Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

Twenty minutes later, I’m totally lost.

Well, maybe not totally, because if I turn around and go downhill, I will eventually come to the path—or to the ridge road, with a pissed-off Viktor climbing out of the canyon. I thought this was the driveway, but it’s just another trail. I don’t see lights from any cabin, and the thunderstorm that left the Gates of Hell a while ago is churning all around me.

“Lucas, where are you?” I croak through my parched throat.

I stop, trying to listen to the universe like everyone keeps telling me to do. No blue lights, no nighthawk. I spin around as the dark, familiar fear slithers across the back of my neck. The storm bellows in the treetops, daring me to show myself. Then a single blue spark blinks to my left, instantly swallowed by the roaring wind, and I take a few steps back into the trees.

The next flash of lightning reveals a dilapidated wooden shack with three steps leading up to a rickety porch. The sagging porch roof is barely held up by a couple of spindly poles. It looks like the whole place could collapse with a couple of good kicks, but a faint glow comes from the open door.

The rain stings my face like needles as I run to the side of the cabin. The idea of looking into another one of Jackson Connor’s windows—and maybe seeing him looking right at me, awake—makes my blood run cold. But the glass is layered with years of dirt, and I’m pretty sure he won’t see me, so I hold my breath, stand on tiptoes, and peer in through the grime.

The stingy light of a battery-powered lantern reveals a battered wooden table with a briefcase on it and two ancient folding chairs. One of them is tipped over on the floor. Murmuring shadows and a scuffling noise spill out of the front door, and I dart to the right and peek up over the crumbling porch.

“…just as stubborn as your father was.” Hands tied behind him, Lucas staggers out the front door, followed by Jackson Connor with another lantern.

Lucas’s gold T-shirt is covered with a heart-stopping bloodstain, and his hair is covering his face. Connor shoves him between the shoulder blades, and Lucas stumbles, falling toward me. I jump back behind the cabin wall as he hits the splintering wood, landing hard on his side with a groan. His back is to me, and I creep behind him, into his shadow. I’m out of the rain, but the sound sizzles all around, even echoing up from under the porch.

“You still don’t get it, do you? You can shape the future, Lucas. What you have can change the world, change humanity. Imagine it—no more wars, no more terrorism. No hate. No enemies. You and the others just spend a little time in their dreams, and it all goes away. Hearts and minds, Lucas. That’s what I wanted, for all of us. And the money’s not so bad either.”

Connor’s seventy-two perfect teeth gleam in the dim glow of the lantern. He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. As he turns away from the wind and cups his hands to light it, I take Lucas’s hand and squeeze it gently. He inhales sharply, then squeezes back.

“Hey, it’s the love of my life,” he mumbles.

I can barely hear him over the sound of the rain, but his voice is groggy and slurred. Drugged. I scold my heart for jumping at his words—he’s obviously delirious—but if he doesn’t shut up, it could be a very short life for both of us.

My lips are almost touching his ear. “Are you bleeding?”

He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. His wrists are bound with a pair of zip-ties. Maybe Una’s first-aid kit has something sharp enough to cut them. I slip out of the backpack and crouch in the shadows, while Jackson Connor paces a few feet away.

“Too bad about Brian.” He sighs. “I really wanted to bring in both of you. He’s really remarkable, even if he didn’t inherit Ian’s abilities. The Night Hawks have been hard to track, but when he started at Duke, it was easy to log his activity on that tablet. When I saw a search for Stargate and the parapsychology studies, I was so sure. But now…” He takes a regretful drag on his cigarette.

And now you’ve sent Viktor to get rid of him. As I feel around inside the first aid kit, I will the murdering, smoking douchebag to choke to death from instant cancer.

“Viktor will be back, and we’ll be leaving as soon as this rain quits. You have a few more minutes to make your decision, Lucas. Your father was my friend, and I’d like for us to be friends too.”

“Hmmph.” Not likely.

