“Do we have a deal?” she asked, still not moving from her cot.
Tremain nodded. “But give me one more reason to suspect betrayal”—his eyes became incredibly dark—and I’ll kill you in an instant.”
She rose, walking to stand before him.
“Fair enough,” she agreed.
Tyler didn’t require sleep; well, not in the usual sense of the word.
His brain was set up in such a way that he could appear wide awake while sections of his mind were actually shut down, recharging. And that was what he was doing as they drove down I-70, the highway flying past on either side of them.
Madison moaned softly in the seat beside him. She’d been awake for most of the trip, finally succumbing to sleep just a few hours ago. He knew that she suspected who he really was. He also knew that she could be a liability, but he just didn’t care. For a reason he had yet to fully understand, Tyler needed her with him. If a problem arose, he would have to deal with it, but until then he wanted Madison by his side.
His thoughts were suddenly filled with memories of when they’d first met; an image of her walking away from him across his yard burned into his mind.
His memories.
Tyler snapped from the recollection. He was furious, wanting to strike out at something—to drive his fist into soft flesh, feeling the fragile bones beneath collapse against his onslaught.
Pulling the car over to the side of the road, Tyler sat rigid, gripping the steering wheel tightly in both hands. There were more memories now, moments of a mundane existence that suddenly belonged to him.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
“What’s wrong?” Madison asked groggily beside him, coming awake with a start.
He wanted to tell her that everything was fine, that he had everything under control.
But Tyler knew he would have been lying.
How many doors had he torn open in the seemingly endless upstairs corridor? Behind each and every one existed a memory, some true, others … not his own.
Tom had almost fallen to his knees again in one of the memory rooms, hanging on to the doorknob, still awash in the warm recollection of the first time he’d really seen Madison Fitzgerald. They had been talking, getting to know each other, and then it was time for her to go. He hit the instant-replay button inside his head, watching as she walked across the yard to the fence.
He found himself in the hallway again, standing in front of a section of wall where a room had once been. It was the same thing over and over: open a door and release a memory. A part of him was afraid of what he would find behind each door, but another reveled in it. Tom knew that this was where he would find the answers to the questions that haunted him.
Who am I? Who is Tom Lovett really? Does he actually exist, or was he, too, created by scientists in some secret lab?
Tom turned and looked down the endless corridor. Many doors had yet to be opened.
So many memories to be recalled, so many still to be experienced.
There wasn’t any time to waste.
It was cold in the desert, and Kavanagh wished he had brought along a jacket, but the invigorating chill of the desert winds reminded him that he was still alive.
He had adopted this as a nightly ritual, a way to escape the stale, recycled air of the underground installation that had become his newest base of operations. Every night he would ride the elevator up from the bowels of the earth and emerge from the abandoned military base to breathe the fresh air and look at the stars. Tonight Noah Wells accompanied him, and they stood outside the building that had once housed the commissary, the stink of Well’s cigarette tainting the air.
Kavanagh squinted against the biting chill, turning his head slightly. He watched as Wells puffed his cigarette, taking the full brunt of the cold desert air, tears running down his gaunt face.
“You’re crying,” Kavanagh said as he crossed his arms in an attempt to keep warm.
Wells reached up, touching the moisture that ran from his eyes and down his cheek. He didn’t feel it or the bite of the desert wind.
“Must be cold,” he said, staring at the moisture that dampened his fingertips. “Do you want to go back down?”
Kavanagh shook his head and looked up into the night sky. “Not yet,” he said, dreading the return underground. A part of him wished he could disappear right then, get into a car and drive away, leave it all behind. But he knew he couldn’t do that—a Kavanagh never ran away from his problems.
And besides, he didn’t believe in failure. Something could always be done to turn a situation around; his grandmother had taught him that, miserable witch that she was. She’d taught him to never lie down, to never accept that he’d been beaten, and if he was, to take as many down with him as he could.
“Come on in here, boy,” Grandma ordered, and Brandon felt the world drop out from under him.
Her bedroom stank of Lysol and something else, a stink so pervasive that not even the powerful disinfectant could wash it completely away. Every time Brandon smelled it, he wanted to gag.
The room was dark, illuminated only by a single beam of sunlight that had managed to find its way through a slight part in the thick curtains covering the large windows. His eyes started to adjust to gloom, and he could just about make out the shape of his grandmother’s large four-poster bed in the center of the room. He was looking for her, and his heart skipped a beat as his gaze fell on the wheelchair beside the bed—but it was a false alarm; the chair was empty.
“It’s always something,” came his grandmother’s voice, and a shape that he had mistaken for bedclothes rose up on the bed. “An old gal can’t even get the proper rest she needs to live a long and healthy life.”
She tossed the blankets aside and pushed herself up into a sitting position. Brandon couldn’t help but think of the scarecrow in Mr. Stanley’s field—the sharp angles of its framework beneath the old clothes it wore. His grandmother was nothing more than skin and bones. Many times he had overheard the hired help wondering how it was that she was even still alive.
