Without even a knock, the door to her room opened, and Christian Tremain strode inside. Tom could see the two agents in the hallway behind the director, both looking like they had just been read the riot act.
“Sir, I—”
Tremain raised a hand, and Tom fell silent. The look on the man’s face told him that things other than his own unauthorized visit to Madison were on his mind.
“It’s your mother, Tom,” he started.
“She’s not my—” Tom interrupted, feeling a spark of anger.
“She wants to speak to you,” Tremain continued firmly. “And for the good of everyone involved, I suggest you do so.”
Brandon Kavanagh loved to visit the implantation chamber.
He stood in the quiet semidarkness, captivated by the sight of the young bodies lying restrained on the hospital beds, their shaved heads adorned with multiple colored wires and cables feeding information directly into their brains.
Kavanagh glanced at his watch, making note of the time. He was curious as to how his plans outside the facility were progressing.
The door into the chamber opened, and a lab tech, his face buried in some file data, entered the room. “Oh, excuse me, sir,” he said with a start. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”
“Quite all right,” Kavanagh replied, looking back to the beds. “How are they doing?”
The tech approached a control station and set down his clipboard. “As far as we can tell, they’re doing fine,” he answered. “Data absorption is occurring in all eight—”
“Seven,” Kavanagh corrected, pointing to the empty bed at the end.
The tech chuckled. “Right, seven,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I keep forgetting one of the new batch is in use. Anyway, data absorption is moving along quite nicely.” He leaned in to look at one of the computer monitors at his station. “It looks like we’re up to firearm use right now,” the tech said, glancing up with a grin. “It’s all smooth sailing, as far as I can see.”
If only I could believe that, Kavanagh mused, just as the door to the implantation chamber opened again and Noah Wells strode in. “A word with you, sir?” Wells said, clearing his throat.
Kavanagh glanced at the lab tech, his message passing to the man without him saying a word.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the tech said quickly, giving Wells a wide berth as he went out the door.
“What have I ever done to him?” Wells asked, irritated.
“Perhaps you give off a bad vibe,” Kavanagh suggested.
“Do you think?” he asked. “I guess it would explain a lot.”
Kavanagh was again studying the occupants of the beds. “So, what do you have for me?” he asked. “Was Sleeper Two successful?” He reached out a hand, grabbing hold of the cold metal of a bed’s railing.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Wells answered. “Sleeper Two was killed at the scene before he could complete his assignment.”
“Pandora?” Kavanagh asked, already knowing the likely answer but wanting to be sure.
“Yes. Tremain was there, as well as the boy.”
He looked away from the beds. “Tyler was there?”
Wells nodded. “We believe it was him, yes.”
Kavanagh was silent, absorbing the information as he listened to the sounds of the machines that kept the sleepers locked in slumber.
“And the woman—Sleeper Two’s handler…” Wells began.
Kavanagh could hear the tension in the man’s voice. “Go on,” he urged.
“Pandora took her into custody.”
Kavanagh closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Are you all right, sir?” Wells asked.
“I’m fine, Noah,” he answered, turning back to the beds. He had decided he would spend a little more time with the products of his genius.
“It’s all smooth sailing, as far as I can see.”
Chapter 9
HE WISHED THAT it could be done another way—any other way.
Tom had never felt so conflicted—absolute joy, overwhelming sadness, a burning anger, all tore through him in a matter of seconds—all because of her.
He stood just inside the doorway of the tiny interrogation room, the sound of the door locking behind him repeating over and over in his head. A sound that told him there was no turning back.
Concentrating on the scuffed linoleum floor, he refused to look at the woman before him.
Tremain had brought him directly here from Madison’s room, explaining how vital it was that Tom get the prisoner to talk. He’d tried to explain that he would rather endure Dr. Stempler’s tests 24/7 than spend five minutes with this woman. Tom was desperate for there to be another way, but then Tremain had said that she knew where Kavanagh was, and he’d felt that familiar anger beginning to rise. Tom knew that he’d do just about anything to find the man who had destroyed his life.
“I’ll bet I’m the last person you want to see right now,” a painfully familiar voice said, distracting him from his thoughts.
Tom started to look up from the floor but stopped himself. There actually was a part of him that wanted to see her again, that same part that wanted so desperately to be taken in her arms and told that this was all bad dream, that when he woke up, everything would be fine.
But that part of him was as dumb as a bag of rocks, because all of that stuff about feeling safe in her arms was a lie. She was nothing but a lie.
He wanted to say something smart—something really insulting to show that she wasn’t anything to him anymore—but he couldn’t think of a thing. For the briefest of moments he wished that Tyler were in control. He’d know exactly what to say.
“However you’re feeling—about me, I’m really glad you’ve come.”
He must’ve looked like a complete idiot, standing by the door, fists clenched, staring at the ground.
“Do you want to sit down?”
Tom lurched toward the table, his gaze moving up from the floor to the back of the metal chair—but not to her. He sat down and immediately felt his panic begin to rise. He half expected his off-the-wall emotional state to trigger a narcoleptic attack, but it didn’t. He hadn’t experienced an attack since the first steps in merging with his alternate personality.