Connor takes another drag from his cigarette and exhales a long, thin stream of smoke. “Maybe you can get Vivian to join us. She’s a loose cannon, but I know she’s got something, and being Ian’s daughter, she would probably be trainable.”

Trainable! Indignant heat floods my cheeks. I’ll show you trainable.

“Or, you can go as a prisoner. No one knows where you are. You’ll just… disappear. People might even think you took Brian,” he muses. “Either way, I bring them Joseph Wolfsong’s son. Then I’ll be back in, and Stargate can pick up where we left off.”

Lucas lies on the porch as I crouch just below, but we both stiffen as if we just swallowed the same marble.

He’ll be back in? As in, he was kicked out?

My hands close around what feels like a steel pencil with a cap. An exacto blade? No… Yes! A scalpel. I draw it out and slip it carefully behind the first zip-tie. The thick plastic resists and seems to grow even denser as I press the scalpel through it—then it snaps apart. Now for the second one.

“What do you need us for, if you already have ‘others’?” Lucas asks.

Connor doesn’t answer.

“Look, if I’m going to work on this, it’s stuff I need to know,” Lucas points out, sounding more like himself.

I recognize the tone he always uses with Connor—casual, polite, and totally guarding what he’s actually thinking. Whatever drug Connor gave him must be wearing off.

“Well…” Connor considers, then continues cautiously, “The people who are born with it are much stronger than the ones we train. Ian and Joseph taught us to control our own dreams in the PTSD project, but some of us were able to walk into someone else’s dreams and change those. So, we practiced that on each other in our group.”

His caution gives way to admiration. “But those two were always able to go deeper than the rest of us. They could dig into the subconscious and actually plant suggestions that subjects carried out when they were awake.”

Connor flicks his cigarette out into the rain as I slice through the second zip-tie. Lucas keeps his hands together, flexing his fingers and rubbing his wrists.

“Small things really, but I saw the possibilities, and so did the agency. This is true mind-control.”

“My dad would never—”

“Oh, yes he would. Your father liked pushing the envelope more than anyone. But he and Ian wouldn’t pursue it outside of the group. They said it was too unstable—and unethical.”

Sounds like your dream job, Connor.

Then I remember those possibly unethical extra Macaroonies Mr. Noonie gave me.

Small things, really, but…

“After they were gone, the agency put me in charge, and I had all of Ian’s notes. I worked for years trying to perfect the technique. I even kept track of you, waiting for you, hoping for any sign that you had inherited your father’s talents. Years and years of nothing!”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Lucas mutters, pushing himself up from behind and leaning against the dried-up broomstick of a post.

I stand directly behind him, wondering what to do next. The scalpel fits comfortably in my hand and do something is ringing in my brain. Rest in pieces still feels like a good plan, but I can’t just jump out waving a knife. That would give new meaning to even if it’s wrong, not to mention epic fail.

Connor shrugs off years of disappointing surveillance and walks to the other end of the porch. The rain has almost stopped. “It doesn’t matter. You’re ready now, right? We’ll show them.” He turns his back to us, looking toward the road, and wonders, “Where the hell is Viktor?”

“Down at the bottom of a cliff,” I whisper, and place the scalpel in Lucas’s palm. His shoulder blades tense with the unasked question, so I add, “He’s alive. Brian’s safe.”

Lucas clears his throat. “I don’t know how ready I am, but if you need me to get you back in, I think I should know why they kicked you out.”

Connor wheels around sharply. “They didn’t kick me out. I’m still with the CIA. They just suspended the program.”

“So, what happened?” Lucas draws his knees to his chest, sitting up straight, boots flat on the floor.

His back expands with each deep, slow breath. The rain has slowed to a drip, and I hear something shifting under the porch. Is this whole cabin going to come down on us?

