“Can we get dinner, too?” Peyton asks. “’Cause I’m really, really, really hungry.”
It hasn’t been long since she snarfed down half a bag of cookies. My prediction on how long those groceries will last could be optimistic if the other kids use their powers on a regular basis.
Upstairs, I download the “flierfries” game onto our phones, and Kelsey settles the kids on the other side of the great room. Hopefully the game will occupy them enough that she can watch the press conference, too.
One of the kitchen doors swings open, and I see Aaron backing through the door with a tray of sandwiches. He and Taylor are arguing about something, and Deo has joined in. I catch the phrases cloaking and time-displacement tech, so I’m guessing this is a pop culture squabble, rather than anything substantive.
Taylor carries over a plate of the sandwiches, and Peyton now has a half a sandwich in one hand and is poking at fireflies on my phone resting in her lap. I cringe, imagining the mustard-encrusted fingerprints I’m going to have to clean off of the touchscreen.
We all gather on the three sofas arranged in a circle facing the fireplace. A huge TV is mounted above, and as soon as I catch sight of it, Hunter shifts to the front of my consciousness. He’s been incredibly patient and quiet over the past few days. But I know what he’s hoping for, and I’m worried that he’ll be disappointed.
We may not see your sister today, Hunter. Senator Cregg said he has dozens of examples, and the clips of Bree and the others have aired a lot in the media over the past few days.
That’s an understatement, actually. The Senator has been thoroughly lampooned, both by the press and social media. They posted clips of telepathic powers from every B movie and TV show imaginable. A few creative souls even made their own. The pundits have spent the past few days noting that this stunt has harmed the credibility of Unify America, something that a fledgling third party can ill afford. The Senator’s opponent for the party’s nomination has taken every opportunity to argue that it shows Senator Cregg isn’t a viable candidate and that the party can’t be held accountable for the actions of one official.
Hunter has seen the clips along with the rest of us, even though I’m not sure how much he’s following. Politics is baffling enough for adults, let alone a six-year-old kid.
If he doesn’t use the clip, can we watch the other video again later?
Of course.
This will make the fourth time I’ve agreed to watch it again, just so he can see his sister. There’s obviously no new information to be gained from the clip, and it was filmed weeks or even months ago, but I do get it. If I’d had a video of Deo when he was being held at The Warren, I’m sure I’d have watched it again. Even if I knew it was taped, even if I knew that it didn’t guarantee that Deo was still alive, I’d have watched it just to see him. Just to hold on to that tiny bit of hope.
Aaron slides over to make room for me on the center sofa. We’re all nervous. Whatever Senator Cregg has on his agenda for today, it doesn’t seem likely to be good news.
“I made a few veggie sandwiches too,” Aaron says. “So you don’t have to pick off the meat and hide it in your napkin.” There’s a gentle, teasing note to his voice, and my nerves ease the tiniest bit.
“I don’t always pick off the meat. But thank you.” I give him a quick kiss.
The lead-in to the press conference is an interview with the other UA candidate, Juanita Breyer. I guess they’re giving her equal time or something.
Breyer is complaining about the Senator’s “media stunt” when the host, a guy so generically handsome that he could hold a second job as a department store mannequin, cuts her off so that they can switch over to the press conference. Breyer’s lips tighten, and she gives an annoyed sniff, then she’s gone.
I expect to see a podium inside a conference room, but the Senator is outside. He’s standing a few feet away from a mic, whispering something to a middle-aged man in a blue suit, who nods and then walks away. Behind the platform where he’s standing is a folding table, and maybe ten yards beyond that, a shooting target—the bull’s-eye variety, not the type shaped like a human—is attached to a bale of hay. The setup appears rather incongruous on the lawn of the Capitol Building.
Senator Cregg steps forward, looking around at the reporters and also at the crowd that has gathered nearby. All of the seats are filled except for two in the front row. “I’d like to thank all of you for coming. This is a much better turnout than we Unify America candidates usually get.”
