Torn (9 page)

“Okay,” Damaris said begrudgingly, her teeth gritted. She was obviously just deferring to her father. “I'll train you. But if you're going to be hanging around, you can't call me Damaris. That name belonged to my mother. Just call me Mari.”

“Shake on it,” Braddock ordered.

Cole wondered if this all amused Braddock. He nodded anyway, and reached forward to take Mari's hand, which, despite her stature, felt calloused and strong. “Done,” he said. They shook on it, and Cole tried not to fear that being trained by second best could doom not only himself but also Davis.
No,
no matter how non-ideal the situation, no matter how frustrating, he had to believe it was getting him closer to Davis every day, closer to raising the money he needed to go and save her.

I'm coming for you, Davis,
he thought.

7

DAVIS

Davis had only one simple task. Mercer was doing the heavy lifting determining the schedule on which the barges left the island, plotting their route to Durham, and stockpiling supplies for the journey. Davis only had to steal some chloroform.

Easy.

“We're ready,” Mercer told her, adding a tin full of hard, tasteless biscuits—the kind they were fed with their tea every day—to the pile in the corner of the abandoned lab. “We have enough food to last us a week. The barges leave the island every other Friday to bring supplies and take away the bodies.” Davis tried not to flinch at this; she still hadn't gotten used to the smell of decay or the sight of the dead, their purpled limbs splaying from under tarps as they were wheeled away each week. The bodies were taken to a smaller island to be burned—they all knew that. They all wondered which one of them would be next, obsessively watched the column of smoke that rose from its distant green landscape each week. “It's leaving again in just a few hours,” Mercer reminded her. “All we need is the chloroform. We can do it today, or we can wait another two weeks.”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Grady,” Davis said, trying to look confident. “In a half hour.” She'd scheduled it for nine a.m. so they'd have ample time to carry out their plans. She'd been afraid to tell Mercer about the appointment, though. She wasn't sure she was ready, and she didn't want to get his hopes up.

“So today we leave,” he said, his eyes glittering. Davis knew he was right—they had to leave right away. Waiting any longer would be torture, and once they set the plan in motion they couldn't afford to linger and risk arousing suspicion.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” she asked, and he nodded.

“It'll work if you pull through.” Of course it would. They'd been over it a million times. The only thing they were missing was the chloroform.

 

 

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Dr. Grady smiled at Davis and waved her into his office, looking genial. He had a great smile, clear and dazzling, but something in his eyes seemed wolfish. Maybe it was the way he never failed to let them drift over her from head to toe, Davis realized. He was also a little too manicured. She wasn't sure why he needed to wear alligator-skin shoes and a heavy gold watch to treat patients who barely had enough to eat each day. Was he trying to subtly exert control? Did his luxurious accessories make him feel more empowered? Maybe he was the kind of guy who took pleasure from seeing other people suffer. Davis tried hard to stay calm, even though her blood was boiling. She couldn't betray her emotions. Anyway, if she played her cards right, he'd soon be exposed for what he really was. She drew a breath, steeling herself against what she was about to do. If she focused on the outcome—escape—she could get past anything.

“Welcome, Davis,” Dr. Grady greeted her. He waved a tanned, meaty hand, ushering her into the room. His workplace was stainless steel and uninviting. It had a peculiar, sterile odor that made Davis's stomach roll from the discomfort it heralded. “Please slip on this gown in place of your shirt,” he told her, handing over a thin, gauzy paper strip with ties in the back. “I'll be right back.”

Davis slipped off her shirt quickly after he left. More than once he'd come back unannounced before she'd resituated herself, and she had the feeling it was never unintentional. Sure enough, she'd just begun to tie the paper gown together when he knocked twice and popped back in without waiting to hear her reply.

“Oh!” he said. “Did I surprise you?”

Davis forced herself to smile and shake her head. “I'm all set.”

