The Epidemic (33 page)

Aaron parks under a curved tree, and little droplets from last night’s rain fall from the leaves. Neither of us moves. Our
grief has made us careless. Reckless. Brave. We watch the building, and when no one comes or goes, we look at each other.

“Should you keep the getaway car running?” I ask. An attempt at levity in an otherwise heavy situation. Aaron smiles.

“Although I’ll be the first to admit you’re probably stronger than me,” he jokes, “I’ll come with. I think you need the backup. Strength in numbers and all.”

“I can’t protect us,” I say seriously.

Aaron nods. “I know. But no matter what, we’ve got each other’s backs. So if this is a giant-ass mistake, at least we’re in it together.”

I check the time on my phone and see it’s just after eight a.m. I could call the police, but ultimately, Deacon wasn’t kidnapped, not if he’s going through “mandatory therapy.” And I’m a ward of the state. I pause at the thought. No, I’m a ward of Arthur Pritchard. I bet even my father didn’t know that. And Arthur will have the police on his side.

There’s still a chance I could find out who my real parents are, ask them to fight for custody—but it would be too late. Besides, they’re strangers. And although the idea sounds impossible, they could be worse that Arthur.

It
is
too late. Too late to fight for a past I never had. I won’t lose anything else.

I grab the door handle and tell Aaron to stay close.

We get out in the cool morning air and round the building to a side door, hoping it’s not locked. It’s a drop-off for lab pickup, with a red delivery box attached to the wall. I take a
deep breath, grip the handle of the door, and turn. It opens.

I look back to Aaron, stunned because I didn’t think we’d get this far. He seems to understand, because he gulps and then takes the edge of the door to open it wider so I can walk in. Tentatively, I enter the building, glad I’m not going in alone. Hoping I’m not about to lead another friend to his death.

The walls and floor are bright white, fluorescents above us shining on every corner and chasing out the shadows. It reminds me of Arthur Pritchard’s kitchen: sterile and lifeless. And of course that leads to thinking about Virginia, and my pain threatens to derail my mission.

There’s an empty nurses’ station at the end of the hall, and I plan to look through the files until I find Deacon’s name. It’s an asinine and improbable plan, but I can’t think of anything better at the moment. Now that I’m inside, the idea of storming into Arthur’s office and demanding answers doesn’t seem very appealing. We’re almost to the station when the sound of approaching voices startles us.

“The patient in room one fourteen is ready to be moved,” a woman says. Aaron and I dart around the corner, our backs pressed to the wall. The woman continues talking, and from her authoritative tone I guess that she’s one of the nurses. A man answers her, using a hospital code I haven’t heard in the grief department. We wait, and once their voices fade, Aaron and I move back into the hallway.

“That was close,” I say, and start toward the nurses’ station. “We should—”

“Stop right there,” a man calls, freezing me in place as his voice echoes around us. I exchange a look with Aaron, one that debates if we should run—but that would mean leaving Deacon behind. And that’s not going to happen.

I spin and find a man in medical scrubs. He’s big and bulky, and I wouldn’t have a chance against him. Neither would Aaron, but he looks like he’s considering it anyway. I decide to defuse the potential of the situation. I can’t let Aaron get hurt. It’s time to face my demons.

“I want to see Arthur Pritchard,” I demand. “And I want to see him now.”

I’M TERRIFIED. BUT AS A
closer I’m trained to hide my emotions, even when I can’t control them. Like the panic currently raging in my chest and strangling me. But my face is a portrait of calm as I wait on a hard chair in the middle of Arthur Pritchard’s office.

Aaron was taken to a different room for questioning. When he refused to be separated from me, the male nurse spoke a code into his walkie-talkie along with Aaron’s name. Static returned, but then a cool female voice said, “Bring Aaron to room one twelve. Marie would like a word with him.”

So yeah—everything sucks. Everything is terrible. Marie has been working for Arthur, and the confirmation of that would break me down if I processed it. She double-crossed us, but I can’t yet. So I’m left sitting here, helpless, hoping I can talk the world’s
biggest asshole into letting us walk out of here with Deacon.

But as Virginia would tell me if she weren’t dead:
There’s no hope.
I feel that now. Then again, maybe she’s why I feel it.