But she was, and he had regretted it pretty much every day since the death of his parents, when she had become his guardian. The old woman positioned herself at the edge of the big bed, reaching out to pull the wheelchair closer. She stood momentarily on spindly legs before dropping down into the seat.
“Come over here, boy,” Grandma spat as she grabbed her cane from where it hung on one of the bedposts. Even though she mostly used the wheelchair these days, she seldom went anywhere without her cane. It had belonged to Brandon’s grandfather. He had carved it with his own two hands from a solid branch of maple, brought down by a bolt of lightning in the summer of 1922—at least that was what she told him. Brandon imagined that she kept it around as a reminder of her dead husband but also as means to make certain her points were heard and understood.
Brandon slowly moved closer, trying to sidestep the beam of sunlight. He could actually feel her eyes on him—like two fat horseflies crawling over his face—and suddenly he had to go to the bathroom worse than he could ever remember.
“Did somebody beat you up again, Brandon?” she asked with a disappointed shake of her head. “I may be old, but I ain’t blind.”
His eyes darted about the room, looking everywhere but at her.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she shrieked, and the cane was suddenly lashing out at the side of his leg.
It connected with a loud crack, and Brandon recoiled, pulling his hurt leg up and balancing on the other. He looked at his grandmother, the almost-translucent quality of her skin pulled tightly around her skull, what little hair she had left like balls of cotton glued to pig hide. Brandon couldn’t help but think of the pictures of Egyptian mummies he had seen in National Geographic.
“Still that same brat that moved here from Plainville last summer?” she asked him. “The one that left you cryin’ like a little girl?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly, not wantin
g to feel the bite of her cane again. “It was the same boy that done this.”
With a hand gnarled by rheumatism she reached out and grabbed hold of his face, turning it toward the sunlight. “That eye’s a sin,” she hissed, giving his face a shake before letting it go. “Did you at least fight back this time?”
Brandon lowered his gaze. It was pointless to fight back against Tyler Garrett—no matter how hard he hit, Tyler hit back four times as hard, and Brandon was truly afraid that the bully would kill him one of these days.
“Guess that answers my question. You remember what I said to you last time?”
Brendan nodded. “I was listening. There’s just nothing I can do; he’s bigger than me and…”
The old woman leaned forward in her seat, resembling a buzzard waiting for its prey. “Then you go after him first for a change—hurt him bad, make it so he learns to be afraid a ya.”
Grandma suddenly raised her cane again as if to strike him, and Brandon flinched, covering his face in fear.
She laughed, a horrible wet-sounding cackle, as she lowered her weapon. “See how it works?” she asked.
She was silent for a long time. “Fear has become your master. You’re like one of them fancy poodle dogs at the end of its leash.”
Grandma started to cough, a horrible hacking, barking sound, and by the way her body trembled and shook, he thought for sure she was going to break her brittle old bones with the powerful force of her coughs.
Brandon stepped closer. “Are … are you all right, Grandma?”
The coughing stopped, and she slumped to one side a bit in the wheelchair. She lifted a spidery hand to her skeletal face and wiped away a bead of spittle that threatened to fall from end of her lip.
“What’s the matter, boy?” she asked breathlessly. “Scared that your grandma’s gonna die?” She leaned forward again, her cadaverous face no more than two inches from his. “You’re a Kavanagh, Brandon,” she snarled. “That don’t mean much to you now, but it will someday. We don’t let fear rule us—you understand me? We take fear by the scruff of its neck and we make it work for us.” She pretended to be holding something in her twisted hand in front of his face. “See here?” she asked. “I got me some fear right here in my hand.”
He’d started to shake, her words slowly sinking in.
“And if I felt like it, I could use this fear to get whatever I want. Fear is a powerful tool, Brandon Kavanagh.”
He nodded, finally understanding what it was she was trying to tell him.
Grandma lifted her prized cane from her lap and shoved it at him.
“Hold that,” she barked, and he did, feeling the smooth, polished wood in his hands.
“Now you got some fear in your hands too,” she said, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “What are you gonna do with it?”
“I think it’s time we went back down,” Noah Wells said, his voice bringing Kavanagh back from the past.
He looked around—at the nighttime sky and the remnants of the base, as if seeing it for the first time.
With fresh eyes.
“You’re right,” he said, walking back toward the commissary and the secret elevator that would take them back to the installation hidden deep beneath the earth.
Soon he would have fear in his hands—the kind of fear that could make a man extremely powerful.
What are you gonna do with it? he heard his grandmother ask.
And as before, he knew exactly what to do.
Chapter 14
VICTORIA HADN’T KNOWN the specifics of Tyler’s mission, but what she did know gave Tremain enough information to fill in the blanks, and suddenly it all made a twisted kind of sense. He’d never wanted a drink so badly in his life.
He entered the briefing room, where his staff of operatives waited, tired and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep. In the corner he saw Victoria Lovett and, sitting inconspicuously near her, Agent Mayer. She knew what the situation required if necessary.
