Archetype (12 page)

N
oah throws open the door, startling Sonya from a nap she is taking on an empty hospital bed. Another of Dr. Travista’s books lies open beside her. Silently, he lifts one of the many tablets and taps a few commands.

“What is it?” Sonya asks.

Noah purses his lips and shakes his head. “You’ll see.”

I want to see, too, but he is staring at the tablet and glancing at the screens on the wall to my right. I can see only their expressions.

His last tap is a sharp jab, and he throws the tablet back onto the table. He points to the large screen on the wall. “There. Now, explain that. Explain how that’s possible.”

Sonya gapes, blinking rapidly at the screen, and I wish someone would elaborate. What are they looking at? What is causing this frightened look on her face? The anger on his?

“I . . . I . . .” she stammers. She looks up at me, then to the screen. “What the hell?”

Noah reaches into his jacket pocket and hands her a phone. “I got this message earlier, thought it was a joke. A crazy drunken moment. A mistake nonetheless.”

Sonya reads it and then looks up at the screen. “That’s no mistake. Noah, we have to find out what it is.”

“What it is, its purpose, and destroy it,” he agrees, but his voice chokes on the last part. He clears his throat. “Soon.”

“Nobody’s going to—”

“I’ll do it myself,” he says, glancing down and away.

 • • • 

“You are my husband?” Ruby asks me.

I sigh and face the lounge window. No frost on the windows today. This is promising. “No. I am your friend. Only a friend.” I wonder how Declan had so much patience with me when I was like this. Ruby and I have been at this friend distinction for days. “Charles is your husband.”

“Charles is my husband. Emma is my friend.”

“Yes. That is right.” I reach to tuck a wild curl behind her ear. The longer her hair gets, the more curls arrive. And she is gaining weight now, too. “Do you know the difference?”

“What is ‘difference’?”

This could be one of my earlier conversations with Declan. I hold out my arm and lay it beside hers. “See how our skin is different? You are pale, and I am olive toned. This is different.” I consider hair color but do not believe she knows what she looks like yet. Then I get another idea. “I wear different clothes. And different shoes.” I point to my three-quarter-sleeve lace cardigan and jeans and her scrubs. My black boots, her canvas shoes. “See how they do not look alike?”

She nods and runs her fingers over my sleeve. “Yes. I think so.”

Dr. Travista arrives and smiles from the doorway. “Time for our session, Ruby.”

Ruby stands and leaves without any further prompts.

He lays a hand on her shoulder when she is close enough. “I’ll be right there.”

I stand and turn, wiping my warm palms over my jeans. “Good morning.”

He shakes his head at the floor and chuckles. “Declan just made the comment that he’s going to have to put you on the payroll. You are very good with her.”

“Declan is watching me?” I do not like this new security. While I knew he watched me before, I have seen this new view and how up close and personal it can be. I am not a fan.

Dr. Travista lifts his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. “He loves you.” He says this as if it is the only explanation I will ever need.

“He should focus on other things. He is a very busy man.” I say this pointedly into the room and specifically for Declan if he is still watching. If he is smart, he will switch to another camera feed or shut mine down completely.

Dr. Travista nods and begins to turn. “Are you staying?”

“Only long enough to put away my supplies. I only came to visit with Ruby for a little while. I have the show to prepare for.”

He smiles. “Only a few more days. You must be getting excited.”

“It is overwhelming, but in a good way. I look forward to it.”

“Good, good. We’ll chat about it tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

He leaves me and I begin packing my art supplies. I keep a few in the lounge for days when Ruby wants to paint. She is learning to keep to the canvas but is not naturally artistic. She never will be, but she enjoys it, so I encourage it.

I am locking the paint in a cabinet when the
shiff
of the door fills the room. No one closes the door to the lounge until after visiting hours. I swallow the trepidation tightening my throat and rise slowly to face the man who entered.

“I thought I might catch you here,” Charles says. “Talking to Ruby again?”

I close the doors to the cabinet. “Yes. Why did you close the door?”

