Clay Page 15

  A delicious twist in his groin.

  “All this labor,” she says. “Reading and phones…it could be so much easier, Marcus. You would be so much more productive with a minor seeding.”

  “I use the five senses the good Lord gave me, Anna. I was made in His image, I honor that.”

  “You are like a man living in a cave, refusing to leave because the sun is too bright. Perhaps your Father intended more senses for you besides the five.” She plucks the folder from him, the golden pendant swaying. “All you need is the courage to leave the cave.”

  “Stupidity can be mistaken for courage. Weakness, as well.”

  “We work harder to make up for your shortcomings.” She drops the folder in the trash. “You slow us down, Marcus.”

  He squeezes the chair to control the anger. This is unlike her. She’s incapable of emotions, only uses them to manipulate. M0ther is behind this.

  She’s behind everything.

  She wants him to merge with their biomite frequency. He can absorb information instead of reading it, communicate with thoughts rather than speak. Take a pill, and he won’t be at the mercy of his emotions.

  But he rather likes the fire in his belly. It reminds him there is still work.

  “Are you hungry?” she says. “Sex, perhaps?”

  “Give me your update.”

  Her fragrance is light and enticing. With a hand on his shoulder, she reaches for the desk and effortlessly flips it like a cardboard box. The papers flutter in a chaotic cloud.

  The Oval Office shifts.

  The walls straighten out, turn a dark shade of blue. The sofas fade and the windows stretch around him, providing views to massive palm trees and open blue sky. A woman sits next to a door. Her stillness betrays her inanimate nature. Marcus knows a brick.

  “Miami,” Anna says. “This doctor’s office was infiltrated an hour ago. The operatives dismantled an EMP command to avoid self-shutdowns. They’ve quarantined the doctors and staff while assimilating the data. They were legitimate physicians, Marcus; healers of your people. They were also seeding select patients with nixes.”

  Anna turns Marcus’s chair toward the exit. A young man tries to open the locked door. He sees the woman sitting inside, knocks on the glass.

  “We’ve informed their patients the office is closed and their appointments rescheduled. In the meantime, the operatives are tracking them. Once they have the information they need, the doctors and staff will be digested.”

  She spins the chair back toward the woman, indifferent to the man rapping on the glass. Marcus doesn’t need to go through the door. He’s seen more mass shutdowns in the past month then the prior ten years. They’re always the same.

  “The patients will be shut down tonight,” Anna says. “Almost five thousand, Marcus.”

  Ever since Seattle, the shutdowns have been quiet. Halfskins will be sleeping in their beds when they take their last breath. They’ll fall off barstools or slump to the floor at their favorite restaurant.

  The walls begin to curve and George and Abe are back on the Oval Office wall. Folders are stacked on the desk once again. Anna struts to one of the sofas.

  “Two more shutdowns are scheduled for tonight, one in Paris and the other Ontario. We expect big numbers.”

  “And the reaction?”

  “Nothing new, the public isn’t happy. World governments, though, are getting nervous. Press conferences have addressed the public’s concern.”

  Marcus steeples his hands, bouncing his fingertips. The halfskin war is operating without him. He’s more of a spectator now. He thought there would be more pleasure when victory was near.

  “Very well. Give me the analysis for the next two weeks. I want an approximation of shutdowns, where and how many. I’ll file a progress report.”

  Anna kneads his shoulders, using her thumb to drive the tension from his back. He closes his eyes and relaxes. When she’s finished, his knee no longer hurts.

  “One more thing,” she says. “Jamie is missing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what it means, Marcus.”

  The fire rises in his stomach. He recalls the first time Cali and Nix Richards went missing. He was arrogant to believe it was temporary, that they would be found.

  Anna sits on the leather sofa, patting the space next to her. She lifts her skirt.