I hear the door open behind me. I don’t turn, refusing to give in in any way, not even to curiosity. Footsteps tap on the linoleum floor, and then he appears: the well-dressed bogeyman of my nightmares.

Arthur Pritchard smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He sits on the edge of his desk facing me. He wears a striped button-down shirt with a patterned sweater-vest over it. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed to the side, while his beard is perfectly trimmed. And yet his pale blue eyes are haunted by dark circles like he hasn’t slept in days.

“It’s good to see you again, Quinlan,” he says. His voice holds the warmth of a closer. The strength of an advisor.

I don’t respond, and he puts the edge of his index finger along his lips as he studies me. Eventually he nods, and he gets up to round his desk and sit in the leather chair behind it. I continue my silence as he opens a drawer and takes out a file, setting it in front of him and folding his hands on top of it.

“We have so much to discuss,” he says. “After all, I doubt you would turn yourself in if you didn’t have a compelling reason. Where should we begin?” His expression doesn’t change, like it’s only a mask of normalcy. Then again, this man just lost his only child.

“Where’s Deacon?” I demand.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “Deacon Hatcher—your handler.”

He catches me off guard and I flinch. Arthur notices, of course, and smiles before continuing. “Deacon is fine, Quinlan,” he says. “In fact, by the end of the day he’ll be better than fine. He’ll be immune.”

“Immune to what?”

“The epidemic,” he responds. “We’ve erased the triggers. There are only a few left to go, and then his risk factors drop dramatically. You should be grateful.”

There’s a sick twist in my stomach, and I take in a sharp breath. I’m too late. “You erased his memory?” I ask, any ability to cloak my emotions falling away. My eyes well up and tears spill over. “What did you take?”

“Would you rather he died?” Arthur asks, furrowing his brow. “Are you that content with letting your friends kill themselves? Like Reed Castle. Like
my daughter
.” His teeth gnash together, but he’s quick to rein in his bitterness.

But I lean away from the accusation, a wound reopening at Reed’s name. Arthur straightens the collar of his shirt and runs his tongue along his back teeth, watching me.

“Are you angry with yourself?” he asks. “Don’t you feel guilty? Your existence here has led to two deaths. You are directly responsible.”

Whether he’s trying to mindfuck me or not, it works. The guilt crashes down around me, but I force myself to look stronger.

“No,” I say. “I’m angry with you. I think you’re a deranged lunatic, and I’m pissed about it. I’m getting Deacon and Aaron and we’re leaving.”

Arthur lifts one shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I can’t let you do that.”

Subtle threats are his specialty. But this is the start of more. Dread crawls over my skin.

“I’ll call the police,” I say, reaching in my pocket to take out my phone. “Better yet, I’ll call someone in the media, tell them what you did to your daughter’s memory. Tell them you’re a monster.”

“Stop,” he says, pointing to the phone. “If you do that, you’ll never get answers.”

“I already know them,” I say. “Your daughter was a trigger for the epidemic, so you erased her memory. You drove her mad. And last night you meant to do it again, only you didn’t get to her in time.”

Arthur’s nostrils flare, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. I can read him, too. I see a grief-stricken father who blames me because he’s not brave enough to blame himself.

“You want to pin this on somebody else,” I continue. “But it’s not just my fault. I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.”

Arthur sits forward in his seat, his eyes wild with anger. I keep my phone in my hand, not willing to completely give up the idea of calling the police. “Not your fault?” Arthur asks. “That’s where you’re wrong. You and Deacon Hatcher were not honest with me. You hid the truth. There are side effects to memory manipulation, and if I had known—”

“Then you wouldn’t have experimented on your own daughter?” I ask, feeling little sympathy for him. Not now.
Not when he’s here to threaten and intimidate me.

I watch as Arthur’s anger fades; possibly he’s telling himself that I’m the sick one. But the danger is real, and I don’t want to spend another minute with him. I’ll have to take my chances with the police. I open up the keypad on my phone and start to dial 911.

Arthur stands, smoothing down the thighs of his khaki pants. “Really, now, Quinlan,” he says, looking at me impatiently. “Hang up so we can have a discussion.”