It was actually sort of exciting, the only really good thing to come out of the whole nasty Janus business, although a good narcoleptic attack would have been the perfect way to remove himself from this painful situation.
“Would you like some water?” she asked, and Tom heard her removing the cellophane wrapping from a plastic cup.
Tom said nothing. He didn’t want water from her—he wanted nothing, other than to get the hell out of there.
“Tom, look at me,” she ordered with a stab of parental authority, and instinctually he did as he was told.
She was staring at him as she poured water from a plastic pitcher into the unwrapped cup. “I know this is hard for you,” she said, sliding the cup over to him. “But we have to talk.”
He took the cup in his hand, careful not to crush it in his angry grip. “I have nothing to say to you,” he said, averting his eyes again.
“But I have things to say to you,” she said as she poured some water for herself. “Important things that can’t wait any longer.”
He stood and moved back toward the door. “I can’t sit here and listen to any more of your lies.”
“Please, Tom,” she begged, and all he heard was the woman who had loved and cared for him. “Not everything was a lie.”
He found himself pulled to her voice and turned to see that she was standing too, holding her arms out to him.
“I really do love you,” she said, her voice trembling with pained emotion. “I couldn’t imagine loving anyone more, even if they were my own flesh and blood.”
Resisting the pull of her beckoning arms, he leaned back against the door, allowing his anger to strengthen—his rage to grow.
“You lied to me,” he growled, feel
ing his eyes burn with tears of sadness and fury. “Everything I knew was a lie. How could I even begin to think that what you’re saying now is true?”
She began to slowly move toward him, and he waved his arms in an attempt to ward her off.
“Don’t!” he yelled, looking away. “Stay where you are.”
“I know that I hurt you—and that I don’t deserve your understanding, but you have to know that I want to make it right.”
His legs felt suddenly numb, and he slid to floor. She was squatting down beside him now, and he watched with growing horror, powerless to stop her, as she carefully reached a hand out to him.
Tom looked toward the ceiling, knowing that Tremain and his people were watching from a surveillance camera, begging them with his eyes for help.
Her hand touched him, stirring memories of the past, memories that he couldn’t be sure were real, but in the end it didn’t really seem to matter, because it still hurt like hell.
Tom saw that his mother was looking toward the ceiling as well. “We don’t have much time,” she said, returning her attention to him.
“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Tom whispered, and with a sudden burst of strength, he pushed himself up from the floor and turned to the door.
He was just about ready to knock when he sensed her behind him. He tensed, as if an electrical shock was coursing through his body, as she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tightly from behind.
“Whatever happens, I’m doing this for you,” she whispered into his ear, and before he could respond, she began to recite something vaguely familiar. “Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright, in the forest of the night; what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?”
There was a strange rhythm to way these words were spoken—almost as if they needed to be said in a specific fashion, and by the time Tom realized what was happening, it was too late.
“When the stars threw down their spears and watered heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”
Too late.
Victoria Lovett had said something that Tremain couldn’t quite make out. “What did she say?” he asked.
On the screen they watched as Tom’s body went suddenly rigid and he fell to the floor.
“Holy crap,” Mayer blurted.
But Tremain was already on the move, throwing open the door and running toward the stairs. “Get the guards in there now!” he shouted over his shoulder.
I actually started to believe her, Tremain thought, feeling like a fool. He’d actually believed that somehow, somebody like her had been able to reconnect with her humanity after being away from it for so very long.
And it had given him the smallest bit of hope that perhaps, somewhere down the line, there would be a chance for him.
The three sentries had already gone into the room, weapons drawn.
One of the guards had Victoria Lovett pressed into a corner at gunpoint while the remaining two hovered around Tom, who was sitting limply in one of the interrogation room’s chairs.
“What happened, Tom?” Tremain asked as he entered through the open door. He glared at the woman and knelt down beside the young man’s chair.
“I blacked out,” Tom replied with a shake of his head. He was rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke. “I’m fine, though,” he added, and then he smiled. “Think I might still be feeling some of the effects of Dr. Stempler’s tests is all.”
He stood up, a little unsteady on his feet, and Tremain watched him carefully.
“That poem,” Tremain said.
Tom glanced briefly toward the woman. “ ‘The Tyger,’ ” he said. “It’s by William Blake. It’s always been one of my favorites.” He sighed then, closing his eyes and swaying a little. “I think this has all been just a little too much for me today.”
Agent Mayer appeared in the doorway, and Tremain motioned for her to enter.
“Escort Tom to the infirmary and have the doctor on duty give him a once-over,” Tremain said, still keeping a watchful eye on the teen.
“That may not be such a bad idea,” Tom agreed.
Tremain paused, searching Tom’s face for any sign that something bigger was amiss. He seemed okay, but just in case, since Agent Mayer didn’t fully realize what she was dealing with here, Tremain took the agent aside, out of Tom’s earshot. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he warned.