  Marcus stands without a twinge of pain. He kneels in front of her, running his hands up the length of her thighs, over the soft curve of her buttocks. The next five minutes are glorious. It’s not until much later he realizes what he saw before leaving the Oval Office. There was a dog bone on the sofa.

  He had been thinking about the President’s dog.

  Only thinking.

  31

  Paul shivers, despite the blanket.

  His clothes are damp. His feet are trapped in hard, wet boots. The weights on his eyelids are heavy; the hinges loosened after several attempts.

  The bedroom is sparse with an unusually high ceiling and water stains around the light fixture. He drops his boots on the wood floor, the impact stinging his feet. He parts the curtains on the only window. His car is parked next to a barn that’s smothered beneath a blanket of snow. He wonders how it got there.

  And then remembers.

  A black dog waits outside his door, tongue hanging. Paul moves carefully around him, brushing against the wall. He passes the stairwell on his right and tries the door at the opposite end of the hall.

  Locked.

  He puts his ear against it, listens for any sign of life. He tries the knob again. The keyhole is an old-fashioned lock, one he could pick if he had some heavy wire. What would he do if he opened it? Jamie was unconscious, the last he remembers. He brought her here.

  Too late to take her away.

  His footsteps echo down the shallow steps, the wood faded where thousands of steps had worn away the color. Dark squares on the floral wallpaper indicate picture frames that have recently been removed.

  He stops at the bottom step. The house is quiet except for the dog’s toenails clicking behind him. There’s a short hallway to the right with a chalkboard to the left and a locked door to the right. It ends at the kitchen and the smell of coffee. A clock ticks above the refrigerator.

  Paul parts the frilly curtains above the sink. The barn door is closed. Aside from a trail of footprints, the snow is perfect. Despite the tower in the distance, there’s no service on his phone. No wifi, either.

  The locked door opens in the hall.

  Cali shuffles into the kitchen, followed by the brown dog. She’s wearing fresh clothing but her eyes look tired; her complexion deeply wrinkled. She pours two cups of coffee, slides one toward him.

  “You’re Dr. Cali Richards.”

  She nods.

  “You look older than I expected.”

  “Common courtesy does not tell a woman she looks old.”

  “From my understanding, you’re about fifty years old.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.”

  She grabs a container next to the refrigerator. The dogs tap dance.

  “I’ve stayed alive all these years by hiding from M0ther. I’ve altered my appearance, like Nix, to avoid facial recognition. But my brother has chosen to expose me to you, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

  She tosses a snack to the dogs.

  “Who are you, Paul?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  She passes him a sideways glance. If she can hijack his senses, she can find his name.

  “I’m a Seattle cop.”

  “No. You’re an enigma, is what you are. Your background security far exceeds the rank of sergeant. You’re closed to the public. That’s unusual. And you show up with a girl that was quarantined at one of the largest shutdowns at the time. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence.”

  “And that makes me a threat?”

  “To me, yes. Why are you with her?”

  “They were
going to take her. She was in danger.”

  “By ‘they,’ you mean Marcus Anderson.”

  “She’s not a halfskin, you can scan her, you’ll see.”

  “What compelled you to save her?”

  “I’m human.”

  Cali goes to the mudroom, where her boots sit in a puddle of melted snow. She wraps a scarf around her neck, reaches for her coat.

  “Why is it so hard to believe that I saved a girl in trouble? Have you become so accustomed to manipulating your senses, that you no longer feel compassion?”

  She sits on a footstool to pull on her boots.

  “You pulled me into your perception field last night,” Paul continues. “You made me see and hear what you wanted, made me help you. You’re far past a halfskin; like your brother. He said he was 99%.”

  He remembers the mind-fog at the warehouse, compelled to do whatever the bricks told him. He doesn’t remember being forced to save Jamie, but why would they? No, I acted on my own. That was my choice, my own free will.

  But would he know it?

  “Is that true?” he says. “Are you almost a brick?”

  She sits up. “Don’t lecture me. You don’t know me.”

