Revelations (23 page)

“I don’t remember you,” he said, blue eyes flashing.

“Probably not,” Michael said. “I turned you over to the protection of Philip and didn’t intervene. You were just bruised; nothing serious. Philip took you here, to California.”

I looked from Michael to Philip, using my mind to assess the truth of the situation. Michael and Philip had this business-like relationship for a good ten years. Doc Daniels earned his medical degree at eighteen, a true and bonafied genius. Philip owned the hospital in Ohio where I’d been lucky enough to be taken after the accident that wasn’t, just a happy coincidence I ended up in doc Daniels’s care. He’d placed Michael in charge of the hospital, after assessing the nature of his genius, at nineteen. Philip also owned a hospital here in California, in the city of Glendale, plus two law firms in New York, one in Boston, and two in Los Angeles.

I broke myself out of my shock and stared Philip in the eyes. “I had no idea,” I said.

“What?” the so-called vampire asked.

“Who you are,” I said. “What you’ve done. How old are you?”

Philip shook his head. “Too old,” he said.

“Where’s your wife?” I asked, afraid to know the answer.

“She left. After Starch appeared on the doorstep, I told her who I am.” Philip paused then continued. “I told her the truth. I managed to hide my blood drinking habits from her, but when I showed her, well…she couldn’t handle it.”

“Sorry,” I said quietly.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I should have known I couldn’t keep up that charade for too long.”

“I’m still sorry,” I said.

Philip only nodded.

I took a breath, composed myself and released the fever I hadn’t even realized had been cooking my poor brain. I can’t erase exhaustion, or eliminate my headaches, but I felt much better. I got to my feet. “Thank you, everyone, for everything you’ve done,” I said. “I have to find Christian. I have to warn him. Then I’m going back to Cannon, and I’m going to destroy it.”

Starch stood up. “I’m not letting you go anywhere alone.”

Philip stood beside Starch. “He’s right,” the old blue-eyed vampire said.

“Nobody has to put their lives in danger for my sake,” I said firmly.

“I’m not giving you a choice,” Starch said. He shook his head. “I’ll follow you. Where ever you go. You saved my life. It’s only right that I protect yours.”

“You can’t protect me,” I said.

“I’ll damned well try,” Starch said, crossing his arms over his chest.

I looked up into those insanely blue eyes. I smiled. I knew there was no changing his mind. I knew I had no choice. “Okay,” I said quietly. “But I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Don’t care,” Starch said.

The next words fell from my trembling lips before I could stop them. “Jonas gave his life to protect me,” I said.

“And I will do the same, if it comes to that,” he said.

I felt loved. Now I hated the feeling. I’d much rather be hated and despised. That, at least, was what I deserved.

Chapter Forty-Five

A few hours later, after finishing off the last piece of toast, I asked about my gun. Philip turned it over without a word, not bothering to inquire as to where I got it. I tucked it into my pants and gave him a hug. Starch packed a bag with clothes for himself, though we’d probably only be gone about twenty-four hours. You see, I knew where Christian was being held. I hacked into the gov secure sites once more— using a cyber café twenty miles from Philip’s house, hence the reason for a few hours passing— and found Christian, once again Christian Fletcher. Once again, government property.

Except this time, he was in a hospital for the mentally insane.

This fact scared me. Since I knew his birth date, Social Security number and all other information I would need to steal his identity, I knew it was him. They hadn’t bothered changing his social this time. They probably didn’t think anyone would come looking for him.

It was dangerous going back to Ohio where they kept him. I had to know. I’d learned enough in the past days to be more careful. I had to know what had been done to him and to know if I could pull him out of it. It was another one of my stupid decisions, but I did it anyway. I still blame it on the fever.

Michael arranged a flight for us through a pilot friend of his by the name of Range McAllister. Starch and I took a taxi to the airport, leaving Philip and Michael behind. Philip wanted to come but I adamantly refused. I couldn’t risk everyone’s lives in this venture of mine. So they stayed behind.

* * * *

In the Burbank city airport, Starch and I waited for Range to come meet us. We’d scheduled a place and time, but Starch and I arrived early. This gave time for the incident that occurred in the terminal.

I’ll be honest; I still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent. I was at maybe sixty or seventy percent, but I wasn’t about to admit it to Starch. Anyway, we were sitting before a certain art work panel. People were coming and going, back and forth, going to and from their terminals, meeting family members, etc. There was a lot of activity. I didn’t notice the man standing in from of me until he actually said my full first name.

“Christiana.”

I looked up, a bit shocked. People don’t normally stop in airport terminals and say my name. “I’m sorry?” I said.

“That is who you are, right?” the man said, taking a couple more steps towards me.

I had my gun. I got it through security by manipulating the minds of the guards to not see it as it went through the x-ray machine, hidden away in Starch’s bag. I thought briefly about pulling it out and getting rid of this stranger who somehow knew my name, but curiosity stilled my hand.

“Who are you?” Starch asked, finding his voice, just as curious as I was.

“Sorry.” The man stepped to me and extending his hand. “Malcolm Larson,” he said.

I tentatively shook his hand.

This so-called Malcolm Larson knelt before me on one knee. “I saw you sitting there, and I recognized you.”

“From where?” I said, my voice shuddering.

“Oh, you’re well-known. In our community,” he said.

I looked at Starch, who shrugged.

Malcolm smiled, seeing our confusion. “Guess we aren’t as well-known to you as you are to us.”

“Guess not,” I muttered.

“Look, I can’t hang out. I’ll miss my flight, but I just wanted to say I really admire you, what you do.”

