He’d been tossing and turning for hours, his thoughts racing. He already missed Madison and could have kicked himself for not kissing her before she left. Guard or no guard, it had been the perfect chance. And what if it had been his only chance?
He thought about how he had reacted during Tremain’s exercise. At first it had been all about showing those guys that he was more than something to be laughed at. But then it had gotten serious.
Deadly serious.
Tom felt himself break out in a cold, tingling sweat, wondering for the thousandth time if he would have actually killed Abernathy if Tremain hadn’t intervened. But what he found equally disturbing was his own reaction to Tyler’s name.
Who am I really? he wondered. Tom had believed he knew the answer to that question, but the more he thought about it, the harder it was becoming for him to give an honest answer.
And that frightened him.
Something was wrong, even more so than before. Tom was still finding it difficult to maintain control. Aspects of the Tyler personality that he’d thought were safely absorbed into his own persona were becoming harder and harder to manage. Tom wished there was some way he could communicate with his other half, but besides the dreams, Tyler had been strangely silent, hiding in some dark corner of his brain, waiting for who knew what.
Tom sat up, looking at the ceiling. He knew a camera must be up there. “Hello?” he said, waving. “Anybody there?”
He got no answer. Maybe they’d decided not to watch him tonight, he thought, bolting from his bed and going to the door.
A sentry stationed at a small desk in the hallway looked up from his paperback, alarm in his eyes.
The Pandora Group was partially responsible for the technology that had done this to him. It only made sense that they would be the ones to help him figure it out.
A few days ago they’d asked him to participate in some tests that would determine the extent of the assimilation of his two personalities, and he had outright refused, sick of feeling like a guinea pig. Now Tom figured it might be in his best interests to be more cooperative.
“I need to speak to Tremain,” he told the guard.
The man checked his watch before giving him a quizzical look.
“I know it’s late, but tell him that I agree,” he told the man, certain that this was the right decision.
“Tell him that I’ll participate in his tests.”
Chapter 4
MADISON WAS SURPRISED by how unremarkable it all seemed to her now. She was back where she had so badly wanted to be, only to find that it wasn’t half as interesting as where she had been.
She missed Tom already.
“Your father is meeting us at the house,” her mother said, her eyes on the road as she drove.
Madison said nothing, looking out the window at the passing traffic, remembering the last time she’d been on this road—on the way to Massachusetts to live with Uncle Marty and Aunt Ellen.
“We’re so grateful you’re safe,” her mother tried again, and then sniffled.
Madison glanced at her and saw that she was crying.
Both of her parents had been ready to jump on a plane to Washington when they’d heard about what happened, but Pandora had been able to convince them otherwise. Instead, she had spoken to them by phone every night just to prove that she was okay, and then after multiple debriefings, an exit interview, and a ride on a private jet, here she was.
Right back where she had started.
“Hey, what are the tears for?” She reached across the seat to rest a comforting hand on her mother’s shoulder. “I’m all right.”
If she only knew the truth. How many times was my life actually threatened? Madison wondered, feeling an unpleasant roiling in the pit of her belly.
Her mother smiled, quickly glancing in Madison’s direction before returning her eyes to the road. Her cheeks were stained with tears.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that with everything that’s been going on…”
With everything that’s been going on, Madison thought, knowing her mother meant the divorce. She hated to think that when she finally got home, nothing would be the same, but no amount of obsessing was going to change anything. Besides, everybody was alive and safe, and wasn’t that more important?
“I get it,” she said, giving her mother’s shoulder a squeeze. “But I really am fine. Quit worrying.”
Her mother smiled briefly and went on to talk about Marty and Ellen, who were living with Marty’s brother in Connecticut until their home could be rebuilt. “It was a blessing that no one was hurt,” she said, and her eyes again welled with emotion.
No one who mattered to you, Madison thought, thinking of Tom’s parents—or whoever they really were. No remains had ever been found in the wreckage of the two homes, and she had to wonder, Could anybody have actually survived an explosion like that?
Madison turned to the window again. They were getting closer to home, but she it was barely registering the familiar neighborhood. She was thinking about Tom again, pictures from the last few weeks flashing in her mind. She saw him taking on three armed soldiers, the memory blurring into the vicious fight he’d had with the man posing as his father. Madison felt her cheeks flush at the memory.
“Madison, are you listening?” her mother asked.
“Sorry,” Madison said, realizing she’d been tuning her out.
“Is there anything you need? We could stop at the store before—”
“I’m fine. Let’s just get home. I can always go out again later.”
They pulled into the driveway, and she saw her father’s car parked over to the side. She smiled, feeling her heartbeat quicken. It had been months since she’d last seen him.
From the corner of her eye she saw her mother’s pained expression as he came out the front door and down the front steps to greet her. There were lots of hugs and kisses for her, but her parents didn’t speak, as if they had somehow become invisible to each other.
