The Burning (10 page)

When the adults had left and the table manners had deteriorated still further, Rachel and Adam spent half an hour
talking nonsense with Morag, while the ever-silent Duncan nodded and occasionally half smiled beside her.

Rachel caught Adam’s eye, heard his voice inside her head.
Well done
, he said.
I never knew you were such a great actress
.

You were pretty good yourself
, she said back, and watched him smile. Actually, she was almost enjoying herself, enjoying the fact that, once again, her brother was communicating with her, though the pretence was proving to be even more of an effort than she’d imagined.

It wasn’t
all
an act, of course. She
was
happy…

Happy that she had a plan. Happy that she knew the truth, that she was only hours away from seeing her mother. Pulling her close and telling her everything, hard as it was going to be.

Happy that she and Adam would soon be free.

“Fortune cookie?”

Rachel looked up to see Mr Cheung standing over her, brandishing a small basket. She leant across and took a cookie, cracked open the shell and pulled out the message.

“Well? Good fortune or bad?” Cheung grinned.

Rachel unwrapped the slip of paper and read:
HOPE IS NO GOOD WITHOUT LUCK
. She looked up at Mr Cheung, searching for something in his eyes.

But they were as dead as beads. Blank as the black eyes of the mechanical monkey.

“L
ook, I’m glad the girl seems to have come around,” Van der Zee said. “But we don’t seem any closer to getting results.
Real
results.”

Laura Sullivan stood a little nervously in front of Van der Zee’s desk. He had called her into his den, which, despite the cosy surroundings, usually meant that there was something serious to be discussed. His tone was friendly enough, but he was a man who rarely raised his voice. Laura had come to learn that the more relaxed Clay Van der Zee sounded, the more trouble she and everyone else were likely to be in.

That smile – wide and welcoming – was usually a very ominous sign.

“Research takes as long as it takes,” Laura said. “You can’t rush it. Not if you want results that
mean
anything.”

“There are ways to … speed things up.”

Laura took a step towards the desk, shaking her head, trying to keep the tremor from her voice and sound as though she was fully in control. Maintaining a scientific detachment.
“We can’t do that. There’s so much we can learn from these kids.”

“Taking the other route will teach us a great many things.”

“It’s short-term thinking,” Laura said. “It’s … stupid.” The detachment was quickly falling away.

“It’s merely a suggestion.”

“Surgery should only ever be used to
benefit
those it’s performed on!” Laura was shouting now.

“It might be of enormous benefit to millions of others. It’s a last resort, of course.”

“More like a final solution.” Laura could feel her face reddening, her fists clenching inside her pockets. “It’s what the Nazis did.”

Van der Zee raised a hand, nodded slowly: a signal for Laura to keep calm. “Relax, Dr Sullivan. I’m merely trying to remind you that there
is
another option, how ever distasteful you and I may find it. You know very well that there are those to whom I’m answerable, and many of them favour a swifter resolution to this research. The Hope Project is far from being poverty-stricken, but the funds for this research will not last for ever. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Laura could do little but nod. She understood well enough. She had seen what had been done to the body of Celia Root in the project’s autopsy suite a few days before.

“Obviously, we are focusing on the children and what they know,” Van der Zee said. “What they are capable of, but—”

“They’re capable of extraordinary things,” Laura said. “And it’s going to take time because even
they
don’t know what those things are yet. We’ll learn when
they
learn.”

The hand was raised once again, held in the air for a few seconds before it drifted across to the wooden box in the corner of Van der Zee’s desk, turned the key and lifted out the highly polished lid. “But … we still do not know what
this
does.” Van der Zee reached into the box. “What the Triskellion
is
.” He gently lifted the three-bladed amulet from the plush red interior.

Laura held her breath. She studied Van der Zee’s face as he laid the Triskellion in his palm. He stared at it, lifeless in his hand, and there was something desperate in his eyes. As though he were urging it to
do
something.

Laura remembered the rush of excitement when she had first seen one of its golden blades clutched between the entwined skeletal fingers of the two bodies uncovered in the village that bore its name. The blade had seemed to glow, to give off something …
more
than light. That light had died quickly, and the Triskellion – the amulet made up of all three blades – had seemed no more than a simple artefact when she had taken it from Rachel after she’d been drugged; when Laura had handed it over to Van der Zee for testing.

Those tests – metallurgical studies, X-ray fluorescence spectrometer analysis – had revealed next to nothing of the object’s properties or origins, and since then it had been under lock and key in Van der Zee’s den, in the hope that the
children themselves would provide a way to unlock its secrets.

“I want to know why this is so important, Dr Sullivan,” Van der Zee said. “I want
this
to be the focus of your work with the Newman children.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” Van der Zee carefully laid the Triskellion back in its box. When he twisted the key in the lock, it sounded like a small bone snapping. “I know you want what’s best for the children.”

“Same as you, right?”

“Of course.” He was placing the key in the top pocket of his waistcoat when a buzzer sounded on his desk. He picked up the phone and listened, then placed a hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll let you get on then,” he said. “I’ve got a transatlantic phone call being patched through. I’m sure you can figure out who that will be from.”

