Mindwalker (18 page)

I flush the toilet and watch the half-dissolved Somnazol tablet spin around, then vanish. Good riddance.

When I return to the living room, Steven's sitting up on the couch, a blanket around his shoulders, taking small, careful sips of water from a glass. The dim light from the window has brightened. Morning spreads slowly across the room, illuminating bare walls and a patchy, balding carpet. The room is tiny and cramped. Aside from the TV, it contains only a couch and a rickety coffee table with a hot plate. There's no kitchen, no bedroom—nothing but that single room and a closet-sized bathroom with a toilet and sink. How does he bathe?

Pushing the thoughts aside, I sit next to him. The silence stands between us like a wall. Every time one of us clears a throat, the other one gives a start, as if a gun has gone off. After I held him for half the night, his tears soaking my shirt, just sitting next to each other shouldn't be so awkward.

“You gave me a scare, you know,” I say.

He averts his gaze. “I know.” He looks exhausted, pale, wrung out. “I told myself I wasn't going to take that pill. I just …”

“You don't have to explain,” I say quietly. “You weren't thinking clearly. That's all.”

He raises his head. There's a sudden, strange determination in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. “No. You don't have to make excuses for me.” His expression softens. “I'm sorry. For putting you through that.”

I nod. But I know that whatever he says, this isn't entirely his doing. Right now, I'm all Steven has. After promising to help him, I lost my courage and tried to send him away, to hand him over to the very system that's failed him so completely. I told myself it was the right thing, when in reality I was just afraid. I was so caught up in my own feelings, my own questions about what was right and wrong, I didn't realize how devastating an effect it would have on him. “I'm sorry, too,” I say. “If you want me to continue your treatment, I will.”

A tiny furrow appears between his brows. He lowers his head and studies his feet.

“
Is
that what you want, Steven?”

“I don't know. I'm really confused.” He takes a deep breath and rubs a hand over his face. “That thing you showed me, in that video—that other face, behind Pike's—what do you think it means? Do you have any ideas?”

I hesitate. “I have one.”

“Tell me.”

I shift my weight, reluctant. I'm afraid that I'm wrong, even more afraid that I'm right. “It looks like the result of a memory modification.”

His eyes widen.

“But that's very improbable,” I add quickly. “IFEN has no record of it, and there's no one else who could have done it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I want to say yes. But the truth is, I'm not certain of anything. “No.” I tangle my fingers together. “There's something else. I researched Emmett Pike, and there's almost no information on him. I don't know exactly what that means, but it seems … suspicious.”

He stares at me, mouth open. I can see him putting the pieces together, coming to the same conclusion I did. “You're saying that Pike's not real? That someone
implanted
memories of being kidnapped and tortured in my head?”

“No, I don't think they're implants,” I reply. “It's impossible to fabricate entire memories; the technology doesn't exist. I think something terrible
did
happen to you. But if I'm right, it might not have happened exactly the way you remember. Certain details might have been altered.”

His face has gone grayish white. “Like the identity of the guy who did it?”

I think about the scarce information I found online. A single photo—which, I suppose, could have been created in an image program—and a handful of articles, all centered around the kidnapping, as if Pike had sprung out of thin air, then conveniently erased himself with a bullet through the head. “It seems that way.”

His eyes slip shut. The lids are dark, almost bruised-looking. When he speaks again, his voice seems to be coming from somewhere far away. “I went to Pike's grave once, just to prove to myself he was really dead. But I couldn't even step on
the ground he was under. I was too scared. Like he might reach up and grab me.” His fingers tighten on the glass of water. His eyes open, unfocused. “I hate him more than anyone else in the world. But if he doesn't exist, that's even worse. Like my whole life, all my pain, is one big, sick joke.”

“It's not a joke,” I say. “Whatever happened to you, your feelings are real.”

The patch of pale sky brightens outside the window. A flock of crows fly past, tiny dots against the clouds.

Slowly, Steven sets down the glass. He leans back on the couch, weariness etched into every line of his face. “Thanks to me, you're a lawbreaker now. You saved me, even knowing you weren't supposed to.”

“It wasn't always like this, you know. People used to do everything in their power to stop someone from dying, even by his own hand.”

“Guess they got tired of trying to force sad sacks like me to keep living. Much more logical to just let us die.”

“If that's ‘logical,' then I don't want to be logical.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. It's not really a smile, but it's something. “So, what happens next? I mean, now that I know someone screwed around with my memories, what do I do?”

“Not you. We.”

His brows knit together. The confusion in his eyes makes me ache. He's so used to being alone, he still can't believe that I'm here to stay.

I smile. “You're not getting rid of me that easily. We're in this together now. I promised, remember?” My smile fades, because I know he won't like what I'm about to say. “I still
think we should go to the authorities. If not IFEN, the police, at least. We need to tell
someone
about this.”

A hard glint creeps into his eyes. He shakes his head. “If we do that, you'll get in trouble. Once they find out you treated me without permission, you could lose everything.”

“I can't let that stop me. They need to know about what's been done to you. It's my responsibility.”

The stubborn look in his eyes deepens. “Yeah, well, it's my
head.
” He raps a finger against his temple. “And I say no. You're not losing your job. Not over me.”

I look down, self-conscious. I find myself playing with a tendril of my hair and quickly fold my hands in my lap. “This isn't just about you and me. Whatever's going on, it's a lot bigger than either of us. Ten years ago, six children died. That much is certainly real. If Pike didn't kill them …”

“Someone else did,” he finishes. “Someone with enough power to change my memories and conjure up a fake killer out of thin air.”

The words sink in slowly, and the full enormity of what we're dealing with settles into my bones.