He moved into the examination, leaning over her as he listened to her heartbeat through her back. His bare hands pressed against the skin of her back, and his face was so close as he squinted over his digital reader that Davis could feel his breath along her neck. “Breathe in,” he instructed, and she drew a breath. “Wonderful, Davis.” He moved to another spot, allowing the fingers of his nonworking hand to linger along her spine. Davis shuddered, unable to mask her disgust as she spotted another expensive accessory—a hefty leather notebook embossed with his initials—in his jacket pocket.

“Your heart rate is accelerating,” Dr. Grady informed her. “Are you anxious?”

“I'm always a little nervous here,” she told him.
Escape. Escape. Escape.
She repeated the words internally, focusing on the task ahead of her.

“Why is that?” Dr. Grady shifted around in front of her so he was facing her. His lab coat hung open, draping toward her. Davis could see the digital keychain he always kept in the left-hand pocket. She knew it would give the holder access to the medical supply room. She couldn't reach it, not yet. He seemed merely amused, not completely distracted.

He pressed the digital pulse reader against her neck. Then he brought it low on her chest, just above her rib cage, and examined its small black monitor. Davis looked down at his hand, at the line graph on the little device, which was beeping in red as it measured her vitals.

“I just hope I'm improving,” she began, willing the words past the tightness in her throat. “I'm always afraid of having a relapse. And I've never really been around doctors before,” she told him. “Not very often, back in Columbus. There was never any reason to be. I find it so.…” She paused. She wasn't sure how far she could go without seeming suspicious. “Impressive,” she finished, “that you're devoting your whole life to helping other people. You must be so brilliant.”

Dr. Grady smiled, looking pleased. He was ridiculously susceptible to flattery, Davis realized. His ego was completely overblown. She racked her brain for other ways to flatter him, focusing on his jacket, which hung open and within easy reach. She merely had to slip her hand in without him noticing. She had to do it. It was her only chance. He wouldn't even see her; he was too busy focusing on her face.

“I admire a person so dedicated to his work,” Davis said, aware that she was grasping. “You should win an award. A Nobel, maybe. Not many people can do what you do.” Her words sounded saccharine, but he smiled down at her, soaking in her praise. Davis leaned in just a fraction of an inch, just enough to ensure that he wouldn't look away from her face, to what she was doing below. She tugged on his jacket playfully with one hand to mask the motion of the other in his pocket.

“Oh, I only do what I can,” he said with false modesty. “I'm only a cog in the machine.”

“You keep everything running here,” she said as she closed her fingers around the digital key and folded it into her sweating palm. Dr. Grady grinned. She was searching her brain for something else to say, or some way to get out of there, when the digital reader beeped loudly. Davis seized the moment, jumping as though she'd been startled and kicking Dr. Grady hard in the shin.

“Shit,” Dr. Grady gasped, moving backward.

“I'm so sorry!” she said. “I didn't mean to. The beep, it—”

“It's fine.” But the look he gave her was suspicious.

“Can I.…”

“Just sit there,” he said. “Don't move. I'm going to get some ice.” He exited the room fast, muttering under his breath, and Davis took the opportunity to bury the keychain in the pocket of her loose-fitting regulation green pants. Dr. Grady was back a second later, his tone frosty.

The rest of the examination was far less personal. Davis had taken advantage of his contact the way she'd intended, and her heart rate slowed to normal as she went through a series of vitals tests that involved standing in front of a laser reader and placing her hands on two LED sensors designed to test her reflexes. Finally, she gave a saliva sample, and then she was done.

“You can put on your clothes and see yourself out,” he told her, not bothering to mask his displeasure.

When Davis left the room, Dr. Grady was nowhere in sight. She wended her way around the back of the building, taking the route she'd normally take to head back to the main sanatorium where she shared a room Seraphina and with several other women who were far sicker than she. At the last minute, when she was certain she was nowhere in sight of the medical clinic, she ducked left and moved to a path that led through a thicket of trees to a small, outlying building that was used to store medical supplies. She used the digital keychain to trigger the lock, and when the door swung open, she was relieved to find the place dark. She darted in, securing the door behind her, and tried not to think about what would happen if an orderly came in while she was there.

