Where Silence Gathers (18 page)

“Alexandra.”

I scream again, spinning.

Dad stands near the elevator.

The Emotions crowd closer around me while I drink him in. He's shrouded in shadow, but it's undeniably my father. The eyes that I inherited stare back. He's wearing the plaid shirt that's hidden beneath the covers of my bed at home. There are bruises and cuts all over his skin, and the head wound that killed him gapes and bleeds. Not a figment of my imagination. Not a dream or a thought or a wish.

Reacting on instinct, I dive to embrace him. He evades me, stepping out of the way just in time, and I stumble, grabbing a stone jutting out of the dirt wall to stop my fall. Before I can recover or demand answers Dad says, “I miss you, sweetheart.”

That voice. It brings back so many memories. A flash of pain. Brakes squealing. Straightening, I squeeze my eyes shut to keep the images out. I have to pause and take a few gulps of air in order to speak again. Questions have been living on the end of my tongue, and they've gone so long unanswered that they've begun to build homes and settle into a thing of permanence.

When I finally manage to ask one of them, it's not the one I'm thinking of, the one I intend to say. “Do you remember what you used to tell me about the mountain?” I ask shakily, wiping a tear off the edge of my jaw.

His expression sags into one of pain and regret as he answers, “I do remember, Alex. But I'm here for a reason. There isn't any time to relive the past.”

“What reason?” I take a step closer, aching to touch him. He counters this by taking a step back. Hurt appears and hugs me, burying her nose in my hair. She's a tiny creature with the strength of a grown man. Dad's next words, though, make her vanish.

“Nate Foster is leaving.”

I freeze, wondering if I'd heard him correctly. “What?”

“Someone made an offer on his house. They're leaving within the month.” He doesn't say it matter-of-factly—he says it with barely suppressed fury. With unrelenting agony. The same way I must sound to others.

In the quiet that follows, I become aware of a distant sound. It's begun to rain. “H-how do you know that?” I ask Dad, meeting his gaze. He doesn't respond. I notice the wound again, and nothing has ever seemed so red and so deep. “Is this a dream?”

Slowly, my father shakes his head. “No. Not this time.”

Despite everything else I need to know, I can't stop myself from asking, “Is … is Mom here? Or Hunter?” My eyes seek the darkness around him as if they might be there, hidden and just waiting for me to notice.

Another silence spreads through this tiny hole in the earth, and it feels as heavy and substantial as if the walls gave way and buried us. Dad studies me with tears in his eyes, and I start to think he's not going to answer. But then he says, “We're all here, honey.”

The breath catches in my throat, and suddenly Dad's form starts to go transparent. Already I can see through him to the elevator behind. “Wait,” I cry, running to him again. “I still have so many—”

He's gone.

The twelve-year-old girl that still exists inside of me refuses to leave. She makes us wait for him to return, for one more word or glimpse to feed our starving soul. But there's nothing. There's only the dirt and the dark. Finally, mindless of the rain, I drift back to my car. Shift gears. Drive home. Walk up the steps. Go inside. Shut the door.

Missy is sitting at the kitchen table. She looks up from a magazine she's reading. “I made pancakes for lunch,” she announces. “And I didn't burn them. That's always a plus, right? Hey, where's your little friend?”

I shrug in response, unable to speak after what happened in the mines. My aunt frowns, probably sensing something amiss, but doesn't pursue it. Part of my brain processes that she's telling me to get some food off the stove and eat with her. Feeling like an automaton or a doll, a thing just made of flesh and bones, I obey. I sit. The chair creaks, as it always does. Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed.

Seconds—at least it feels like seconds—pass. Missy is saying something again, pointing to my plate. Following the tongs of her fork, I look down. Somehow, the pancakes have become soggy lumps, bloated with syrup and butter. Cold to the touch. Indifferent, I turn to look out the window and lose myself in the gray sky. Right now there are no questions to avoid and no voices to disturb the stillness. There is only the rain.

Twenty-One

On the way home from school I stop at both the mines and the Fosters'. Neither visit brings me any peace or satisfaction, so I don't linger. Once I get to the apartment I go to my room and sit at the desk, immersing myself in the mystery of the flash drive. If I don't focus on something, I might lose what little sanity I have left.

Someone is in the shop with Saul, buying one of the abandoned pianos he repaired. The thuds and clunks of the move reach my ears through the floor as I browse the files. I've been through everything at least twice already, and I barely understand any of the information. I open SUBJECTS and review the list of names, remembering the urgency in Dad's voice when he said,
I know you took the kids, and I know you lied to me and Stern
. And how does Sammy Thorn tie into all this? Suddenly I stiffen, leaning closer to the screen with interest.

There are profiles for each of the names. Phone numbers, addresses, physical details, and often photos for each subject. There are even descriptions of what drew the attention of the researcher. My heart struggles against the confines of my chest when I see words like
other plane
and
sight
. One story in particular stands out, about a girl with hazel eyes. Christine Masterson.