  “And you don’t know me.”

  “That’s the problem, Paul.” She pulls on her coat, buttoning it. “There’s a dome of static that protects me and my property. It operates like back-reflection, showing M0ther there are no biomites within this sphere. It won’t work forever, I know that. She’ll eventually find me, maybe ten years from now, maybe tomorrow. I don’t know. Right now, though, I’ve got you and Jamie in my house. I need to figure some things out. It’s going to take Nix and Jamie a couple of weeks to recover.”

  “After that?”

  “I don’t know.” She cups her coffee to her chin, the aroma failing to revive her tired eyes.

  “Is it true what they say about you?” he asks.

  “Truth is rarely found in the news.”

  “You were a biometric engineer that beat M0ther. You released the nixed code to the public.”

  “Like I said, believe nothing you’ve read.”

  “I see an old woman. Is that truth? You manipulated what I saw, heard and felt last night. And maybe you’re doing it right now. How am I supposed to know what’s true when I can’t trust my senses?”

  “Our senses were fallible long before biomites.”

  “Reality is not relative.”

  She poses over her coffee cup, eyes distant and glassy. “These days, it is.”

  She takes one final sip, leaves it in the mudroom. The brown dog follows her. Frigid air swooshes past the open door. Paul watches her drudge to the barn.

  The black dog watches him.

  32

  The world rocks, up and down. Up and down.

  Droplets spatter across Nix’s cheeks; a briny taste is on his lips. His head sways with the rhythm of up and down, up and down. The soothing sound of water feels like a lullaby.

  The sky is unblemished. The blue is deep and endless. His eyelids succumb to the rhythm and begin to fall—

  He sits up.

  The bamboo raft rocks beneath his shifting weight, seawater sloshing over the sides. The bindings creak.

  Where am I?

  He dips his feet in the warm water. Far behind him, the rocky shore and the twin peaks are visible. A green meadow slopes behind them, and, despite the distance, he knows there’s a cabin on top of that where Raine waits for him.

  Dreamland.

  He’s never been out this far in the water. Occasionally, he would hop on a skiff with one of the local fisherman but they rarely ventured into the deep. And never on a homemade raft.

  He envisions a sail and a gust of wind to push him home but his thoughts dissolve like daydreams. Nothing he imagines comes to fruition. The raft rocks beneath his feet. He dives into the sea’s depth. He grabs the edge of the raft and begins kicking. Eventually, he’ll reach the shores. What seems like hours go by, and he’s no closer. Home is in sight, but no more.

  Cali put him out there.

  This is my punishment.

  33

  The days are empty.

  Paul spends most of them with Baxter, the black dog. He rarely barks or shows his teeth. Often, he watches Paul with an unusual sense of intelligence. Observing. Thinking.

  Cali locks herself in the basement most days. The bedroom upstairs is always locked.

  He’s hazy in the mornings, spending several minutes recalling where he is. The sand of sleep weighs him down for hours at a time. In the afternoons, he walks the property, going deep into the trees and out to the road. The dog doesn’t like it when he’s that far out.

  Paul could leave, just hop the gate. Maybe he’d have to fight off the dog but then what? Where would he go?

  What about Jamie?

  There’s an old cell tower behind the horse paddock. By his estimates, it’s centered on the property. The scaffolding is corroded but the utility shed is new. So is the conduit that runs to the top of the tower.

  The shed is locked.

  This must be what generates her back-reflecting dome of protection. If this comes down, she’s exposed.

  One morning, his car is gone. Paul finds it behind the house near an abandoned swing set, the corroded legs buckled like old bones. Footsteps lead back to the house. The railing leading up the front steps wobbles. He goes to the barn in search of tools. The tack room door is jammed. He uses both hands to get it open.

  A red tool box is stashed on a shelf with a tin can full of rusty nails. He inspects the latch on the door. It’s as old as the house. It wouldn’t take much to dissemble and fix.