Laura did not know the name, but from the look on the director’s face, she knew it would be one of those to whom he was answerable. One of those who favoured Dr Van der Zee’s other option.

Clay Van der Zee waited until Laura had left before taking a deep breath, flicking a switch and greeting his caller. The man on the other end told him that it was a very hot day in New Mexico, but that, then again, it was always a hot day. Van der Zee tried describing the weather where he was, but was cut short. The caller had limited time for such small talk.

“We’ve seen the data and there doesn’t seem much to get excited about.”

“Actually, I was just saying the same thing.” Van der Zee hit the speakerphone button, got up and moved round his desk. “Passing that very message on to Dr Sullivan.”

“That’s good.”

“We’ve had some trouble with the Newman girl. It’s held things up a little.”

“Trouble?”

“Just high spirits. I’m sure you know what fourteen-year-old girls can be like. Do you have children?”

The question was ignored; dismissed as irrelevant. “
Had
trouble, you said?”

“I think we’re over the worst.”

“Let’s hope so. Did she get the message?”

Van der Zee was momentarily confused. “Sorry…?”

“Dr Sullivan? Loud and clear, I hope.”

“Definitely.” Van der Zee began to pace the floorboards in front of the fireplace. “She’s very bright. The best there is in her field. We’re lucky to have her.”

There was a pause, a few seconds over and above the delay on the line. “I think
she
is the lucky one, doctor. To be given this opportunity.”

“Oh, she understands that.”

“And does she understand that we will not wait for ever?”

“I made it very clear. I’m every bit as keen as you—”

“We are happy to go down the … enlightened route,
as long as the results prove to be significant. Failing that, we will learn what we can from a more straightforward examination of these children. We have the Scottish kids…”

“Morag and Duncan.”

“Right. We can continue testing them and they don’t seem to be giving you the trouble you’re getting from the newer arrivals. These Newman kids are older, adolescents almost. Maybe we need to cut our losses and get what we can from more … mature specimens. You see what I’m saying?”

“I do. And so does Dr Sullivan.”

“OK, then. We’re singing from the same hymn sheet.”

Van der Zee stared into the fire, jumping slightly as it spat a spark on to the rug. He stamped it out.

“We’re not monsters,” the caller said. “She needs to understand that.”

“Of course not.”

“To answer your previous question… Yes, I do have children.”

Van der Zee slipped off his jacket and dropped down into the armchair next to the fire. “How many? Boys or girls?”

But the line was already dead.

A
dam’s door opened, and one look at his pale face told Rachel that her brother was now one hundred per cent on message; the terrible images she had recounted were still horribly fresh in his mind. He did not want to stay a minute longer.

Adam hoisted his backpack over his shoulders and braced himself, adjusting the straps like a soldier about to go into action. Rachel put out a hand and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Hearing him swallow loudly, she pulled him towards her and held him in a tight embrace.

“Let’s roll,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“One thing,” Adam said. Rachel released him from her grip.

“How are we going to get out?”

Rachel fished inside her sweatshirt and pulled out the passkey she had stolen from Laura’s office the night before.

“That’ll do nicely,” Adam said. He switched off the light to his room and closed the door behind him.

They passed the first three doors without any problem, and without seeing anyone, but this part of the complex – the more domesticated zone – was always quiet at night. They turned into the carpeted area that led towards Clay Van der Zee’s den.

“Why are we going this way, Rach? If anyone’s around, it’s most likely to be Clay.”

“Because we need to take the Triskellion, don’t we?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Adam stopped dead in his tracks and looked deflated. “Oh, man. That piece of metal got us into this mess. Can’t we leave it here, where it’s safe?”

“It’s not safe here, Adam. This place is dangerous. Anyway, we need it to keep
us
safe.” Rachel said. “It’s saved our lives once already. It’s the one thing we know will protect us.”

“But Clay is looking after it. He’s protecting it.”

“He keeps it in that spooky wooden box, Adam. Not exactly keeping it under strict scientific supervision, is he? I think he’s pretty obsessed by it. Remember the effect it can have on people; what it did to Dalton? We’re better off with it in our hands than in theirs.”

Adam sighed in resignation. “C’mon then,” he said.

The door to the den was locked with a big, old-fashioned mortise lock, a refection of Van der Zee’s fascination with ancient mechanisms, cogs and wheels. Adam knelt down
and put his eye to the keyhole, but it was too dark to see anything.

“That’s blown it,” he said.

“Try this,” Rachel said. She knelt beside him and held a pocket torch to the keyhole. Adam dug out a small penknife from his backpack and began to fiddle with the lock, in the hope that something might spring open.

“What are you doing?” a small voice piped behind them.

“Oh my God,” Rachel gasped. “You nearly scared us to death.”

She looked into the smiling face of Morag. Duncan, by her side as always, looked from Rachel to Adam and back again, his face fixed in its customary expression of bemused seriousness.

“We’re just trying to get into Uncle Clay’s room,” whispered Adam, trying his best to make it sound like a cosy adventure. “We left something in there and we need it back.”