Four days ago, a report reached me about a young girl in a town approximately one hundred and sixty-three miles east of here. According to local residents she has always talked about things that no one else can see. She comes from a religious background, and her parents came to believe that she is being possessed. After interviewing her family further, however, I have deduced that these “demons” Miss Masterson sees are the focus of my studies. Her descriptions are too accurate and too detailed. Her parents willingly granted me custody, but Miss Masterson was not so compliant. Nonetheless, she has contributed to the serums.

It's such a strange realization, to know that I'm not as alone as I've always felt. There are similar themes in the other subjects' backgrounds, but something about the way Christine gazes into the camera makes me return to her again and again. I scroll to find her address, and my pulse quickens when I see that she lives just forty minutes away, in Kennewick. One of the boys, Travis Bardeen, isn't as convenient but still possible. There's no picture for him. I write their information down and keep looking. The others are farther out, too far. They're spread across the country. Some are even overseas.

As I read, one question returns to me over and over, like the ringing of the town clock: What were these experiments trying to accomplish?

If I can't get the answers from Andrew or Dr. Stern or Dad, maybe the kids in these profiles will tell me.

The sky has deepened to the color of rust by the time I reach Kennewick. It takes me too much time to find Christine's house—the GPS signal on my phone keeps fading in and out—but eventually my car rattles down the right back road and a faded mailbox comes up on my left. No name, just numbers. Ignoring the flutters in my stomach and the Emotion in the passenger seat, I turn into the driveway. It's riddled with potholes, and I grit my teeth for a mile until the house comes into view. It's in worse shape than Briana's. The roof looks a moment away from caving in, and the yard is a landfill. I see an ancient dryer and an even older pickup truck among all the junk.

People in these mountains tend to open their doors with sawed-off shotguns in their hands, so I pull out my eyebrow ring in an effort to look less menacing. I glance in the rearview mirror. Two tiny holes glare back at me, red and aching. It might be worse than having the ring in, but I don't want to be here a second longer than I have to be. I get out, Apprehension fretting around me all the way up to the door. The air smells fetid, like there's a dead animal under the porch. There probably is. I force myself to lift my hand and knock on the side of the screen door.

Minutes pass. No one answers. Holding my breath against the stench, I knock again. Something stirs inside, then a crash. Someone curses. Footsteps. A woman opens the door and squints at me through the holey screen. She has stringy brown hair and wears a T-shirt so big it hangs off one boney shoulder. But the most noticeable thing about her—though I do my best not to stare—are the jagged scars running down her cheeks and neck. As if something with claws tried to rip her face off.

“What do you want?” she snaps. “I ain't got no money and I don't need no religion, you got it?” She swipes at her nose and starts to close the door.

“Does Christine Masterson live here?” I blurt.

She pauses. Opens the door wide again. “What?”

“Does—”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Is this some kind of joke? Do you think it's funny?” Anger and Sorrow are behind her now. She grips the edge of the screen and glares at me.
Danger
, my instincts whisper.

“I-I'm sorry. This isn't a joke. My father died a while ago, and I just found out that he and Christine may have known each other. I was hoping to talk to her, to see if she knew anything about him.”

Pause. “You really don't know?” she asks, the fire in her eyes fading. I shake my head. The woman purses her lips, and Anger departs. She still doesn't emerge from behind the screen, but she tells me, “Christine disappeared six years ago. No one's seen her since. Police think she's probably dead. Hell, so do I.”

Instantly I see that it was stupid to come here. I wasn't looking for Christine; I wanted something else. More about her Sight, her experiences, how she kept the madness at bay.
What the purpose of the experiments actually was. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I'm not going to get anything from these people.

“Why do you think she's dead?” I ask finally, reluctant to let go of one last shred of hope. Stalling. Delaying the inevitable.

The woman's gaze becomes as distant as her answer. “Someone came and took her away. A doctor. No one raised a finger to stop him. They thought she had a demon in her; they wanted her gone. But I never did. She still called me every day after she left. She always sounded scared. Then the call didn't come one morning, and later I was attacked by a guy who kept asking me where she was. I never heard from her again, even when I was in the hospital.”

There's a wealth of feeling in her voice, obvious even if the Emotions weren't hovering around her. Suddenly, watching her, I see it. They have the same gold flecks around their irises. “You're her sister,” I say softly.

She doesn't deny it. Instead she retreats again, her face falling into shadow. “You better go before the folks come home,” she mutters. “They don't take too kindly to strangers on our land.”

But still I hesitate. I step forward, a board moaning beneath my foot, and reach out as though to touch the door. When she tenses, I falter. Maybe she doesn't feel it, the connection between us, forged from the white-hot pain of loss. “What's your name?” I hear myself ask. A bead of sweat slides down the small of my back, and I wonder if somehow one of the creatures from the other plane reached up into the sky and fanned the flames of the sun.

Another palpable silence forms after I've spoken. At first I think the woman is not going to answer. She keeps staring into the trees, her features tight and distrusting. Something buzzes past my ear and it feels like the only thing in motion in this tiny space. Relenting, I slowly pull away.

Then the woman surprises me by meeting my gaze, looking at me like Christine looked into the camera. With uncertainty and a strange imploring. “I'm Nora.”

I try to smile. “I'm—”

“I don't care who you are, girl. You have to go.
Now
. And don't come back.” With that, she slams the door.