He glances between the door and me. “I never have a chance to speak to you in private. Travista never tells me anything. Burke, either. But you’re the key anyway, so I want to talk to you.”

I step around a chair to place it between us. “What is it you want?”

He unbuttons and removes his suit jacket, then lays it over the back of the chair. “How much of your previous life do you remember?” He raises his eyebrows. “And I want the truth, none of this bullshit you feed the others.”

He is crazy if he thinks I will tell him
anything.
“What does this have to do with Ruby?”

Charles moves two steps around the chair and wags a blunt finger at me. “You see, I have this theory that you’re putting them on. I know all about you, Emma
Burke
”—he raises his hands to air-quote—“and I want to know what you’re telling my wife. What sort of bullshit resistance propaganda are you feeding her? Are you teaching her to play dumb?”

I mirror his footsteps around the chair, centering my focus on him. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

Where are the red coats? Is this not why Declan installed the new security? How could they let this man be alone with me when he is clearly a threat? I venture to think Declan might have taken my suggestion and stopped watching the room. Did he turn off the entire feed?

“Sure, sure,” he says. “Except you’re not playing with Declan Burke here, sweetheart. I’ve dealt with your kind. I know how you operate. How you think. You can’t be trusted.”

I raise my hands defensively. “Mr. Godfrey, I wish I knew where this was coming from, but I promise you I do not know what you are talking about. I am not part of this resistance. I never have been.”

He laughs with his head tilted back. “Oh, Emma! You are
good.
Really.”

You have no idea,
She says.
Get ready. This is about to get ugly.

What do you mean?

You’ll know what to do.

I do not understand Her warning, but Charles is moving quickly around the chair.

“Leave me alone,” I say.

“I’m about to prove it to them all.” A crazy glint lights his eyes, and he rolls up his sleeves. “They don’t put you in the field without training. Let’s see how much you remember.”

He tosses the chair aside and draws his fist back for the first punch.

 • • • 

The fire from the bombing was hot on my back. Sweat rolled down my neck and I wanted to scratch it, but every second counted. I yanked my plasma rifle over my shoulder. Guards bolted out of the compound and aimed rifles at my team.

“Get ready!” Foster yelled, but the pounding of running feet and the roar of fire drowned out his voice.

A high-pitched whistle sounded to my left and another fire exploded near the outer wall. The ground rumbled, but I managed to keep my footing and train my rifle on the nearest guard. I fired. Hundreds of tiny blue bursts zipped across the field, as silent as night, impaling targets on both sides.

I shot my target center mass. The plasma burst sliced through and dissipated behind him in a shower of white particles. He dropped to his knees with a final grunt of air and then pitched forward until his face smacked the cement walk.

Group One of my team stopped to engage the line of outside guard protection while Groups Two and Three—Three being my group—slid through to take the inside of the compound.

Inside, the next line of compound defense was thinner than the first and my group had no problem leaving Group Two to handle them. Groups One and Two would get the children out once they were done here, while we cut off communication and set charges.

Foster nodded to a set of stone stairs. “Control room is that way.”

“Let’s go.”

I knew the way thanks to the data collected on another raid. The layout was nearly identical to that of my last WTC. Top floor, fourth door on the left, surrounded by officers’ quarters.

We passed the medical exam rooms on the way, and I pointed. “Here’s where we’ll set some of the charges on the way back.”

Foster nodded and repeated the order to the rest of the team.

We collided with the group of remaining WTC officers in a wide hallway on the top floor. There were too many of us to fight effectively.

I took my first real blow in the shoulder, though my face had been the target. I doubled over and jabbed the butt of my rifle up into the man’s gut. He grunted and I jerked the barrel up once more, this time to the face; his nose cracked seconds before blood gushed over his mouth and chin. His eyes crossed and he wavered on his feet.

“Wade!”

I ducked at the sound of Foster’s warning, and not a moment too soon. The swing had been aimed for the back of my head. Spinning, I swung my foot at the man’s ankles and brought him down to the floor with a
thunk
. His head bounced off the concrete and I raised my fist to finish the job.

