Lee backs up quickly and aims the device at my chest.
“We all have our roles to play, Daniel. You will be the messenger. And I will be the message.”
Before I can argue with him, he depresses the trigger, and the surge hits me, arcing my body with wave after wave of electricity, so intense that I lose all control and the world goes black for the second time.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
MY FATHER IS IN A CHAIR IN OUR LIVING ROOM.
Mike brings me in to see him, one arm wrapped tightly across my back and under my armpit to hold me up. Mike had drugged me a moment before. By the time I get to the living room, I can barely walk.
I was twelve years old and Mike was my new best friend. Or so I thought.
Then Mike brings me into the living room to see what he has done to my father. To let my father see me.
This is the memory that recurs, the one that my brain clings to even when I will it to let go. It is the last time I saw my father alive, over five years ago.
Everything is forgotten sooner or later. Life moves on. Even terrible things grow old over time. The psychological term is habituation. People who live near airports no longer hear the jets. People with mansions stop feeling wealthy.
And people who lose someone eventually stop grieving.
Our minds are designed to habituate. The past is forgotten, put in its proper place. Intense stimuli become second nature. And terrible things become commonplace.
We can’t hold on even if we wanted to.
And yet there are things that stick to you. Not things you choose, but things that choose you.
This memory for example.
Mike at my side, holding me up. The feel of his arm around me. The sight of my father in front of me.
I’ve always thought this was a memory of Mike’s betrayal, the great betrayal of a friend who is not a friend, a brother who is not a brother.
But in my unconscious state, I have a new perspective.
There are reasons I am sent on an assignment. So there must have been reasons Mike was sent on an assignment that brought him to me.
My father.
Something he did brought Mike into our lives.
This is the new understanding I have. My memory is not a memory of Mike’s betrayal of my father.
It’s a memory of my father’s betrayal of me.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
“DANIEL.”
A voice calls through the haze of unconsciousness. A hand shakes me.
“Daniel,” the voice says.
Water on my forehead, pulling me up toward consciousness.
“Wake up, Daniel.”
That is not my name, but it sounds familiar to me. As does the person who is saying it.
Howard.
“Wake up,” he says.
I stir in my chair, moving my arms and legs. They’re free. When did they get free?
Howard shakes me again.
“Easy,” I say. “I’m awake.”
I open my eyes. Howard stands over me, his face heavy with concern.
“Do you need mouth-to-mouth?” he says.
“Why would I need that?”
“You were passed out.”
“Did I stop breathing?”
“No.”
“Then keep your mouth away from my mouth. No offense.”
“None taken.”
I look around the room, taking it in for the first time, the bunker where they brought me, the interrogation that ensued, and the incongruity of seeing Howard in the room.
“How did you find me?” I say.
“You didn’t come back by nightfall, so I hiked down into the camp.”
“You got past the roadblock?”
“I went into the woods.”
“You’ve got some skills,” I say.
“Just because I’m a geek doesn’t mean I can’t throw down from time to time.”
“Can you really throw down?”
“I don’t even know what throwing down is. But it sounds cool when I say it.”
I try to laugh, but it hurts too much.
“Can you help me up?” I say.
He puts an arm around me and supports me while I stand. The feeling of his arm across my back dislodges the memory of a moment ago.
My father. Something he did brought Mike into our lives for the first time.
My father betrayed me, followed by Mike.
Samara, the girl I loved, betrayed me.
Even The Program has betrayed me.
I look at Howard, suddenly unsure about him, about the faith I’ve placed in him.
“Can I trust you, Howard?”
“That’s a crazy question to ask while I’m in the middle of saving you.”
“I have to ask it.”
He thinks about it for a moment.
“Let me put it this way: I should be at home in Manhattan relaxing, eating Cheetos, and doing AP Calculus homework. Instead I’m on a mountain in New Hampshire risking my life to free you from some kind of torture chair.”
“That’s a good point,” I say.
“Do you still have doubts?”
“None. Let’s go, buddy.”
He walks me toward the door, letting me lean on him as my muscles slowly come back online.
“You really love those Cheetos, don’t you?” I say.
“I like the spicy ones best,” he says. “But the cheese messes up the keyboard, so I’m trying to quit.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
ABOVE GROUND, LIBERTY IS A GHOST TOWN.
The entire population of the camp is gone. We walk past quiet buildings, windows half open, garbage bins waiting to be emptied.
The structures are here, but the people are gone. Wherever they went, they left in a hurry.
At first I’m careful, walking ahead of Howard while searching the ground for trip wires, laser triggers, anything that might indicate a booby trap.
But there are none.
By the time we get to the main square, my muscles have come back online and I can walk normally again. The backhoe is still in the middle of the square, but Burch’s body is gone, moved to who knows where.
I lead Howard toward the main house. I open the door slowly, checking for trigger devices but finding the way clear.
I pause in the front alcove.
“Wait for me here for a couple minutes,” I tell Howard.
“Where are you going?” he says, afraid.
“I have to find out where they’ve gone,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
I SLIP INTO FRANCISCO’S ROOM.
I’m looking for evidence of the plan that Lee was talking about.
The room is bare, hardly lived in. There’s a single paperback facedown on the night table. A glass of water. A pillow with an indentation in it.
I look at the book. Neuromancer by William Gibson. I open it and flip through the pages. It’s an old copy, and some of the pages are stuck together.
I search the room, the closet, the drawers.
I check every hiding place, looking for notebooks, drawings, any clues that might help, but I find only clothes and toiletries. A tool kit in a box by the door.
There’s nothing here.
I take one last look around the room. Just before I go, something occurs to me.
The pages of the Gibson novel. Something didn’t feel right when I flipped through it.
I reach into my pocket and remove the knife I’ve been carrying.
I open the book again, use the edge of the blade to separate the stuck pages. I don’t find anything. But then I look at the inside of the back cover.
It has been reglued, a bit of excess glue spilling onto the pages. I carefully slice it open.