Connor hesitates for a second. Then, “Back when we started researching dream control, I figured out how to make someone stay asleep. Usually, we can only stay in someone’s dreams for a little while, as I’m sure you know—but I could stay longer than most. That became my specialty. I would work with the subject, keeping him asleep long enough for him to take control of his own dream.”

I freeze in my shadowy hiding place. His specialty?

“You were keeping someone asleep, planting suggestions? So, basically trapping them in a nightmare?” Lucas’s tone is dangerously calm.

“I was helping!” Connor snaps. “It worked fine with the soldiers in our group. They started being able to face their fears, not just in their dreams but when they were awake. It’s just that I tried it on someone outside of the group, and—”

“And what? It didn’t work?” Lucas inches himself up into a crouch, but Connor doesn’t notice.

“Just the opposite. It worked too well. The subject had a very common fear, so I thought I could do it alone, but they were untrained, and I couldn’t… she couldn’t come back.” His face is defensive in the lantern’s light. “I did everything I could to save her. But with you as my partner—”

“So you killed some random woman and got kicked out for it, and now you want me to try it? You are one sick son of a bitch!”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you. This was after years of practice. And she wasn’t some ‘random woman.’ I chose her very carefully. She wasn’t in the program, but she knew all about us.”

No.

A woman with a common fear… it can’t be.

I drop below the edge of the porch, blood pounding in my ears. Lucas pushes against the pole, sliding quickly to his feet, fists clenched behind him.

“The only people who knew about Stargate were the men in it—and their wives. Vivian’s mom—and mine.” His voice shakes with disbelief and fury. “You killed my mother?”

Connor’s voice rises in panic as he says, “I told you, it was an accident! I would never—”

Lucas erupts with a shout of rage, springs from the pole, then lunges forward. I hear Connor’s surprised “Uunh!” as they go down in a heap on the porch, and I leap to my feet. All I can see is a furious tangle of arms and legs, accompanied by thuds and scrapes, shouts and growls as they pound each other across the creaking boards, making the waterlogged roof sway in protest.

Suddenly, Jackson Connor flips them both over. In one quick motion, he pushes Lucas face down, one knee pinning his right arm, the other in the small of his back. He bends Lucas’s left arm up behind him and twists it hard. Lucas groans, as Connor plucks up the scalpel.

“Nice try, Lucas,” he pants, “but you’re no match for CIA training.”

The scalpel gleams in the light of the lantern. So does the angry streak of red dripping from Jackson Connor’s left cheek. He wipes his shirt sleeve across it, wincing, while the creaking porch protests loudly under their combined weight.

“Lucas, I really didn’t want you to find out. I’m truly sorry, but you have to understand. I couldn’t use Summer—she was too far away and way too strong. I had nothing to work with. Elina was my only choice—and I’ve paid for it, believe me. That mistake ruined my life.”

“Ruined your life?” Lucas bellows, struggling. “You’re going to find out what ruined really means!”

“I truly hoped we could work together, but you’ve obviously made your choice. Prisoner it is. Don’t worry—you won’t be the first.” Connor weighs the scalpel in his palm, considering. “Of course, I have a few choices myself. I could rearrange your face a little. I could hobble you so you never walk again. Or,” he leans forward and sneers, “I could just end your misery right now.”

“No!” I shriek, running up the steps. I grab the lantern and swing it with all my might. Jackson Connor looks up, startled, as the lantern connects above his eye. The scalpel clatters to the boards. Connor twists away fast—too fast—clutching his head. He loses his balance, falling hard into the other post.

The post snaps in two, and Lucas rolls away as the corner of the roof crashes down, trapping Connor in an avalanche of rotten boards and rusty nails, and spearing a hole in the crumbling floor boards. I stumble back down the steps and around to the destroyed corner, shouting for Lucas, but he is already crawling clear of the wreckage.

“Get back!” he shouts.

As Connor struggles to pull himself out, the whole end collapses, sliding him headfirst toward the hole. He throws out an arm to stop himself.

Just before he howls in pain, I hear the rattle under the porch.