 • • • 

I duck and avoid the punch. “What are you doing?” I scream.

“Fight back,” Charles says.

He swings again, and this time, instead of ducking, I block with my forearm. The sharp pain of our bones colliding brings hot tears to my eyes. I block another punch automatically, and I have to admit, I do not know how I am able to do this.

“Fight!” he yells.

He asked for it,
She says.
May as well give the man what he wants.

I follow up the next block with a hook that pistons against his cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. I ignore the flare of pain in my knuckles as his fist thrusts up toward my stomach. I leap back, narrowly missing the uppercut.

I snap my foot up and punt the side of his head, then use the momentum to spin, jump, and kick again. On the third spin and strike, he drops to a knee. His head bobbles on his neck and he grapples out blindly for something to hold himself up.

The lounge door slides open, stopping me from continuing my attack, and Charles lifts his head up to laugh at me. His whole body shakes from it. “I knew it.”

His deduction puts me into a state of shock so I do not dodge the uppercut to my stomach. All my air rushes out and I double over, gasping. Declan catches me before I drop to my knees.

“Get him the fuck out of here!” Declan yells to the mass of red coats. “And don’t let him back in. Ever.”

“You can’t keep me away from my wife!” Charles’s tone is a good match for Declan’s. “I paid good money for her!”

“You revoked your right to your wife the second you attacked mine. Get out of here.”

Charles fights several red coats, slinging blood from his heavily bleeding nose and spitting more across the room. “She fought back. I was right, you stupid bastard. You brought that traitorous bitch into your home and she’ll burn it down around you.” His eyes are wild and he grins. “And I’m going to stand by and watch it happen, laughing all the way.”

B
ruises flower around my forearms and swell. Touching them hurts, but I am too numb to care about pain. I am numb to the exam room and Declan’s faraway look and flaring nostrils. I am numb because I do not know who I am. And I cry, not from the pain, but from frustration.

Charles has made his point and I cannot help but wonder if he is right. Not about my hurting Declan. I would never hurt him. But what if I fought back because that was my life? Did I kill people so casually? Did I really fight with lethal force?

Declan presses a cold compress to my swollen forearm and lifts my free hand to hold the pack myself. His handsome face is little more than stern lines as he sits on the round stool beside the examination bed where I wait for Dr. Travista.

“Who am I?” I whisper.

“You’re my wife.”

His response stuns me. I am unsure what I expected, but it had nothing to do with my status as his wife. And something in his tone makes me wonder if this answer is more for his benefit than for mine. He avoids my eyes, watching his linked fingers and circling thumbs in his lap. He has long and soft fingers. Gentle.

Mine are small and deadly.

“Am I?” The question catches in my throat.

He looks at me now, and I cannot read his expression. Frustration? Anger? Sadness? “You’re my wife.” He stands from the stool so fast, the wheels send it rocketing across the room. It bounces off the cabinet with a
clang
. His hands come up to his hips, flaring open his suit jacket, and he begins pacing in front of me. “You can’t listen to anything he said.”

A sob escapes my tight chest, and I shake with it. “He said I would fight back and I did. I do not know how to fight. Right?”

He paces, continuing to avoid me.

“Right?” I repeat the question, louder this time. “Tell me and I will believe you.”

He stops, his attention not on the floor, but somewhere far beyond it. “Right.”

I do not believe him. He says this because I asked him to. Did I not do the same for him once? “Declan, I would never hurt you.”

His eyes focus on me, and it is as if he is seeing me for the first time. His expression softens and he takes my hand. His lips press to the spot between my eyes, and a long, hot breath brushes my skin.

“Don’t cry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I am so confused.” More than I can ever tell him.

“There’s nothing to be confused about. You know who you are.” He rolls the stool back over and sits. “Emma, even if there was a shred of truth to what he said, isn’t the time we’ve spent together these last few months . . . doesn’t it mean more than what that lunatic says? More than what’s happening outside these walls?”

His chest heaves as he breathes in, his attention focused elsewhere again. He is so far away and I do not understand why.