The bottles of chloroform only took a second to spot; everything in the supply room was clearly marked. She grabbed three, just in case, and fled the building before she could second-guess herself. Then she headed toward the water's edge, where Mercer was waiting. They'd agreed on the spot because it was obscured from the rest of the island by thick vegetation. None of the patients ever ventured out there, despite the tropical atmosphere and idyllic view. Anywhere else, the water lapping against the sides of the shore—with dense clusters of trees rising in the background—would have been tranquil. Here it was overshadowed by the low-lying industrial structure where the bodies were kept.

They were meant to be frozen until they were shipped elsewhere. It was the sanitary way. But upkeep on the island tended to falter, as Davis knew from her months there. Things that were meant to be attended to were neglected. So she wasn't surprised that the smell of decay wafted just under the fresh ocean breeze.

“Let me,” she said, squaring her shoulders and pushing past Mercer toward the warehouse.

“You have it?” he asked, running after her in an effort to keep up.

She merely nodded. He knew she had it. Something about the island had made Davis tougher. She felt it, and she knew everyone around her felt it, too. Six months ago, she'd never have pushed ahead toward a massive freezer that housed dead bodies. She'd never have been able to imagine such a thing. Now, everything was different. She didn't want to rely on anyone anymore, not when she continued to find within herself reserves of strength she'd never known existed.

“How much time do we have?” she shouted over her shoulder as she used the digital keychain to open the freezer door. The keychain was universal, thankfully. That was one aspect of the plan that had been a wild card.

“Five minutes,” Mercer told her. “Maybe ten. You really pushed it.”

She looked over her shoulder to glare at him, but he was smiling in a teasing way. Trying to calm her down. “I'm joking,” he told her. “You're amazing.” She pushed through the door and they both gasped at the stench, much stronger within the confines of the building.

“Good lord.” Mercer sounded stricken, and his face was frozen in an expression of horror. Davis looked around her, feeling faint. She'd known a few women from her quarters had passed away in the past two weeks, but this was different. Dozens of bodies were stacked neatly around them, all encased in body bags. More deaths had happened than she'd realized. She hadn't even known there were so many others at TOR-N. She felt Mercer's hand in hers. It was gentle, reassuring.

“We need to find an empty bag,” he told her. “We can do this.” When she failed to respond right away, he gave her a nudge. “I'll start over there, you start at that end.” Davis nodded, willing her feet to move. She walked around the stacks of bodies until she found a locked door. She tried the keychain on it, but it still wouldn't slide open. She was about to panic, when Mercer called out.

“I found them!” He rushed over, holding a large, zippered navy bag. “They were over there.” He gestured toward the far corner of the room, which was a little more shadowed than the rest. “Here, you climb in first and I'll climb in after you.” She nodded, stepping into the bag. Their plan was risky—they didn't know how many workers would come to load the bodies. She was thinking this as she lay down in the bag, its scratchy vinyl fibers rough against her skin, allowing Mercer to climb in on top of her and zip it behind him.

The weight of his body shattered her.

Davis hadn't felt someone so close to her since Cole. Mercer was heavy on top of her, and present, and warm. His breath was hot on her neck. She felt a physical yearning that she'd thought had died, but it wasn't about Mercer, it was about Cole. She fought back a sob and Mercer grabbed her hand again, his hand rough in hers, mistaking the reason behind her emotion. He traced circles on her palm with this thumb, sending a shiver up her back. His soft hair tickled her forehead, and he rested his cheek against hers. His lips were close, so close to her own. Davis drew back, overcome by a rush of guilt. She thought of Cole: the first time they'd kissed, his palm gentle against her cheek. Cole would want her to fight. He'd want her to help Fia and Vera and everyone else she loved, because he'd never stopped fighting, not up to the minute he'd died.

Then she felt a surge of determination fill her—she had to fight for him, for his memory, the same way he'd sacrificed everything for her, never letting fear overcome him. She'd loved him so much. She still did.