Mindwalker (24 page)

He turns to face me, his expression grim. “What the hell is going on? Did I hallucinate all that?”

I swallow, mouth dry, and collect my thoughts. Automatically, I slip into my neutral Mindwalker voice. “Even if the memory itself was real, that doesn't mean it's accurate in every detail. Memories change over time. The raw sensory impressions start to decay almost immediately, and the brain patches up the holes, so eventually, what you have is less like a photograph and more like a painting of a photograph. A blend of imagination and reality.”

“So my brain gave him your eyes.”

Which is disturbing in its own right. Why did his subconscious project me into that role—as one of his tormentors?

In a nearby tree, a crow caws once.

His eyes are distant, unfocused. “Tell me something, Doc. If our memories can't be trusted, then what can?”

I hesitate. “Science? Things that can be validated with hard evidence?”

“Yeah, well, we're a little short on evidence.” His hands are shaking. He shuts his eyes and presses the heels of his hands against his lids. Fumbling, he fishes two more pills from his pocket and swallows them. How many of those does he take in a day?

I move a small, cautious step closer. “You trust
me,
don't you?”

He doesn't answer.

“Steven?”

“Nothing personal, Doc.” He smiles tightly. “I don't trust anyone.”

The words sting more than they should. “Even after I saved your life?” The question comes out sounding somehow arrogant.

“I'm grateful for that. Really. But I still don't understand why you did it.”

“Because …”
Because you're my client. Because you're my friend. Because the thought of losing you makes me so scared, I can't breathe.
“I don't want anyone to die if I can prevent it,” I finish limply.

“So you run around hoping to save every sad sack who tries to off himself? Must get pretty tiring.”

My nails dig into my palms. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing.”

I breathe in, struggling for patience. “I swear, I just want to help you.”

He grips his own arms, fingers digging into his flesh. “That's what scares me.” He laughs, a bitter bark. “Every guy in a white coat who's ever strapped me into that fucking Conditioning machine, every nurse who's ever stuck a needle in my arm to sedate me because I was getting ‘agitated'—they all just wanted to help. Because I'm too sick and screwed up to make my own decisions, they have to force a cure down my throat, like I'm some bratty little kid who doesn't want to take his cough syrup. And you're not like them—I know that—but still, you work for the system. You have to follow its rules.” His lips twist in something that's half smile, half agonized grimace. “So, what happens if you have another conscience attack and decide that ‘helping' me means turning me over to IFEN?”

I flinch.

I want to deny that it would ever happen, but not long ago, I came close to doing just that—simply because I no longer saw myself as qualified to treat him. What would have happened to Steven if I'd succumbed to self-doubt? “Listen,” I say quietly. “Things have changed. I know more than I did before. I'm in this as deep as you are. In order to keep searching for the truth, we have to trust each other. If we don't, we won't last long.”

He doesn't answer.

“I swear, Steven. I'll never hand you over to them or let them do anything to you against your will. I'd prove it if I could, but it's not like I can open up my head and let you see my intentions. You'll just have to—” The words wither in my throat as I realize what I've said.

His brow furrows, and the look in his eyes shifts. It's now sharp, intent. “You could,” he says, speaking slowly, as if feeling
out the words as he goes. “It's possible, isn't it? We could switch places. I could use the Gate on you.”

My heartbeat grows louder, filling my ears. “It's not that simple. You don't have the training.”

“What, is it dangerous? Could I accidentally fry your brain or something?”

“Well … no. Not if I set it to observe-only mode.”

“Then what's the problem?”

My pulse drums in my throat and wrists. If I let him in my head, he'll see my feelings for him, and I'm not even sure what those feelings are—just that they're complicated and bewildering and far too strong, and I'm not supposed to have them. “It wouldn't be a good idea,” I mumble, studying my shoes.

When I raise my head, the look in his eyes has changed again. It's hard, cold. Dangerous.

Involuntarily, I take a step back.