I slide from the bed and onto his lap. I finger his loose hair back and gather my thoughts. “You are right,” I whisper. “It does not matter.”

Declan’s arms surround me and gather me close. His heart beats rapidly against mine.

The answers I need no longer matter, because right now I know who I am, and nothing I have seen, and nothing Charles said, makes a difference.

I am Emma Burke.

 • • • 

I find Dr. Travista in his office and knock on the wall outside his open door. He peers over the rim of his glasses and smiles.

“Emma? I didn’t expect to see you today. Did we have a session I forgot about?”

“No. I decided to come spend time with Ruby, but I cannot find her.”

He stands and rounds his desk in the slow manner that tells me he needs a moment to choose his words. “Ruby has gone home. With her husband.”

I start in surprise. “What? But she is not well yet.”

He motions for me to sit in my usual chair and folds into his. “Declan refused to allow Charles Godfrey back in the hospital and he has a right to his wife. The only option was to release her and hope she’ll continue to recover without our help.”

I sink back into the soft cushion. I find her absence saddens me and realize it is because I considered Ruby a friend. Or, at the very least, one I might have had in the future, given enough time. “When? When did she leave?”

He removes his glasses and folds them into his lap. “The day after the incident.”

I had not been able to bring myself to come these past few days as I tried to come to terms with everything that happened. “Oh,” is all I manage to say.

“If it helps, she asked about you on the way out. You made a lasting impression, I think.”

I nod, but this is not comforting. Charles will never allow her to contact me. “Maybe we will meet again.”

He smiles, but it is quick and does not reach his eyes. “Since you’re here, why don’t you tell me about the show? Tomorrow’s going to be a big day for you.”

The show is the last thing concerning me. “I do not think about it.”

“I see.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Since we’re on the subject, I’m curious about these beaches of yours.”

“Oh?” He and Declan both.

“You seem to have a lot of ideas for this theme. Declan said you were inspired by the photograph in your room. And yet you do not paint that particular beach.”

I adjust my sitting position. “What makes you think that?”

“The photograph in your old room has the California gull in it.”

I tilt my head. “I do not understand.”

“You paint the Heermann’s gull in its breeding plumage; dark gray with blackish wings and a white head. They breed off the west coast of Mexico. The photograph in your old room is of a beach in Half Moon Bay, California. When seen that far north during its non-breeding season, the Heermann look wholly different, not to mention nothing like the California gull.”

He is catching me on a seagull technicality? “Is not a seagull just a seagull?”

“If seen in the Bay during its non-breeding season, the Heermann’s gull wouldn’t have a white head. It would be a solid gray with blackish wings. The California gull is nearly all white with gray wings.”

I attempt to laugh. “Okay. You caught me. Where are my paintings located?”

“Mexico, if I had to guess.”

I nod. “Mexico.”

“Mexico.”

We are at a standoff. I cannot explain why I paint beaches in Mexico. And I will not tell him about my dreams.

“Maybe I saw them in a book.”

He nods, but there is something in his expression that tells me he knows my lie for what it is. His lips twitch with a small smile. “Maybe.”

We stare at each other for a while longer before I stand and wipe my palms over my pants. “I should go. I have an unfinished painting waiting on me.”

He stands with me and walks me to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nod and lift my hand in a halfhearted wave. I do not see the men as I pass, and I enter the teleportation tube on automatic. My hand shakes as I key in the port number for my studio. My one safe harbor, because I do not know if Declan has had the security installed at home today as promised. My studio will forever remain unguarded.

The first thing I do in my studio is take up the tablet and punch in the instructions for the beach theme. One of them must have the gull I paint, even though I never pay these scenes any attention. They are no more than a backdrop while I paint from memory.

I run through several different holographic variations: seasons, time of day, locations, which are very few. Seagulls fly or amble along the beach in all of them, but none resembles the one I paint.

You have to be kidding me,
She says.
He really did get you on a technicality. Unbelievable.

Mexico?

She does not answer for several slow heartbeats.
Mexico.