They helped her with her things, escorting her into the house, and Madison was surprised, despite all her conflicting feelings, at how good it actually felt—how comforting it was to be back in her own house. She walked around the first floor, readjusting herself to her surroundings, noticing everything her father had taken when he left.
She was on her way to the kitchen from the den when she heard them—harsh whispers as the two fought about something. She sighed and leaned against the wall of the hallway, fighting back tears. Welcome home! Yeah, right.
She took a deep breath and headed down the hall, hearing the heated discussion come to an abrupt end as she neared the kitchen. “I’m going to my room for a while,” she called out as she passed, doing her best to keep her voice steady.
For a moment she thought they might argue, but they left her alone. She closed the door behind her and looked around. She was comforted by the sight of her old room.
She lay down on her bed, snuggling into the familiar mattress, and snatched up an old stuffed bear that she’d had since first grade. She gazed at the ceiling, hugging the stuffed animal to her chest, her thoughts already returning to Tom.
She wondered what he was doing. She wondered if he was thinking about her.
The room smelled of antiseptic and seemed to be much colder than it should have been.
Tom lay on the exam table, gazing up at the tiled ceiling, listening as the lab techs readied their elaborate tests. All he could think about was the sight of Madison walking away from him before he could kiss her. If only she hadn’t had to leave.
When they’d first arrived at the Pandora facility, Tom and Madison had insisted on being together at all times, watching each other’s backs. He imagined he would be a lot less nervous if she was here now as well.
He turned his head to the door as it opened. Christian Tremain came inside. As always, the director of the Pandora Group looked like he’d slept in his clothes, shirt-tails untucked, red-and-blue-striped tie slightly askew.
> “How are we doing?” he asked, placing his hand on Tom’s arm. “You still okay with this? All you have to do is say the word. I don’t want to force you into anything—”
“I’m fine,” Tom interrupted. “I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t want to do it.”
Tremain nodded and looked around the lab. “Dr. Stempler?” he called, and Tom heard the buzz of conversation from somewhere across the room suddenly stop.
“Would you give Tom a rundown as to what we’re attempting to do today?”
Tom sat up on the table as a short, stocky man in a stained lab coat, with a shiny bald head and thick circular glasses, approached. He was sweating profusely, even in the room’s frigid temperature, and Tom couldn’t help but think about the stereotypical mad scientist. He held out his hand to shake, but the man simply stared at it as though it was filthy.
“Yes,” Stempler said, in a high-pitched, nasal voice. “Today we’re going to attempt to make contact with the persona sharing your brain.”
His eyes were cold and unblinking, and Tom didn’t like the way they made him feel, sort of like a bug under a microscope.
“How are you going to do that?” Tom asked. “I’ve been trying for days without a peep.”
Stempler motioned to one of his techs. The man obliged by carrying over a thick folder, which the scientist proceeded to leaf through—completely ignoring Tom’s question.
“The boy asked you a question, Doctor,” Tremain stated.
The scientist slowly looked up, fixing the director with a similar icy stare. Tremain met the look with a special gaze all his own, and Tom could almost feel the tension between the two men.
Stempler sighed, removed his thick glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. “Very well. According to your file, you mention a location within your subconscious.” He placed his glasses back on his face and opened the folder again. His mouth moved silently as he read. “A run-down structure—a mansion is how you described it,” he said, looking up.
“Yeah,” Tom said. “He was inside waiting for me. He said it was a place of his own creation.”
“Exactly,” Stempler continued. “And we think he might be hiding there.”
“That’s all well and good,” Tom said, “but I have no idea how to get back there. The first time was a total fluke, something to do with the code Dr. Quentin—”
“Yes, yes, we know, and that is why I am here,” Stempler interrupted with an air of self-importance.
“Dr. Stempler is our resident expert on the subconscious and memory retrieval,” Tremain explained. “In fact, some of his research was used by Janus when implanting Tyler within your psyche.”
Tom felt a cold anger twist inside him. “Great, so you’re one of the people I should thank,” he said through gritted teeth.
Stempler smiled, oblivious to the sarcasm. “Using a combination of hypnotism and a drug developed to help treat multiple personality disorder, we’re hoping to place you deep within your mind, peeling away the layers of your subconscious like an onion so that you will find the mansion again and hopefully the other half of your elusive dual personality.”
Tom stiffened. The idea of being pumped full of drugs, helpless and at the whim of the Pandora’s scientists, didn’t leave him with a very good feeling.
“Remember what I said earlier, Tom,” Tremain reminded.
But deep down Tom knew this was necessary: if there was a chance for him to help himself and to help Pandora locate Kavanagh before he had the chance to do any more harm, now was the time to do it.
“I’m fine,” he said with a determined nod, lying back down on the table. “Let’s do it.”
Tremain stepped back, allowing the team of technicians to get at the boy. He looked frightened as one tech swabbed his arm, preparing to insert an intravenous needle, while others attached circular, sticky pads to his chest, wires trailing back to an EKG machine.
