SAGE
The headache came on fast, like someone had slammed my skull with a wooden baseball bat.
I rubbed my temples, wishing Dallamore would be quiet.
I’d endured almost two hours of his talking and pretzel crunching. He’d slept most of the time on the airplane, but since we climbed into the car, he hadn’t stopped yapping.
“Beckett brought your pup with him when he came to the mansion, you know. Cute little thing. Even wanted to follow Beckett into the house.
“We’re getting close to the mansion now.” Dallamore pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket and proceeded to twist the kerchief in his hands while he babbled.
“I remember Jack and Beckett when they were little, you know. Nice little boys, well-mannered, too. Although there was a bout of time right after their mother passed when the two of them ran the halls of Vasterias headquarters like little terrors. Dr. Adamson was beside himself for some time. But when the doctor came back, he was back. Shame to see his sons turn on him in their teenage years. He’s doing his job so well, and they resent him terribly for it.”
Dallamore talked like he was far removed from the suffering inflicted on the boys, as if he wasn’t affiliated with the very organization dispensing the pain. Perhaps this was the only way he could deal with the reality of ruining lives. He had to ignore it, mentally separate himself from it, make it outside of his responsibility, his control, his ability to help.
Bile rose up in my throat as he rambled on. I leaned my head back against the black leather, my headache pounding away. The tinted windows darkened the daylight outside; Dallamore and I remained contained in a world of our own that no one could see. Even the driver felt far away, a tinted glass divider between our back seat and the seats up front.
I tried to drown out Dallamore’s voice by focusing on the muted sound of the tires maneuvering through the windy, tree-lined highway.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the gala tomorrow night. People from all over the world dressed in their finest. It’s a delightful time, really delightful time.” His hands twisted the kerchief.
I pursed my lips together. I wanted to rip the handkerchief from his hands and throw it out the window. Instead, my fingers wrapped the bag of pretzels in my lap.
“So many people want to meet you, to see you and thank you for your contribution.”
Contribution?
I blinked, unsure whether to punch him in the face or dive out of the car. After I took a few deep breaths, I could only come up with two explanations for Dallamore. He was either completely daft, or he was being fed false information about my willingness to be here. He talked of my body—my cells, my eggs—as if they were something totally separate from me, like I was donating a plaque or a potted plant for some sort of memorial.
“Beckett must love you very much to hold out for so long. He didn’t give in to Smalls. The beatings didn’t seem to affect him at all, and it was just so he could get to you on the island, even though he was lying to do it. He didn’t have any information of Dr. Cunningham’s whereabouts.” Another twist of his handkerchief. “Yes, he must really love you to hold out for so long.”
I gazed out the window and blinked back tears. Beckett hadn’t mentioned anything about getting beaten. A sharp spasm of guilt struck my heart.
Beckett. Why would he do it? Why would he do that for me? And then when he finally made it to the island, I’d treated him so horribly ….
Beckett’s face flashed in my mind—the Beckett I remembered, without all this; the way he looked after a long day outside in the fields: shirt soaked, tips of his sandy hair wet with sweat, that smile on his face.
Perhaps Dallamore finally realized he’d said something wrong. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m rambling. My wife’s been out of town for three weeks on a cruise across Europe. I’m afraid I’ve had no one to talk to around the house but my cat. Of course there’s the housekeeper and my chauffeur, but you know what I mean.”
Another twist of his handkerchief, and I realized something.
Dallamore was nervous. About what? Returning back to the mansion?
Whatever the cause of his apprehension, his fidgeting made me uncomfortable.
“I’d like to see my dog right away, if that’s okay with you?” I kept my voice light, innocent.
For the first time since settling into the car, Dallamore didn’t talk for moment.
His eyes narrowed at me; he blotted pretzel crumbs from his mouth. When he spoke again, his voice was low, more serious, like he was attempting to give me a warning. It sounded like a joke.
“There are thirty-foot stone walls around the entire property, and we have surveillance cameras on every angle. You can’t run. You can’t hide.”
He tugged at the ends of his kerchief now. “Dr. Adamson told us you won’t kill yourself as long as your brother remains alive,” he paused here, scanning my face, as if to discern my agreement or dissension of the fact. He must have concluded I was at no risk to myself because he added, “Very well then.”
He pulled himself up in his seat and straightened his jacket, puffing out his chest a bit. He wiped his mouth one more time and then tucked his kerchief into his pocket at last.
“At any rate, once we arrive, I plan to wash my hands of you. I got you to the mansion, and that’s all that was requested of me. I’ve become something of an errand boy amongst my colleagues, and I’m not quite sure why. I’m putting my foot down about it tomorrow when the board arrives for the gala.” Dallamore lifted his chin. “We have a meeting at noon, and I’m letting them know I refuse to do more of this.”
He stopped talking then, gratefully, as our car turned off the highway.
Our driver entered a code into a keypad on the dash of the car, and the wrought-iron gates opened slowly. We traveled on the black asphalt for at least a mile, and then the dense forest thinned to reveal a wide manicured lawn and giant trees. The driver pulled the car past a fountain, steering us toward the front steps of the mansion, a castle-sized house which boasted an exorbitant amount of brick and stone.
“They might be down there now,” Dallamore said.
“What are you talking about?” I said.
“Your puppy and the gardener, down by the gardener’s cottage on the northwest side of the property.”
Dallamore pressed a button to call the driver. “Pull over here, please, Benson.”
I craned my neck to look behind us out the darkened window. Beyond the rolling green grass on the north side of the mansion, I spotted a cobblestone gardener’s house. I saw a golf cart, and a man beside it, loading things into the cart. By his feet, a small dog.
But why couldn’t I see further? Why wasn’t the view crisp, even from this distance? I couldn’t distinguish the brown spots on Ollie’s white hair. I couldn’t make out the shape of his ears. Shouldn’t I be able to do that? What happened to my abilities? My hearing? And why did the hum of my numbers remain in the background, hard to reach?
The gardener raised his arm, throwing something, playing fetch with the dog. The dog sprinted after it, and I recognized him for sure, then. It was Ollie.
My heart jumped in my chest.
Grab Ollie, and get out of here. I didn’t have more of a plan than that, but it felt like enough for now.
I jerked the pretzels off my lap and shoved them into the waistband of my tights. As soon as the car pulled to a complete stop, the door locks clicked open, and I burst from the car and sprinted for my dog.