The Delphi Resistance (The Delphi Trilogy Book 2)

  “Hunter Bieler?” Aaron asks.

  Daniel gives his brother a cautionary look for interrupting. Aaron glares in response, and even though it’s not really me that he’s giving the evil eye, I still feel a twinge of hurt.

  “That’s right,” Pruitt says. “Hunter. A friend of mine who teaches first grade had him as a student last year. Had to assign him a seat in the middle of the classroom. Otherwise, he’d tap the wall and make the lights go out, crap like that. The boy was watching out the window one day when the weather was nice, and next thing my friend knows, the little jerk is over by the wall sharpening his pencil. He taps near the outlet, and a split second later, the fire alarm goes off. We’ve got an unplanned fire drill on our hands, and the Bieler kid—along with everyone else—is out on the lawn in the sunshine. Running around with his buddies rather than working on fractions.”

  When it’s clear that Pruitt is reaching the limit of things she remembers, Daniel and Aaron start to ask more pointed questions. Aaron mentions the school counselor, Tamara Blake, and Pruitt says she didn’t know her but definitely knew of her. Blake was apparently one of several cautionary tales that convinced the other teachers and administrators that their heads should be kept in the sand at all times. And that was just because she lost her job. Imagine if they knew she was murdered because she spoke out.

  The last question that Daniel asks is the one at the top of Magda’s list. “What about twins? Have you heard of any twins who are gifted?”

  “Gifted.” Pruitt gives a bitter laugh. “Gifted? Clearly you’ve never been around these kids. I have to deal with them as part of my job, but those kids shouldn’t be allowed in a classroom. Shouldn’t even be allowed to exist. They are a curse from God, not a gift. His judgment for our sins as a nation and—”

  YOU WANT TO HELP US.

  This time, Daniel’s push is more of a shove. It echoes inside my head. Jaden’s too, apparently.

  Man, he needs to learn to use his indoor voice.

  Pruitt’s cheek does that weird twitch, and she repeats the words. “I want to help you. What was the question?”

  I’m glad to see that Aaron is glaring at Pruitt now, instead of me. Sure, we’ve both said that these powers are more curse than blessing, but that doesn’t mean everyone else can chime in. And there’s a difference between being cursed by God and being a curse on others sent by God. That last claim bothers me a whole lot more.

  “Twins,” Aaron says. “We asked about twins.”

  “The only ones I know of are the Bieler kids. That poor woman has lost both of them now. Last year, the girl vanishes. Apparently, it was a custody issue. Their dad is a nutcase hermit out in Wyoming. And now Hunter’s gone.”

  I really want control of my body right now so that I can check the list for Hunter Bieler’s sister. I’m almost certain she’s not on there.

  “Maybe the dad grabbed him, too,” Pruitt says. “But with five others disappearing at the same time, that seems unlikely. At least she’s still got her older boy, and he’s normal, thank God. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.”

  If I were in control of my hands, it would be really hard not to whack Pruitt with the clipboard I’m holding. I seriously doubt their mother thinks the disappearance of two of her three kids is a blessing, disguised or otherwise.

  Daniel blasts her again, nearly as loud as the last time. “This conversation never happened. You passed out in the parking lot. We’re going to drive you home.”

  As Pruitt sits there absorbing this, Daniel slides back—although it really feels more like he stumbles back. He probably won’t admit it, but this clearly drained him.

  “Thank you for driving me home,” Pruitt says in a small, uncertain voice. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

  She’s not the only one. It feels like there’s a metal band squeezing my skull. I grab a couple of Advil from my bag and dry swallow them, then offer the bottle to Pruitt.

  “I can’t take those things,” Pruitt says. “They eat my stomach up. Do you know if I hit my head? Or do you think I might’ve had a stroke? Maybe I should go to the hospital instead.”

  Daniel moves back toward the front, ready to give her another push. But I’m not giving over control again unless it’s absolutely necessary.

  “No, ma’am,” I tell her. “You said earlier that you forgot to eat lunch. Don’t you remember?”

  She looks confused, and I feel kind of bad about gaslighting her. But then she gives me a hesitant smile and says, “That’s right. I remember now.” The address Pruitt gives us, which is not the one we have in our files, is nearly thirty miles in the opposite direction from the RV park. Great, just great.