It’s all for his own good, Tremain kept telling himself, but he knew that his real reason for doing this was to locate Kavanagh. He made eye contact with the boy, and Tom slowly raised his hand, giving him a thumbs-up. Tremain smiled, realizing he’d started to care about this kid who—at the flick of a switch—could be transformed into one of the deadliest of killers. He hoped that Pandora would eventually be able to do something for Tom, to make his life as normal as possible. But recalling the scene in the workout room the morning before, Tremain wasn’t so sure.
“How are we doing here, Doc?” he asked, strolling over to stand beside Stempler.
The scientist was sitting behind a control panel, his chubby fingers moving over the dials, knobs, and switches. “Almost ready.”
Tremain glanced back at Tom and saw that a headpiece resembling a bike helmet was being affixed to the boy’s head.
“What’s this for?” he heard Tom ask, but no one offered an answer.
“Tell him,” Tremain barked. It frustrated him that the scientists were treating the boy as if he were nothing more than a lab rat.
Stempler exhaled in exasperation. “The helmet will stimulate REM sleep, quickly moving you through the other four stages to the deepest level of your subconscious, where we believe your other personality is hiding. Any more questions?”
Tom looked a little stunned as he attempted to digest the information.
“Good.” The scientist returned to his digital readouts. “Satisfied?” he shot over his shoulder at Tremain.
The director felt his blood pressure spike. “You know, it’s rather funny,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “But I get the impression that you think I’m working for you.”
Stempler looked up from the control panel, his beady eyes wide.
“Let me set you straight, Doctor.” Tremain moved menacingly closer, pleased when everyone in the lab froze where they stood.
“You take orders from me. And I say Tom Lovett is to be treated the way you’d want your own mother to be treated here. If I see otherwise, we’ll continue this discussion in private.”
Tremain fell silent, folding his hands behind his back, letting the technicians and doctors get back to work.
Tom leaned past the tech who was now inserting the IV into his arm and smirked at him.
“We’re ready to begin,” Stempler said, looking to Tremain for approval.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Tremain stated with authority. “Did you hear that, Tom?”
“Heard it,” Tom replied.
“And are you ready?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be,” Tom slurred, the drug already starting to take effect.
It was different than one of his narcoleptic attacks.
The medication made him feel groggy and the helmet on his head made his brain tingle. It wasn’t long before Tom found himself gradually slipping down into unconsciousness.
“Is everything all right, Tom?” he heard Stempler’s voice ask from the darkness.
“Where are you?” Tom asked.
“I’m here in the lab,” he explained. “I’m going to accompany you on the journey to your subconscious. I want you to tell me everything that you see and hear while you’re there. Do you understand, Tom?”
The sensation of falling had increased, and for a moment he wondered if he would be hurt when he finally hit bottom.
“Do you understand, Tom?” Stempler repeated.
“Got it,” Tom said, distracted momentarily from his worry. He’d been here before, but never had he been so aware.
It’s like being in the deepest part of the ocean, he thought, continuing to descend. Where the light of the sun can’t reach me.
He lost all concept of time and seemed to be falling for days, but he knew that had to be impossible.
Didn’t it?
“Where are you now, Tom?” the doctor suddenly asked, startling him.
“I’m still falling,” he said, before he realized he had stopped.
Now he stood on a rocky pathway, at the end of which was a house—no, a mansion, one that he had see
n before.
“I’m here,” he said softly. “I found it.”
“Excellent,” Stempler responded. “What do you see?”
Tom started to walk down the path toward the structure; it was twilight within his psyche, and he had to squint through the shadows to see. “It’s different,” he said as he moved closer.
There was something around the house—something had wrapped itself around the old structure.
“Vines,” Tom explained, moving closer for a better look. “Thick, giant vines encircling the entire house, and they’re covered with thorns.”
“It appears that the alternate personality has set up a perimeter defense to prevent you from reaching him.”
Tom laid his hand on one of the thick growths; it felt warm.
“Do you see any way past the vines, Tom?” the doctor asked.
At first he didn’t, but on closer examination, he saw that there might actually be a way through.
“It’ll be a tight fit,” he said, bending down to peer through the opening that seemed to lead into the heart of the thicket. “But I think I can do it.”
“Then I suggest you do so.”
It was indeed a tight fit, but he squeezed himself into the opening, careful to avoid being pricked by the nasty-looking thorns. It was slow going as he made his way deeper.
“How are we doing, Tom?” Stempler asked, and Tom wished he would leave him alone.
He had reached a very narrow spot, an opening that he thought he could fit through proving to be smaller than he had expected.
“What’s happening, Tom?”
“Leave me alone for a minute,” he grunted, pushing with all his might against the vines, trying to force his way through.
“Talk to me, Tom.”
He was just about ready to say something not so polite, but he held it back as he felt himself begin to move into the opening between the vines.
The pain in his shoulder was sharp, biting, and he hissed through his teeth, turning his head sharply to see what had happened.