It doesn't faze me much; I'm getting used to having doors shut in my face. Sighing, I trudge back to my car and slide behind the wheel. Before the engine has finished rolling over there's a shimmer out of the corner of my eye, and I know I'm no longer alone.

Part of me expected—hoped—it would be Revenge. We haven't spoken since he threw his feelings at me. There's so much to figure out, so much to think on. But that minty fragrance prepares me, and when I turn to face Forgiveness, I've buried my disappointment so deep that the Emotion doesn't even feel my call. My knee bumps the keys dangling from the ignition and they clink into the stillness.

Forgiveness studies the run-down house, interest in his eyes. “Why are you here?” he questions.

It's a reminder that Nora told me to go, and I wouldn't put it past her to stomp onto the porch with a gun in her hands. Quickly I reverse onto the road and start the drive back home.
Home
. The word is so weighted it's a piece of iron in my head. I don't respond to Forgiveness and he doesn't press me. Revenge wouldn't do that. He would demand and prod and tease until he knew everything.

We're nearly halfway there—thundering past a sign that reads
FRANKLIN 20 MILES
—when the quiet becomes unbearable. It reminds me too much of the night Forgiveness read to me and I fell asleep to the sound of his voice. “Why do you care so much?” I say abruptly. He turns his head toward me, and his soft curls brush the collar of his T-shirt. “Why are you trying so hard to save me?” I add. The words are uneven. I clench the wheel and my knuckles go white.

The Choice twists away again, watching the passing landscape with an expression that almost seems weary. “You're so young, Alex. Your world is so small. You think it will always be like this, but you're wrong. If you would just give it some more time … ”

“That's not an answer.”

A cloud moves in front of the sun, and the world fades to gray. “I knew your father,” Forgiveness states after a brief hesitation. His long fingers fold between his legs, and though his stance appears relaxed, I sense tension emanating from him.

“You did?” Surprise joins us.

“I did. He struggled with anger, too. He summoned me once, on the night you were born.” Forgiveness stops and I want to snap at him, order him to tell me everything. Why has he kept this a secret until now? But that isn't the way to get answers from the other plane, so I force myself to wait. My restraint is rewarded, and Forgiveness angles his body toward me. His eyes are sad but resolved. “The first thing you should know—though you already do, I hope—is that your parents loved you. More than anything. But before you came along, your father had plans to go to college. He'd been accepted to a state school and he was weeks away from leaving this place behind for good.”

I blink. Dad had almost left Franklin? I'd known it was his dream, of course, but I'd always thought he hadn't had a choice in the matter. If he had a way out, why didn't he …

Realization hits. Of course. “Then Mom told him she was pregnant,” I finish. A sour taste fills my mouth.

Forgiveness nods. “He decided to stay. He got a job at the mines to support you both. And he never said one word to your mother about how much he regretted those missed opportunities. Secretly, though, he struggled with anger. Part of him blamed your mother for it.” Forgiveness doesn't give me a chance to absorb this. “But on the night of your birth, everything changed. He took one look at you, and he made a choice.”

Tears sting in my eyes. I'm grateful that I have the road to focus on, since it takes me a few moments to regain my composure. “Why didn't you tell me?” I manage.

A deer runs in front of us, far enough ahead that I'm not startled. It vanishes into the trees, a blur of brown fur and long legs and elegant movement.

In another odd moment of indecision, he doesn't answer my question right away. He rakes his hair back. But eventually he says, careful not to meet my gaze, “I didn't want you to think that the past is the only reason I'm here.” He loses himself in the rushing trees as if this is his purpose, rather than redemption.

Suddenly I'm fascinated by the scenery, too. The richness of the dirt, the height of the treetops, the brightness of the sky. It burns in a simmering shade of orange, making the entire mountain feel like an inferno and we're only ashes. “What other reason is there?” I ask quietly.

I can feel Forgiveness staring at me now. “You know why, Alex.” His voice has softened too, and, unable to resist, I glance at him. Something in his expression turns the anger within me into butterflies. They take wing, all colors and forbidden things. Forgetting the danger, I flounder in the ocean of his eyes. He's nothing like what I expected him to be, and I wish he was. I wish he didn't read books or see me or have such a kindness about him. Because it would make the choice so much easier.

Again, I'm the one to look away. We don't speak again until I'm pulling into my parking spot in front of the apartment. Neither of us moves. Birds call to each other and flutter on the power line over our heads. The smell of Forgiveness is overwhelming, coating my skin and the seats and the air. I breathe it in for a minute. Then I surprise myself once more, this time by blurting, “Do you have a name? I mean, a real one?”

I've astonished him, too; I can see it in the way he goes still. But I can't take it back. For what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour, Forgiveness doesn't immediately respond. It soon becomes apparent that he isn't going to, and it's even more apparent that it's because he doesn't have a name. Something I said to Eggs that day on the step comes back to me:
Everyone needs a name
.

I shift in the seat, clearing my throat. “Well, the next time you introduce yourself to someone and don't want to use Forgiveness … you seem like an Atticus. For the record.” I get out of the car.