller. Their faces swam in and out of focus. The sound of her laughter once again floated on the breeze and it was no longer a whimsical dream. It was a memory.

             
He looked across the table at Shyla again. There was an expression on her face that showed her compassi
on. She was worried about him; it was tangible.
She had brough
t this to him knowing how earth-
shattering it would be. She had sat patiently, like a friend, and watched him, waiting to be whatever he needed her to be in that moment.

             
“Thank you,
”
he said.

             
The corner of her mouth turned up with a small smile. Her eyes were soft and gentle. He’d never seen her quite like this before.

             
“I can help you Brennan,” she said,
“We can find them
. It won’t be hard.”

             
As she spoke, thoughts and visions, ones which were so much more vivid and real, rose up to the surface. His life in the institute, the torture he’d endured, the violence and gruesome, murderous acts that he’d committed ov
er the years. He shook his head.
             
“No. No,” he said, “t
hat’s not an option. I couldn’t…I can never go back.”

             
Shyla reached out and lightly covered his hand with her own. Her ski
n was smooth and warm
.

             
“Brennan, I know that you’re scared…”

             
He jerked his head up
and h
er grip tightened.

             
“I know you’re scared
,” Shyla continued,
“
but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of that matters anymore. It’s over. It’s in the past. It doesn’t define you. They need to know that you’re okay.”

             
Brennan
wanted to believe what she was saying. He wanted to pull her close and hold her tight shutting away the fear she was speaking of. Instead
,
he pulled his hand from hers and
stood up. He held up the papers.

             
“This boy is dead to them. He no longer exists.”

             
He turned and stomped up the small, grassy incline to the path.

             
“Brennan!
” Shyla shouted.

             
A cold wind picked up. Brennan turned one last time as fat, icy rain began to pelt down on his already frigid skin. Shyla had stood up but was still down by the park bench, her face turned up into the wind, undisturbed by the raging storm that was brewing.

She was beautiful. She seemed to always be able to bring him to the doorstep of so many emotions. At that moment, he couldn’t bear them all.

             
“Thank you,” he said again. Then he turned and stomped away.

FORTY-NINE

             
Still recovering from a wicked hangover with a raging headache, sour stomach and cotton mouth, Shyla was also
soaked to the bone in icy
rain. After watching Brennan try to cope with the blunt trauma of facing his past, she felt hollowed out.  She desperately wished she could go home, take a hot shower and crawl into bed.

             
Instead, she bolted out to the parking lot and hopped into her Range Rover. Blasting the heat, she decided against going home to change. She’d probably just end up wet again anyway, as she resumed the search for Carmen.

             
Carmen. She hadn’t worried over her for the last hour. Not since she’d first seen the photo. With that thought, she remembered she’d better call Shawn.

             
He answered on the fist ring.

             
“How’d it go?
” he asked,
“Y
ou okay? What’s going on?”

             
“Slow down, Cowboy.
I’m fine. It went as well as could be expected. What’s the status? Any luck yet?”

             
“A classmate of Carmen’s said that she sometimes sees Carmen down by the river just outside of town, where they have the rope swing.”

             
A flash of white lighting lit up the low horizon and a crack of thunder quickly followed.

             
“Yeah,
” Shyla said,
“
well I don’t think she’ll be down there in weather like this, but I’ll give it shot.”

             
“Good
. You make a pass on that end,
then swing by the station. We’ll go to her dad’s work together.”

             
“Got it,
”
she replied, and
hung up.

             
Twenty minutes later
,
she was pulling into the station. Shawn was just coming down the wide, front steps, taking two at a time with his long-legged stride.

             
He swung open the passenger door and slid in.

             
“Hey, you mind if we take your car? Jesus H. Christ, it’s hot in here.”

             
Shyla
reached out and turned the heat off.

             
“Yeah, well I was soaked and freezing to the bone so I turned it up. I was almost dry but then I got out and walked down to the river bank.”

             
Shawn buckled up but kept his eyes on her. She glanced toward him and almost laughed when she caught him staring at her chest. She reached out and backhanded him across his wide chest.

             
“It’s not a wet t-shirt contest, Shawn.”

             
“Sorry,
” he laughed,
“but
I’m a guy. We can’t help but notice these things.”