Mayer gave a quick nod of understanding, then walked over to Tom, who allowed her to take his arm and escort him toward the door.
Tremain watched him go, his heartbeat jumping the tiniest bit when Tom made eye contact with the woman who had pretended to be his mother as he was leaving the interrogation room.
It might have been Tremain’s imagination, but he could have sworn that the boy smiled.
They entered the elevator together.
Agent Mayer took the security key from her pocket, slipping the magnetic card into the slot just inside the door. She punched in the floor number to the infirmary as the doors slowly closed.
She’d read the reports, attended the briefings, knew that Tom had been caught up in top secret projects related to Pandora Group since he was young and had recently been faced with the fact that people he believed to be his parents were actually spies. But she still found it impossible to believe that this handsome teenager was anything other than a typical kid as she watched him slump in the corner, hair mussed.
Mayer was reminded of her own son, who was only six but behaved well beyond his years. Her weekend with him was coming up soon, and she made a mental note to do something special with the boy. Kids grew up way too fast.
“Must’ve been hard,” she said, trying to imagine how all the recent traumatic events would affect a kid Tom’s age.
“Yeah,” he said. His eyes were closed, and he leaned his head back against the elevator wall. “But deep down I always knew I’d get out.”
Mayer didn’t quite understand. “What was that?” she asked, looking at him quizzically.
Tom chuckled, and for some strange reason she felt the hair on the back of her neck suddenly stand on end.
“He was strong, but I had the patience of a saint.”
Mayer still didn’t understand. Why is he speaking like that? Instinct caused her to move her hand inside her jacket to remove the pistol she had in a shoulder holster beneath her arm.
Tom pushed off the elevator wall in a flash, the palm of his hand lashing out and striking her just beneath her chin. Mayer flew backward, bouncing off the closed elevator doors, her head swimming from the blow. Her hand still fumbled inside her jacket, searching for her gun.
Tom knelt down beside her as the pleasant sound of the elevator chimes filled the air. They had reached their destination.
“He liked you,” Tom said, swatting her fumbling hand away and helping himself to her weapon. He took her cell phone as well.
And then it struck her. As she looked up into his handsome teenage face, she realized something wasn’t right—he looked different. There was something in his eyes.
“I should put a bullet in your head just for that,” he snarled, but instead brought the weapon down viciously, pistol-whipping her.
His eyes are cruel, Agent Mayer thought as the searing agony sank in.
Tom Lovett doesn’t have cruel eyes.
Chapter 10
BRANDON’S FACE HURT where Tyler had punched him. His left eye was swollen shut.
He didn’t want his grandmother to see his face, and so he skulked around to the back of the big old house, entering through the servants’ door. As quietly as he could manage, he crept into the empty kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief that none of his grandmother’s maids were around to see his condition. He didn’t trust the women that his grandmother employed; it was like she had eyes and ears all over the house. There wasn’t anything he could do that Grandma didn’t somehow know about.
He went right to the refrigerator to get some ice, and as he pu
lled the freezer door open, the wave of chilled air felt pleasant on his throbbing face.
But then he remembered the afternoon’s humiliating events, and not even the cold drifting out of the open freezer could cool the heat of his shame. It had been a few days since he’d last seen Tyler—since his last whupping at the bully’s hands—and he had hoped to get home from school again without incident.
But it wasn’t to be.
Tyler had been waiting for him at the end of the winding path through the woods behind the school, the shortcut Brandon used to and from his grandmother’s house. He’d thought about turning around and high-tailing it back to the school. Somebody was bound to be there who could help him—old Nick, the janitor, or maybe even Mrs. Benderlake, the geography teacher; she often stayed late after school. But he’d decided against it.
A Kavanagh doesn’t run from nobody, he’d heard his grandmother’s shrill voice shriek inside his head. She’d been furious with him after his last encounter with Tyler, not because he’d gotten into a fight and been beaten, but because he had run away.
Brandon certainly didn’t want to get beat up again, but if he ran, Grandma would know, and getting his tail whupped was a whole lot better than that. So, he’d tried to pass Tyler, avoiding his eyes as went. He had always heard that wild animals considered direct eye contact a challenge for their territory, and he’d hoped that maybe that was true of the bully from Plainville.
He wasn’t that lucky.
Brandon reached into the freezer, removed one of the metal ice cube trays, and brought it to the sink. He pulled the lever back, releasing the cubes, and dumped most of them into a towel he found on the counter.
No, he wasn’t that lucky. But for a moment he’d thought he was, and then he’d heard the movement behind him, turning just in time to meet Tyler’s fist with his face. The punch had nearly knocked him out. All he could do was lie on the forest floor, listening to the sound of the bully’s laughter as he left him there.
Brandon could still hear the laughing and doubted there would ever be a time when he didn’t. He placed the towel filled with ice against his swollen face. At first it hurt like blazes, but gradually he could feel the numbing effects of the cold and the throbbing of his eye starting to subside. Now if he could only get up to his room without Grandma hearing him.