He smiles, making it clear that this is a joke, that he knows he’d have the usual cluster of seven or eight journalists and maybe a couple of onlookers in attendance if not for the controversy surrounding his release of the Delphi footage. The reporters respond with a polite chuckle.
“I’m not going to waste your time showing the videos I revealed on Thursday. You’ve all seen them.”
Hunter huffs in disappointment, then slides to the back of my head.
“I knew people would be interested, but I really didn’t expect the video to go viral,” the Senator says.
“Yeah, right,” Aaron mutters, shaking his head at the TV.
“Seven and a half million views last I heard,” the Senator continues. “And, of course, it’s played repeatedly on your various news outlets. I suspect most of you have had the footage analyzed frame by frame to see if it was altered, as well . . . and if your tech people are competent, you know that it’s genuine. So I’m just going to cut to the chase and give you what you’ve requested. Proof.”
The man in the blue suit is back, holding the arm of a gangly boy with a rash of acne across his forehead. The kid looks familiar, but I can’t place him. A guard with a rifle follows them onto the stage, and a couple in their late thirties take the two empty chairs in the front row.
“We’re going to call this young man John,” the Senator says. “As you can see, his parents traveled with him. They understand how dangerous their son and others like him are to the rest of us. They’ve agreed to this demonstration in the hope that we can find a way to keep both these kids and the nation safe.”
The couple nods, the father even giving Cregg an enthusiastic smile. They’re clearly on board with this demonstration, but John’s expression suggests that he is not. He doesn’t seem to be fully on board with his parents, either, judging from the look he just shot in their direction.
The Senator pulls something out of his pocket and holds it up for the reporters to see. It’s a rectangular jewelry case, like one you’d use to store a necklace. He flips open the case to reveal three darts atop the velvet lining and then hands the case to a woman in the first row. “Please pass this box around so that you can all see that these are plain, unadulterated darts. I pulled them out of the dartboard in my basement, so they’re still a little dusty.”
The woman, apparently satisfied, passes the case to the next journalist.
“While you’re checking that out,” the Senator says, “I’ll give you a little background on John, or more specifically, John’s father. The man here today is actually John’s stepfather. John’s biological dad was killed—or more accurately, killed himself—nine years ago, after battling psychosis for over a decade. By all accounts, John’s dad was perfectly normal before going into the military, and even for a few years afterward. But he changed once he was assigned to a project at Fort Bragg, known as the Stargate Project. His parents, who didn’t see him often since they lived in Indiana, said he became moodier and anger prone. The project ended in 1995, and John’s dad left the service a few years later. He married, but bouts of temper and depression followed, and these got worse over time, ending his marriage and, eventually, his life.”
Asshat.
I agree wholeheartedly with Daniel’s one-word assessment. The poor kid is standing up there looking awkward enough in his too-tight suit, and then Senator Cregg starts talking about how his dad killed himself. Glancing at Aaron and Taylor, I can see that this is one issue on which
all three Quinn siblings would concur. It must hit a nerve, given that the official version of their own father’s death lists him as a suicide, too. The kid looks miserable. And yes, he still looks . . . familiar.
“Could you pause that?” I ask. “Just for a second.”
I hurry down to my room and rummage through my backpack to grab Magda’s checklist, then head back upstairs to the great room, flipping the pages as I go.
“It’s him, isn’t it? Dillon Lentz, the one that Skolnick mentioned.”
Aaron stares at the picture for a moment and then nods. “I think so. Not a recent photo, but yeah, looks like the same kid.”
When Taylor starts the video again, the last reporter is finishing her examination of the darts. She starts to hand them back to the Senator, but he shakes his head. “No, I don’t want anyone claiming I’m some sort of magician, hiding something up my sleeves. Set them over there on the table, case open. And, uh . . . actually stay over there for a moment, so that everyone will know there are no strings or whatever. Just take a few steps to the right.”