“I know we can't just forget about this,” Steven continues. “But I'm not going to the cops, or to IFEN. I don't want a bunch of rich guys in white coats poking around in my memories, and I don't want you punished for trying to help me. We'll find some other way to get the truth.”

He sounds so determined. Such a change from the broken boy I held last night. What's the difference? What shifted? Is it just knowing that he's not on his own anymore? “I don't know what else to try,” I say.

“What about that Lucid stuff I keep seeing ads for? Isn't that supposed to enhance memory?”

I pause, thinking. “Lucid is designed to improve day-to-day mental functioning. It's not strong enough to unearth pieces of an altered or deleted memory. If we had access to IFEN's resources, we could get our hands on something more powerful, but—” I stop. An idea flickers.

Ian's mother is a drug researcher. From past conversations with him, I know that she tends to mix work and pleasure. She—and, indirectly, he—has access to all kinds of experimental substances, legal and illegal.

The last time I spoke to Ian was when I chewed him out at lunch and stormed off. I can't exactly ask him for a favor now. But then, who else
can
I turn to? There's no one else I trust. And I realize that, in spite of everything, I
do
trust Ian. At least, I trust him not to betray me.

“Lain?”

I look up. “The truth might be hard to deal with,” I say. “If there
were
a pill that could help you remember, would you want to take it?”

His teeth catch on his lower lip, tugging. He looks younger when he does that. “I want to know who did this. I can't just erase the memories without knowing what's actually
there.
”

“In that case, I'm going to call Ian.”

Steven's mouth falls open. “Wait.
Him?
You've got to be kidding.”

“He's my friend,” I say.

“He
attacked
you.”

“He kissed me.”

“He pushed you against a wall—”

“I'm not saying it was right, but he's already apologized for it. It's not going to happen again.”

Steven scowls.

“Steven.” I look him in the eyes. “If we're going to do this, we need his help.”

“And you think he'll be able to help us,” he says flatly.

“It's worth a try. I'm just going to call him and ask.” I pull out my cell phone and dial, ignoring the dour expression on Steven's face.

After the second ring, Ian picks up. There's a brief pause. I hear the faint rasp of his breathing at the other end of the line, and suddenly, my head is a blank. I stare at my feet, hunting for words.

It's Ian who speaks first, his voice low and cautious. “Lain, is that you?”

“Yes, it's me. Hello, Ian.” There's a long, uncomfortable silence. How should I approach this? I can't just say,
I need some drugs from you.

“I wasn't sure I was ever going to hear from you again,” he says. “I mean, you seemed pretty angry with me last time.”

I wince at the small, sharp pang of guilt. “I was upset. About a lot of stuff. I said some things to you that I shouldn't have.”

“Well, you were right. Even if you
were
going out with Steven, it wouldn't be any of my business. I mean, it's not like I'm your boyfriend.”

Is it my imagination, or is there a faint hint of bitterness in his tone? “It's okay,” I reply awkwardly. “You were concerned. That's all.”

“Yeah.” There's an uncomfortable silence. “So, what do you need?”

“What makes you think I need something?”

“Am I wrong?”

Heat creeps into my ears. “Well, no.” I moisten dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “Do you know much about Lucid?”

“The drug?” I hear a hint of curiosity in his words. “My mom was part of a study on that recently. Something about helping people with degenerative neurological conditions recover lost memories.”

“Is that the same drug you can get on the market right now?”

“Yes and no. The version they were testing was a lot stronger than anything you can legally sell to the public.”

“That's what I thought.” I remember reading about Lucid in my biopsychology class, back when it was still known by its long chemical name, before its formula had been watered down and transformed into a product. “So, what does it do, exactly?”

“It's weird stuff. In small doses, it acts like a mild stimulant, but you get the dosage high enough, and the effects are almost like ketamine,” Ian says. “You start tripping, and you come out of it remembering stuff you thought you'd forgotten. People with Alzheimer's suddenly recognize their family again—stuff like that. Pretty amazing. But it can mess you up awfully bad, too.” A pause. “Wait—are you thinking about trying it?”

“I am. Or rather, I know someone who's thinking about trying it.”

Another few heartbeats of silence pass. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet, very serious. “Lain, what's going on?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how much I can
safely say. I'm conscious of Steven's gaze on me. “It's complicated.”

“Is this something that could get you in trouble?”

“Not if I'm careful.”

He exhales a tense breath. “Maybe I'm not one to talk, but you haven't been acting like yourself lately.”

“Ian.” I soften my voice. “Please trust me. This might not be technically within the rules, but it's something I need to do, and it's very important.”

He chuckles, a hard, brittle sound. “You're not going to tell me anything, but you expect me to help you?”

“I know I'm asking a lot of you, but—”

“It's him, isn't it? Steven Bent. This has something to do with him.”

Maybe it's obvious. After all, Steven's the one I've been spending most of my time with lately. For a moment, I wonder how I'd react if the reverse were true—if Ian suddenly started ignoring me and hanging out with some girl I barely knew. I've never looked at Ian in that way, yet the thought makes me instantly uncomfortable. I truly
am
asking a lot of him. “I shouldn't explain this over a cell phone,” I say quietly. “I'll tell you more in person.”

I wait, the blood whooshing in my ears.

He gives a small, resigned sigh. “Just promise me one thing, all right?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful,” he says. His tone is gentle, concerned. He sounds like his old self. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay?”

A faint smile tugs at my lips. “That leaves me a lot of options.”

“Don't do anything
you
wouldn't do, then.”

I utter a short laugh. It catches me off guard. “All right, I won't.”

“See you at my apartment.” He hangs up.

***

When we pull into the lot outside Ian's building, the sky is a clear, innocent blue, dotted with cottony clouds. Monorails race back and forth on their tracks, high above the city. I park the car and say, “I'll be right back.”