  My phone vibrates again as Aaron is pulling out of the parking lot. A text this time.

  “Is that you, Anna?” Aaron whispers.

  At first, I think he’s just asking whether it’s my phone making the noise, but then I glance over at him and realize the question has a double meaning.

  “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “You okay?”

  “Really bad headache,” I say, slumping down in my seat. “And it’s making me queasy.”

  “Maybe it’s a flu going round,” Pruitt says from the back seat. “That could be why I wasn’t hungry at lunch. I’m always hungry at lunch.”

  Is this story going to stick with her, Daniel? Or is she going to figure out she’s been tricked ten minutes after we drop her at home?

  It will stick.

  Daniel doesn’t sound completely sure, however.

  Okay. Fine. In the past, it has always stuck. But we’re in uncharted waters here, Anna. I’ve always been in my own body. Persuading people has never given me a headache. So, no, I can’t guarantee a damn thing, but . . . the woman would’ve called the cops fifteen minutes ago if I hadn’t jumped in.

  We drop Pruitt at her house. Her older daughter thanks us and walks her mom, who still looks shaken, into the house.

  For a moment, I feel bad for putting Pruitt through this. Then I remember her nasty comment about Delphi kids—kids she taught, kids she owed at least a little bit of understanding. Maybe she needed shaking up.

  I curl up in the car seat and close my eyes, taking deep breaths to curb the nausea and the pain that shoots through my temples each time we hit the slightest bump. It’s a good half hour before the Advil I took starts to kick in enough that I can think about anything, and that’s when I remember the messages that came in while Daniel was captain of the Good Ship Anna.

  My first thought is that it might be Cregg, but Daniel doesn’t remember feeling the tickling sensation. When I check, it’s two different numbers. The first is a voice mail from Kelsey—her new number and a message to call when I get a free minute or two. I’m sure it’s due in part to my throbbing head, but hearing her voice brings tears to my eyes.

  The second is a text from Dean Skolnick. No message, just an audio file.

  I start to push play, but Aaron asks me to forward the file to Taylor first so that she and Deo are up to speed by the time we get there. “We’ve only got about an hour until dark, and I’d like to get to the lake before the other fishermen clear out. We’ll be less noticeable that way.”

  So I forward the file to Taylor and then click play.

  There’s no introduction, just a girl’s voice. “It’s a bumpy road. Not like potholes, though.” She has a faint lisp, which blurs the last two words together. “Uneven. More like a dirt road. Later, when they opened the trunk, I saw a bunch of tall pine trees. But . . . I think they learned something from Nicki running like she did. The boy I was in this time . . . his hands and feet were bound. Although he couldn’t move much anyway, because he was piled in the trunk with the other four kids.”

  A woman asks, “Do you know which one of the boys you were . . . seeing through?” The voice is deeper than the girl’s, and it seems vaguely familiar, with its hint of a Southern accent.

  “I’m pretty sure it was Hunter,” the girl replies, the lisp worsening,
“because later when they had the other kids in the building, I could see the two girls really good. One of them was right near these animals—like drawings from a children’s book—that were painted on the walls in the room. I never got a close-up look at the two boys at the far end, but I saw their feet once I was inside, and they were bigger. So it had to have been Hunter. And he was a sweet little kid. He . . . he didn’t deserve this. No way.”

  The girl is crying now, and another woman’s voice, fainter, tells her they can stop if she’s too upset.

  “No. I want to, Mom. Like you said, maybe she can get the cops there to listen. Maybe they can find the guys who did this . . . or at least find the kids’ bodies.”

  “Take your time,” the first woman says. “No rush.”

  I hit the pause button and replay the last few words. A strange sense of déjà vu hits me. I remember listening to this voice, saying these same words, huddled under the blankets in the bed while Aaron slept. And again, talking to someone different, yesterday on the drive to Fort Bragg.

  “What’s wrong?” Aaron asks.

  “I think I know her. Not personally, but . . . I’ve listened to several of these interviews. Tamara Blake writes for—or rather, she wrote for—AllGlobalConspiracies.”