  Something moves through the trees. Paul watches through the window as a red truck comes down the lane, a yellow plow blade carving snow to the side. It backs up several times, working its way toward the house.

  Paul steps into the breezeway, but stays to the shadows.

  Cali comes out of the front door, fastening her coat. A man gets out of the truck, waves at the old woman looking more tired than ever.

  “Good morning, Stacy,” the man says.

  Stacy?

  He hugs her while a young girl steps out of the passenger seat, her arm tied in a sling. Both dogs come running. It’s the first time he’s seen their tails wag like that. She takes a knee, rubs their thick coats with her free hand. Paul can feel the weight of Cali’s mind press upon his. She’s exerting her field on him.

  Stay.

  That’s why the car’s out back.

  The conversation passes. The daughter lifts her wounded arm, explains how she sprained her wrist when her fingers got tangled in twine while bucking bales. The man fills his lip with a pinch of tobacco. Cali looks concerned for the girl. Several minutes later, they climb back in the truck and finish plowing.

  Cali goes to the porch.

  Paul steps into the opening with a hammer and a rusty can of nails. She stares for a long moment.

  “Friends?” Paul asks.

  “Neighbors help out from time to time.”

  “Why’d you let them leave?”

  “This isn’t a prison camp.”

  “Just for us.”

  “You weren’t invited.”

  He peers around the corner. The truck has left long piles of snow. That sling was old-fashioned. Even the lowest dose of biomites could heal something like that.

  They’re clay.

  Their eyes meet. No words are needed. Cali Richards is keeping a secret. If you learn it, you don’t leave.

  She goes back inside to lock herself in the basement.

  Paul fixes the railing.

  34

  Warm, dry air blows on her face.

  Jamie’s head is sunk in a pillow. The dusty strands of a spider web wave in the ceiling vent.

  Sensation returns to everything but her left arm. The last thing she remembers is going to the car, but this isn’t the hotel. Her internal clock announces the time. It seems like they were at the ho
tel a minute ago but three days have passed.

  Three days have been snipped from her life.

  She sits up. Her mouth is dry and gummy and her left arm is wrapped with gauze. Her pale fingertips feel dead, as if someone sat on her arm. She balances against the wall, stumbles barefoot to the door. The strange surroundings smell of old linen.

  Someone is downstairs.

  She goes one step at a time, gripping the railing with both hands at first. A conversation is heating up, somewhere downstairs. The muffled voices aren’t familiar. They’re coming from the first floor, behind a door in the hallway. She leans against the chalkboard, sliding her feet to keep the floor from creaking. The argument comes in bursts, most of it unintelligible.

  “No one’s leaving!” a woman shouts.

  The other person is apologetic, reasoning, even pleading, for a response. Jamie feels the wall slide up her back as she slowly goes to the floor, her legs too weak.

  A door opens somewhere in the house.

  Toenails click toward her. A black dog stares from around the corner, and heavy boots follow.

  “Jamie.” Paul pulls off his gloves and crouches beside her. His brown hair, so often combed to the side, is a mess over his thick eyebrows. “Are you all right? How’d you get down here?”

  She grabs him with her free hand, latching on like she won’t let go, like he’s the only thing that’s keeping her from melting into a puddle. He’s the only thing she can remember.

  He’s safe.

  Paul almost carries her into a kitchen where she sits at a weathered table. A glass of water finds its way into her hand.

  “Little sips.”

  She takes big swallows and he has to pull it from her. It cools her throat, settles her stomach. He keeps his hand on the glass the next time she drinks, monitors how steeply she tips it.

  “Where are we?” she asks.

  “What do you remember?”

  She wipes her mouth. It takes too long to remember what Nix looked like, what he told her. Somewhere safe.

  The kitchen feels like it’s stuck in time with spice racks and dried flowers hanging over a window. Safe wasn’t a house in the country. She was expecting something to take the pain away.