In one stride, he closes the distance between us. My back goes rigid as he reaches up. Thin fingers slide into the hair at the nape of my neck, twining through the long strands. He grips, anchoring my head in place, and brings his own face closer, until I can see every filament of color in his irises, all the subtle shades of blue and gray interwoven like the threads of a tapestry. I nearly swallow my tongue. We're standing almost nose to nose, as if he's about to kiss me, but he doesn't look like someone lost in passion. He looks … feral. “What's wrong?” I ask, my voice wobbling.

His fingers tighten in my hair, sending tiny twinges of pain through my scalp. “There's something you're not telling me.” Wildness dances in his eyes, like lightning flickering in clouds.
A vision flashes through my head—Steven tackling the young man at his old school, biting a chunk out of his face, ripping flesh as the man screamed. “Something you don't want me to see. Is that it?”

I somehow manage to unswallow my tongue long enough to whisper, “No.”

“Then why don't you want me to use the Gate on you?”

Panic eats away at my thoughts. He can't hurt me—the collar will stop him if he tries—but that's not what I'm afraid of. I don't know what I'm afraid of.

I breathe in, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. “Steven,” I say, struggling to keep my expression blank, “you can't just demand access to someone's mind. A person's thoughts are very private. I entered yours only because you asked me to. I wouldn't have done it if it weren't a necessary part of the treatment. This—what you're asking for—it's different.” Sweat trickles down my sides, tiny, cold beads. “Let me go.”

He doesn't move.

“Let me go,” I repeat with more force.

He hesitates. His fingers loosen their grip and slide out of my hair. The crazed glint in his eyes fades, and he looks merely uncertain. Lost.

I close my eyes briefly and turn my thoughts inward, seeking the center of calm within me. I touch the back of my head. My scalp stings. “Don't ever do that again,” I say softly. “For a moment, I thought you were going to hurt me.”

His eyes widen and lose focus, as if the reality of the situation is sinking in. Then I see the horror dawning slowly in his expression. “No,” he whispers. “I would never— That's not—” His throat clicks as he swallows. He looks down at
his hands, his face pale. Then he bows his head, shoulders hunched. “I'm sorry.” His voice is so quiet, so subdued. The change is disorienting in its suddenness.

“It's all right,” I say, keeping my tone businesslike. “Just don't do it again.”

His face slowly regains its color. He takes a deep breath and straightens, lifting his eyes to mine. There's a strange look in them, a mixture of determination and pleading. “I won't.”

I nod and give him a small smile. He doesn't return it, but the tension eases out of his shoulders. The silence hangs between us, thick and awkward. I bite my lower lip.

I know so many of his secrets, and he knows only what I've chosen to tell him about myself, which isn't much. Of course it would be inappropriate to let a client into my head, but after all that's happened, I can't keep pretending we're just Mindwalker and client. I'm pretty sure the last scraps of my objectivity flew out the window when I rushed to his apartment and illegally saved his life. And still, I can't bring myself to erase the boundaries between us. Maybe I'm just a hypocrite. “About—about what you asked—”

He shakes his head. “Forget I said anything.” All traces of aggression have drained out of him; he looks weary, wrung out. “I was the one who came to you asking for help that first day. Hell, I wouldn't be here now if not for you. You don't owe me anything.”

The words should relieve me. Instead, they hurt.

The sun has almost vanished beneath the horizon. Its light bleeds over the roofs, red-orange, thick as syrup.

“So, what now?” he asks. His tone is brisk, neutral, as if the whole conversation never happened.

I hook a few loose tendrils of hair behind my ear and try to collect my scattered thoughts. “Well, there's one pill left. Though we can't take it yet, obviously.”

His lips press into a thin line. “Do I even want to know what else is hidden in my head? I mean, if the truth sucks, is it worth finding?”

“That's something only you can decide. It's your past.” Cautiously, I lay a hand on his arm. He tenses. “Just remember that you aren't alone.”