The reporter wrinkles her nose. She clearly doesn’t like the way she’s being ordered around, but she follows the Senator’s directions.
“Okay, John! You’re up.” The Senator gives the boy his broad, snake-oil smile.
Dillon, aka John, doesn’t return the smile. He simply turns his head toward the table, and one of the darts zips upward, followed in short order by the other two. They hover in midair, parallel to the table, and then fly toward the target so fast that I barely see them move. All three land directly on the bull’s-eye, and for a moment, there’s a genuine smile on the boy’s face.
The female reporter who was standing nearby gasps and takes a step away from the kid, bumping into the stand that holds one side of the huge UA banner that the Senator is using as a backdrop. She manages to pull half of the banner to the ground, revealing a stretch limo parked just beyond the grassy area. The man in the blue suit is leaning against the limo, along with a second man. Two of Cregg’s aides hurry over and prop the banner back up.
“That’s Whistler,” I say. “The one Dacia mentioned when we were at Overhills. He was with her that night at the police station, and I saw him talking to Grady, the guy Aaron—”
I cut myself off, glancing over at the kids. And it’s a good thing I do. TJ’s game no longer has his attention. He’s kneeling so that he can see the television over the back of the couch.
“Look, Pey! That guy can float things like you do!”
Peyton’s face appears next to his just as Senator Cregg asks Dillon to collect the darts.
Dillon gives him a curt nod, and then the darts come flying back toward the table, as if he reversed a video.
“Whoa!” TJ says. “Look at that!”
Peyton frowns, clearly jealous of the admiration in her brother’s voice. “I could do that!” Then her eyes fall on the rest of us in the room. “I can do bigger. I could even float the TV if I wanted to.”
I’m pretty sure that the television, which appears to be firmly anchored into the wall, is well beyond Peyton’s ability. But it makes me very nervous when the bracket holding the TV starts to vibrate.
“Hoo-boy,” Taylor says under her breath.
I start to get up, but Kelsey intervenes, swooping Peyton onto her hip. “I almost forgot! There’s ice cream in the freezer for dessert. And if we don’t get to it before Deo does, it will be all gone. Come on, TJ.”
TJ is still staring at the television, but when he catches sight of his sister’s face, his eyes widen in understanding. “Ice cream, Peyton! Yum. You love ice cream. Can we eat it on the deck with the puppy?”
I’m impressed at how quickly the boy pivots, but then this is a kid who’s had to distract and placate his baby sister many, many times in order to avoid catastrophe.
“Sure,” Kelsey says, giving me a that-was-a-close-one look as she shepherds the two into the kitchen.
When I look back at the TV, Senator Cregg has just selected a balding African American man from the crowd of waving hands.
“That . . . has to be some sort of illusion,” the reporter says. “I don’t care whether we inspected the darts or not. No one can do that.”
As the man speaks, the pen he’s holding jerks itself out of his hand and moves toward Dillon. The boy gives the reporter a tight smile, and raises his eyebrows, as if to ask whether the man is now satisfied that he’s not a fraud.
“Come on, John,” the Senator chides good-naturedly. “Give Marty back his pen.”
Without a word, the pen flies back toward the reporter’s hand. He ducks away at first, then plucks the pen out of the air and sits back down, obviously shaken. His companions seem unnerved as well, although a few of them still raise their hands.
The Senator acknowledges a plump woman in red. “Angela, right?”
The woman nods.
“I’ll get to your question shortly. But first, can you fetch Angela one of the darts, John? Very, very carefully. Feather side first.”
One of the darts rises from the table and slowly moves toward the reporter, her eyes growing wide as it approaches. When it’s a few inches from her hand, she reaches out to grab it.
“Now, Angela,” Senator Cregg says, “I’d like you to throw that dart as hard as you can toward John.”
The reporters gasp in unison.
“No!” the woman says. “Are you crazy?”
“Fine,” the Senator says, smiling. “Give it to me.”