  I click play again, and we listen to the rest of the interview. The girl describes being inside Hunter’s mind as two guys hauled him out of the trunk and carried him inside an abandoned building. The other four children were still knocked out, and Hunter pretended to be unconscious, as well, hoping for a chance to get away. The men lined the kids against the wall and shot them as they slept.

  Except for Hunter, who wasn’t asleep. When the first shots rang out, he began screaming.

  “After Hunter screamed,” the girl says, “the man who was bragging about his sex life before starts cursing and saying the kids were all supposed to be asleep. That he didn’t sign on for this. So the third person, the woman, shoves the guy out of the way.”

  The woman? A chill runs through me, and for a moment, I’m certain she means Dacia Badea.

  I take a deep breath and rein in my overactive imagination. Woman with a gun doesn’t necessarily equal Dacia. I’ve never seen her with a gun. I don’t even know if she can shoot. Daniel said Cregg had at least a dozen field agents. It’s a little paranoid—not to mention sexist—to assume that Dacia is the only woman doing his dirty work.

  The girl continues. “She points the gun straight at Hunter’s face. I only saw her briefly, but she didn’t look angry like I expected. More sad, really. She said, ‘I’ll make it quick for you.’”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Fayetteville, North Carolina

  November 3, 2019, 5:37 p.m.

  I run the tape back a few seconds and listen again.

  “It’s Dacia,” I tell Aaron. “She’s the one who shot Hunter.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Back at The Warren, she told me she made it quick for Molly. Quicker than she would for me.”

  We’re pulling into the campground now, and it looks . . . wrong, although it takes me a moment to pin down why. The trailer is right where we left it. The truck, however, is gone, and when we get inside, we find that the RV is empty.

  That wouldn’t unnerve me nearly as much if we hadn’t just learned that Dacia was in the area recently. I guess that’s not entirely logical, since we know people were here killing adepts—killing kids—but I’m certain Dacia blames me for Lucas’s death. And I’m also certain she’d be happy to return the favor by killing Deo.

  Aaron calls Taylor, but she doesn’t answer. So I try Deo, and after a couple of rings, he picks up.

  “Where are you guys?” I ask, trying to tamp down the panic in my voice.

  “Um . . . Taylor had to go . . . get something.”

  I don’t think it’s a complete lie, but there’s definitely something he’s leaving out. “Okayyyy. How long do you think you’ll be?”

  “Don’t know. Took maybe fifteen minutes to get here, and . . .” He pauses for a moment. “It looks like she’s almost done.”

  “So . . . I take it you’re feeling better, then?”

  “Better? Yeah, absolutely, especially now that I’m out of that damned RV and breathing some fresh air. My temperature is normal again. Arm feels fine, too.”

  “That’s . . . great!” I try to sound enthusiastic, but then I remember that the girl at The Warren was better too. Until she wasn’t.

  Deo, as usual, knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Anna, you’re worrying based on a sample size of one. Just a single very unlucky girl. And we don’t even know if they gave me the same formula. What’s that saying Emily had about borrowing trouble? Sufficient until the day . . . ?”

  “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. And dear God, if you’re quoting Emilyisms, the fever must have fried your brain.”

  While we wait for Taylor and Deo, I go back to the bedroom so I can return Kelsey’s call. My plan is to keep the conversation light. Kelsey just lost her job, which means the State of Maryland isn’t paying her to be my twice-weekly lifeline anymore. But I’m weak, and it feels so damn good just to talk to her again that I end up spilling everything—well, except for the fact that Deo’s recovery might just be temporary. That can wait.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Anna? Six people—six children—have been killed! Maybe you should just call the police? Give them an anonymous tip?”

  “Magda wants blood samples. I doubt the police will let us stroll into the morgue and get those. And there’s no reason to assume Dacia is still in the area. They don’t know we’re . . .”

  I hesitate, realizing that there’s actually one other thing that I haven’t told Kelsey because I didn’t want to worry her. Now that Cregg has his mind spy, he could very easily know we’re here.

  The feather-brush sensation moves across my brow.

  “Anna?” Kelsey prompts. “Are you still there?”