“You’re a psychopath,” I tell him, my thumb hovering over the send button. “I don’t think there’s going to be much of a discussion.”

“Well, how about we start with this,” he says calmly. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.”

I tighten my jaw. “I already know,” I tell him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Marie still works for you? I know that, too. So you’re not so fucking smart after all.”

Arthur narrows his eyes. “I must say you’re taking this well. Better than the last time.” He succeeds in unsettling me. The idea that he’s seen me desperate and crying, that he’s treated me, and that I can’t remember a single moment of it is horrifying. It makes me feel vulnerable.

I lower my phone in my lap and glare at him. “Then tell me,” I challenge. “Tell me all the secrets you’ve been keeping. Tell me why we’re here. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Arthur goes back to his chair, looking smug. He sits and rests his elbows on the desktop. “When I found you as a child,”
he begins, “you were wandering the halls of the hospital.”

This revelation shocks me. He’s going to tell me the truth. Although I’m no longer searching for it, I feel my stomach upend with anticipation. “What hospital?” I ask.

“St. Joseph’s in Portland,” he says. “You were wandering the halls, filthy. Your mother had died days before, but no one noticed you at first. Your father was gone—no idea who he was; he wasn’t on your birth certificate. So really, you never had a father.”

The comment stings me, but I swallow hard, willing him to continue.

“You barely spoke to anyone,” he says. “A very withdrawn child. But I noticed you. I knelt and talked to you in front of your mother’s old room. You’d go back there again and again, hoping she’d show up. But of course she couldn’t, because she was dead.”

There’s a sharp pain in my heart, and I know that his words are true. I miss her. I miss my mom even though I only have one fragmented memory of her. Of the dark-haired woman in a hospital bed.

“And after speaking with you for a bit,” he says, “I noticed certain quirks in your personality. The way you could mimic the nurses who would talk to you. How you could bend your personality to suit the situation, even as a child. I knew right away that you would make an excellent closer.”

He presses his lips together like the memory is nostalgic. Maybe for him it is. To me it sounds more like kidnapping.

“You were consumed by your grief,” he continues. “You wanted your mother so much, would cry for her. It worried me, because I saw how it would limit your potential.”

“You bastard,” I say at his coldness, tears dripping onto my cheeks.

“Yes, well,” he adds, unfazed. “At the time I’d been deep in development at the grief department. I wanted something more effective, so I tried something new. It’s not very complicated,” he says. “I used my influence to take custody of you so that I could have access to your medical care. I brought you home. My wife had died, you see, and my daughter needed a friend. You worked brilliantly for that.”

“You’re sick,” I murmur, horrified. He brought me to his house, to Virginia’s life. It explains how I felt when I met her, as if I’d known her before. He stole that from both of us. It’s possible that Arthur’s been unwell since his wife died. It’s also possible that he’s always been deranged.

“Needless to say, while you were in my care,” he continues, “I began to unravel your mind. Trial and error until I erased your identity completely. Marie Devoroux came to me shortly after that, and I knew I had the perfect case study. The reason you were such a suitable closer for Quinlan McKee was because you didn’t remember who you really were.”

“I was a
child
.”

“Oh, we had setbacks,” he allows. “Especially that first year. Memory crashbacks. Bits and pieces of your past would haunt you, wake you at night. Some mornings I’d find you asleep in Virginia’s room—the two of you clinging together, joined in your grief for your mothers. It was imperative that I separate you—get a true study free of influence. Tom McKee took you
home, but the memory crashbacks continued. Your father . . .” He pauses. “Your new father would call us, and he’d bring you in, kicking and screaming. But you always left a well-behaved child. You always adjusted.

“It could have gone on forever,” he said, “but Marie and your father stopped cooperating. And with Virginia’s problems getting worse, I knew of only one solution to help her, one that seemed to help you—memory manipulation. Only I didn’t have a way to know the long-term effects. I assigned a handler to you to monitor your emotional state and warn me of any problems.”

I already know the part where Deacon comes in, so I stare at Arthur, searching for any memory of him that might still be hidden in my head somewhere. He continues talking, and I study the way his mouth moves, his gestures. It’s how I remember people. And soon a hazy memory starts to surface. Moments in his white-walled office. Sixteen years old. Eleven. Nine . . .