Tremain looked at each and every one of them, struggling with the information that he possessed and wondering exactly how much he should share. He’d already been forced to give them the truth about what Tom really was. With the boy changed and in the outside world, he couldn’t afford any more mistakes in tracking him down.
“You’re all aware of Tom Lovett’s unique condition,” he began without preamble. “I believe I know now why Brandon Kavanagh wanted his change triggered.”
“Do you know where he’s headed, sir?” asked Agent Abernathy from his seat at the conference table.
Tremain felt a cold fear in his chest. “I believe I do,” he said, taking a deep breath.
“Are any of you familiar with the Crypt?”
“Is this where we’re going?” Madison asked, breaking the silence that had filled the car since she’d woken up.
They were in Oregon, and as they passed a sign that announced Crichton Falls, Tyler seemed to grow more restless, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
He took his eyes off the road to stare at her, and she had to fight not to look away. She wasn’t sure if he knew she suspected that he wasn’t who he said he was. How on earth would he react if he realized it for certain?
“Not quite,” he said, putting his eyes back on the road.
Madison breathed a sigh of relief. His stare made her skin crawl. She had never wanted to see Tom more than when this stranger in his body looked at her. It was the wildest thing—to anybody else she would guess that he looked exactly like Tom Lovett, and for all intents and purposes, he was. But she knew otherwise. Tom Lovett wasn’t here right now. This guy—this Tyler Garrett—was just wearing a mask.
“What we’re looking for is on the outskirts.” He smiled, his fingers tapping the steering wheel to the beat of some tune that only he could hear. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon enough.”
Which was exactly what she was afraid of. She’d thought about trying to escape earlier, but one look into his eyes had told her that she wasn’t likely to get very far. And besides, what would happen to Tom if she left? Some instinct deep inside told her that if anyone could help Tom come back to the surface and fight off Tyler, it was her. She knew she could get through to him if she just had the chance. So she’d decided to wait and to watch, hoping for some kind of opportunity to present itself.
They drove through Crichton Falls. It was a cloudy morning, and the town looked like a very depressing place. The houses were run-down, as though they hadn’t been taken care of in years: peeling paint, broken windows, sagging front porches. And she didn’t see a soul. Madison was beginning to wonder if anyone actually lived in Crichton Falls when she saw the sign. She craned her neck, trying to read it as they passed, but all she could make out were the words No Trespassing and Environmental Protection Agency.
“Did you see that?” she asked Tyler.
“I did,” he answered, slowing down to head left at a fork in the road.
“So this town is abandoned?”
“Yep,” he said, speeding up on the twisting length of road. “The residents were relocated after the EPA found that their groundwater had been contaminated by a toxic waste containment facility nearby.”
Madison held on to the car door as Tyler navigated the winding course to their destination. “So the EPA just moved the whole town out?”
“They did,” Tyler said, “and then they gave the cleanup contract to a company called Enviro-Safe.”
“So what happened?” Madison questioned as they came around a bend to find the road blocked by a high fence, topped with barbed wire.
Tyler stopped the car and turned off the engine. “Enviro-Safe said that Crichton Falls was too badly poisoned and that no amount of cleanup could ever make the place safe.” He smiled at her again, and she felt her skin crawl. “It was a lie.”
Tyler opened the car door and climbed out.
“Wait,” she called, getting out of the car as well. “Why would they lie?” It was a relief just to
escape the confines of the car, even though she knew there was no getting away from Tyler.
“Enviro-Safe was a cover for the Pandora Group,” he said casually, assessing the fence. “They saw the perfect opportunity here and decided to claim the land as their own.”
Tyler walked back to the car, flicking a switch that opened the rear of the Outback. He pulled out a heavy blanket.
“I don’t get it. Why would Pandora want a bunch of land poisoned by toxic waste?” Madison asked.
“It’s the perfect cover,” he explained, starting to climb the fence, blanket in hand. “An entire area that everybody is afraid of—that people stay away from. It’s the perfect place for them to store their own brand of toxic waste.”
He tossed the blanket over the wire, covering up a section of its razor-sharp barbs, and dropped back down to the ground beside her.
“After you,” he said, motioning toward the fence.
“You want me to climb?”
“It’s the only way we’re going to get in.”
“We’re going in there?” She peered through the chain-link fence up the road at the shape of the abandoned factory squatting in the distance.
He grabbed her arm. “Climb,” he ordered.
She thought about arguing but instead did as she was told, slowly making her way up. Tyler was right behind her, helping her to make it over the blanket. She dropped down on the other side of the fence, and he landed in a crouch, catlike, beside her.
He started toward the building.
“I thought you said there was toxic stuff up there,” she said, holding back.
He turned back to her. “Not actual toxic waste. Things that Pandora has acquired over the years but deemed so dangerous they had to be hidden away—stored deep underground where they couldn’t hurt anybody.”
Madison suddenly felt herself growing very afraid. “But why are we here?” she asked, her eyes glued to the dark, foreboding façade of the facility.