  “Um, yes,” I say. “We’ll be careful. Aaron should be able to tell if there’s any—”

  The phone vibrates with an incoming text from an unknown number. I tell Kelsey there’s another call coming in and that I’ll let her know as soon as we’re back from Overhills. And then I reluctantly open the message, wondering which bit of wisdom from The Bard will pop up on my screen.

  But it’s not a quote this time.

  I don’t tell him everything. I won’t help them kill my own kind. And I have nothing to do with Dacia.

  I text back, asking who this is, but there’s no response. A second try, this time asking explicitly if he’s Snoop. Nothing.

  The front door slams, followed by Aaron and Taylor’s raised voices. And as much as I don’t want to go into the middle of that, I need to let Aaron know about the text.

  “Yeah, well, I’m tired of doing nothing!” Taylor’s chin is jutted out toward her brother. She’s clutching a kid’s sneaker in each hand—one navy blue and the other rainbow colored. “And we both know I can pinpoint the location a lot faster with his sneaker and my drawing pad than you can by poking around a bunch of empty buildings on a military base.”

  “I get that, Taylor. But do you really think it’s smart to go around letting people know what you can do?”

  Usually, Daniel would chime in at this point, noting the sweet, sweet irony of Aaron saying those words. But Daniel remains at the back of my head, silent, and it’s Jaden who steps in with an explanation.

  He’s asleep.

  A pause, and then:

  Okay, he says not asleep, just resting his eyes. Either way, it’s kinda weird. I haven’t felt sleepy since you picked me up. I usually meditate when you’re sleeping. Daniel, on the other hand, paces around like a damn tiger in a cage. You need to stash some Xanax or something in the file cabinets you got back there.

  Yeah, I wish.

  Taylor rolls her eyes, apparently at something Aaron said. “And anyway, Hunter Bieler made machines do freaky stuff just by touching them. A
pparently, his sister had some sort of talent too, or they wouldn’t have grabbed her. So their mom wasn’t exactly a skeptic when I said I was a psychic who might be able to track them down.”

  She snatches the take-out bag we grabbed on our way back and heads for the front of the trailer. Aaron follows. Even though he must know Taylor has a valid point, he doesn’t seem ready to admit it yet, and I feel a little sorry for her. I suspect at least half of what he’s unleashing on her stems from his frustration with the whole Daniel situation. He gives me a brief apologetic smile and then closes the door behind them, I suppose as a small concession to my comment yesterday about how much Deo and I hate arguments.

  Deo is at the table, doctoring a trio of tacos with hot sauce. He’s in his purple ensemble today, and for the first time since Cregg abducted him, his hair is swept back in its usual quiff. He’s even wearing eyeliner. There are still dark circles under his eyes, though, and he’s paler than I’ve ever seen him. I smile, even as I feel the sting of tears—happy, relieved, worried, all at the same time.

  I sit down across from him, deciding to wait until we’re all in the same room to discuss the text. For now, I’m just going to sit here with Deo and enjoy the fact that he’s better.

  “You look good,” I say.

  Deo grins, and it’s almost like the past few days never happened. “I feel good. And I smell good, too. Well, at least better.”

  He’s right. The singed smell is still there, but it’s much fainter. Barely noticeable under his cologne.

  “You, on the other hand . . .” His mouth twists.

  “I don’t smell.”

  “Noooo . . . but you look worse than that time you had the stomach flu.”

  “Hosting Daniel while he’s tampering with someone’s mind is rougher than you might think.”

  Deo’s eyebrows shoot up. “You went Professor X on someone and I missed it?”

  “Yes. And with any luck, there will not be a sequel.”

  Overhills, North Carolina

  November 3, 2019, 9:10 p.m.

  I don’t know yet how much of the girl’s vision that we listened to was accurate, but she definitely got the tall trees part right. Her comments about the bumpy road were dead on, as well. The first quarter mile or so is in reasonably good shape, but by the time we reach the fork where the main road branches off to curve around the abandoned homes in the area, the impact of the recent rains becomes apparent. Each time Aaron tries to maneuver around a rut or massive puddle, he hits another. It’s like navigating a minefield, although in retrospect, that’s an unsettling analogy when you’re driving on roads used for military training.