He steps forward and snatches the dart from her hand, and without the slightest pause sends it hurtling toward the boy. Dillon doesn’t flinch but simply halts the dart about six inches from his chest, where it levitates.
Dillon’s eyes flash, and he gives Senator Cregg the same thin-lipped, angry smile he wore when looking at his stepfather earlier.
The dart twitches once. Then it reverses course in midair and flies full speed toward the Senator.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carova Beach, North Carolina
November 12, 2019, 4:43 p.m.
The camera catches a split second of sheer terror in the Senator’s expression as he realizes the dart is heading for his face. His arm jerks slightly. I think he was planning to raise it, to ward off the projectile, but before he can actually react, he realizes the dart is no longer moving. It hovers in front of the Senator’s face, so close it appears to be touching his glasses.
The guard whips his rifle up, pointing it toward the boy. Someone in the audience screams.
When Senator Cregg steps back, the tiny arrow follows. It continues to point straight at the Senator’s right eye, keeping pace like a well-trained dog. He composes himself quickly, though, and reaches up to grab the dart.
“Excellent control, John!” He turns toward the press, smiling as though he’d planned the entire thing, even that bit at the end. “Isn’t that incredible?”
I’m amazed to hear a couple of the reporters take the bait. One of them actually starts to clap, as though this really were a sideshow and not a press conference. The video switches to a camera showing the reporters, and beyond the rows of chairs, the crowd has grown. Many seem to be passersby, dressed in business suits, headed back to the Metro at the end of the workday. Others appear to have been invited, or maybe they’re just staunch followers of the Senator. There are several Unify America signs, and over a dozen purple Cregg for Our Future shirts and hats in the crowd.
“Thank you, John.” Senator Cregg nods toward the guards, and they lead Dillon off the stage.
Dillon doesn’t respond to the Senator or to the reporters, just continues flashing that same seething smile. His mother comes up and places a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he jerks away.
“That is one pissed kid,” Deo says.
He’s right. But I caught a hint of something else lurking beneath his anger. As with Peyton floating the books earlier, he enjoys letting his monkey out of the cage. He doesn’t like hiding it—otherwise, I doubt he?
??d have hurled pencils at his teacher last year in a full classroom. It’s a muscle he wants to flex, to show off.
Before I can make this observation to the others, the Man in Blue returns with another adept. A girl this time, petite, with Asian features. She’s dressed less formally than “John” was, but she looks equally uncomfortable.
The Senator introduces her as “Jane.” Then he gives the reporters a brief overview of her background, stating that she’s twelve years old. He adds that Jane’s father, whose whereabouts are unknown, was part of the same unit at Fort Bragg. Subject to the same drug protocol.
Then Senator Cregg gets down on one knee so that he’s eye level with the girl. From photos I’ve seen, this seems to be his standard move when dealing with kids. I guess he thinks it’s reassuring. But I’ve never seen a single kid who looked at ease next to him.
“Okay, sweetie. Could you tell the reporters what you told me earlier this week?”
Jane nods and tries to smile as she looks at the reporters. It’s closer to a grimace, actually. Just a quick flash of silver from her braces, and then she breathes in through her nose, like she’s trying to calm herself.
“A tornado will land in Alabama about ten minutes from now. Near Tuthcalootha.” She frowns, a blush rising to her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she says, tapping a forefinger against the silver wires stretched across her teeth. “They’re kinda new. Tus-ca-loo-tha.” It’s better this time, but the sibilant word still causes her to lisp slightly on the final syllable.
“It’s the girl,” I say to Aaron. “From the interview with Tamara Blake. The one who led us to the bodies at Overhills.”
“Shh!” Taylor turns the sound up a notch.
“. . . it’s a really big one, an EF4, and it comes out of nowhere. A Walmart sign will be ripped out of the ground. They’ll find it on the highway, on the other side of the overpath.” Jane huffs. “Over . . . pass.”
“Thank you, Jane.” He nods to the Man in Blue again, who takes the girl by the arm.