“What I do?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fighting for us. Going into that base. Stealing files. Killing those soldiers. Everyone knows what you’re trying to do.”

I was silent, eyes wide.

“When you liberate one of us,” he said, “you make yourself a hero. If you liberate more, you’ll make yourself a god.” He smiled. “Keep it up. Everyone will be so excited I met you.”

I shook his offered hand, gaping at this strange man as he disappeared down a corridor.

“What the hell was that?” Starch asked after a moment.

“I have no idea,” I said. “None whatsoever.”

Range appeared, introduced himself and that was that. I put this strange incident at the back of my mind and concentrated on what I’d do when I got to Christian, assuming there was anything of Christian left. At the very least, I knew he lived.

Chapter Forty-Six

Range was a great guy. He was about thirty-five with spiked brown hair. He had plugs in his ears and the words “LET’S FLY” tattooed on his right bicep. There was a half-naked lady wearing a flight jacket and pretty much nothing else on his other arm. I liked him from the start. He offered to let me try and fly the little plane, but I refused. Other things occupied my minds.

Starch and I sat in the back of the plane, contemplating what the hell occurred in the terminal.

“So, this guy obviously knew you,” he said.

“Duh,” I muttered.

“Someone at Cannon must have blabbed information about your doings there to others,” Starch said. “Word’s gotten around.”

“Guess,” I said.

“You aren’t being very talkative,” Starch said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right,” I said. “I think word’s gotten around.”

“But who? And why?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t do anything,” I said. “I was there for my own purposes. Finding you was just luck.”

Starch raised an eyebrow.

I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples. “Why would anyone think I was liberating experiments?”

“You did, though,” Starch said. “You liberated me.”

I gave him the weakest of smiles. “But he knew me on sight.”

“Yeah,” Starch said. “That was no less than freaky.”

I widened my smile, but it faded fast.

There wasn’t much else to say. We sat in general silence for the rest of the plane ride. He joined Range in the cockpit for a bit, and I know he flew the plane. I sat in the back, my head against the headrest of the seat, my eyes closed.

I felt awful. I actually felt sick. I’d been on a plane before, and I knew that wasn’t what bothered me. It was the guilt eating me alive. Almost everyone I’d ever known was now dead. I’d given my love to them, cared about them, and they were all dead. I’d been the cause. If I hadn’t cured that girl, the Commune would still be standing. If I hadn’t gone to Cannon, Jonas would still be alive. If I hadn’t gone to Cannon, Reagan would still be alive–who kills a little boy, anyway? Christian wouldn’t be locked away in a mental institution.

So many lives lost because of me. Some guy in an airport admired me? He had no idea what I’d done.

I stared out one of the windows as the airport came into view below us. Range prepared to land, and I could hear him speaking with the air traffic controller. I didn’t see Starch come out of the cockpit until he was beside me.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, just slightly startled. “I guess so,” I said.

“You sure? You don’t look so good.”

I turned my head towards him. “How do you expect me to look?” I snapped, surprising both him and me. When he didn’t respond, just stared at me in shock, I softened my voice and said, “I’m sorry. I’m just…not feeling so great.”

Starch forgave my outburst by putting his hand against my cheek. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Thanks,” I told him. “For coming with me.”

He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. His hand slid off my face and he contemplated me for another moment. The plane started its decent, we put seatbelts on and soon we landed in Ohio. The place where it all began.

Chapter Forty-Seven

We left Range at the airport where he would wait for our return. I didn’t plan on being here long, back in the state where I’d nearly lost my life and yet was given a new one. I wanted to see if there was anything of my Christian in that mental hospital, anything salvageable. Anything I could save.

A cab took us to the mental hospital and ditched us out front. We went inside, and, through use of my mind, I got us past the check-in desk and a couple uniformed security guards, into a hallway full of closed and locked doors. Each door had a window. I knew which door I wanted, where I was going. There wasn’t much left of him, but it was enough for me to know it was him.

The door was locked, and that’s something my brain could not accomplish. I cannot pick locks. Starch can.

From his wallet, he produced a small kit of tools, pulled out a specific tool and inserted it into the lock. He had the door unlocked in a matter of seconds.

“Handy,” I said when he stepped aside.

“Never know when such a talent will be needed,” he said. “You sure about this?”

“I won’t be long,” I said.

“Can’t you do it from outside this door?” he asked, thinking it would be safer.

“I can,” I said. “But I want to see him.”

Starch didn’t protest. He only glanced down the hallway to make sure we were alone then he opened the door for me, and I stepped inside.

There was nothing left of my father in the man I faced behind the door. Not really. Just a hint here or there.

The man was crouched on the floor by the sink. His face hid in shadow but it was him. I would never forget the features of his face. He was dressed in dirty hospital scrubs. Besides the sink and toilet, only a cot-like bed furnished the room. It might as well have been a prison cell.

“Christian?” I whispered.

“There is no such name,” the man said, raising his head to me. His eyes were bloodshot and purple on the edges. His face was lined, and his hair was now salt and pepper colored instead of blond. His eyes were the same though. I would have known those green eyes anywhere only because they stared back at me each morning from the mirror.

I couldn’t say anything else. I reached into his mind, but there was little coherent thought there.

“This is my place!” he yelled suddenly. He shot to his feet and was in my face in an instant. “My place! Get out!”

“My name is Christiana Fletcher,” I said. I leaned away from him, from his wild eyes and the stink of his breath. I hoped my name would draw out something in him. It only drew anger.