He looks at me, and all the guardedness and sharp edges are gone. He looks lost, and very young.

I fold my arms around him. His breath hitches. For a moment, he just stands there, back rigid, every muscle tensed in a fight-or-flight reflex. He places his hands against my shoulders as if to push me away. Then his arms go limp and he leans into the embrace, as if he can't help it. A tiny shiver runs through his body.

We remain that way for several minutes. The clouds turn from pink to soft violet, and the light fades from the sky. At last, Steven pulls away and wipes one sleeve across his eyes.

“Should we go inside?” I ask. “I don't know about you, but I could use something warm to drink.”

He nods.

Later, we sit in the kitchen as a kettle of tea brews on the stove, filling the air with the scent of mint. My cell phone rings. Distractedly, I answer. “Hello?”

“I've given you an excessively generous number of chances,” Dr. Swan says.

My chest turns hollow.

“Report to IFEN headquarters for Conditioning in one
hour,” he says, “or your Mindwalking license will be revoked. Permanently.” He hangs up.

Slowly, I lower the phone.

“Who was that?” Steven asks.

“No one,” I murmur. “A wrong number.”

“I thought we were going to trust each other.”

He's right, of course. I close my eyes for a few seconds. “Dr. Swan,” I whisper. “He knows something, Steven. Not just about us. I think he might know what happened to you.”

Steven tenses. His expression is shielded, wary. “You think so?”

“I realize it sounds crazy. But I can't think of any other explanation. And now he's telling me to stop digging for answers.” Dr. Swan's voice echoes in my memory:
All it takes is two words, Lain. Two words in your file.
I don't think he's bluffing. He's prepared to ruin my life, my future, if I don't obey him. Dr. Swan has always been overbearing, but I never realized he was capable of such ruthlessness. I wonder how well I really know him.

For a minute, the only sound is the ticking clock. The teakettle whistles, cutting through the silence. I grab a pot holder and take the kettle off the heat, splashing some tea on the counter. Numbly, I pour the amber liquid into two cups, though I don't feel like drinking it.

I
can't
go in for Conditioning. I won't let him do this to me. But if I don't, then what?

I drop a few lumps of sugar in my tea and watch them dissolve.

If I don't go in, he'll take everything from me. If I can't be a Mindwalker, what's left? I've focused everything I am on this
one dream. Now it's being ripped away from me, and there's nothing I can do. I'm squeezed into a corner, trapped. I want to scream.

“You should go,” Steven says.

My head snaps up. “What?”

“It's just Conditioning. Not the end of the world.” His face is a mask. “Hell, we've both gone through it before.”

“Yes, but …” Dr. Swan will probably administer the treatment personally. I don't want him in my head, whispering subliminal suggestions while my mind is open and unguarded, creeping into my subconscious and rearranging things to suit himself. The thought makes me physically ill.

Is this why Father didn't seek help?

“What do you think I should do?” I ask quietly.

Steven gives me an odd, resigned smile. “This is your life,” he says. “I can't make the decision for you. But I won't resent you for it if you go in.”

I swallow, hard. “I'm going upstairs to change,” I mutter. My shirt is still damp with sweat from the Lucid nightmare.

I trudge up the stairs to my room and slip into a fresh blouse.

Last time I went in for Conditioning, I was an absolute wreck, paralyzed by depression and grief. It was remarkable how those dark clouds seemed to lift from my mind, leaving me light and empty. Afterward, I ate strawberry Jell-O in the cafeteria. I remember holding up a cube of it on my fork, being utterly amazed by its translucence, the way it caught the sunlight from the window. I probably stared at that blob of Jell-O for five minutes. The next few days had a bright, hazy quality, and thoughts rolled off the surface of my mind like water. It
was impossible to focus on one thing for more than a minute or two. But after that, reality gradually reasserted itself. The grief returned, but blunter, less overwhelming, and my mind felt clearer and sharper.

Just Conditioning. I'll be stupid and spacey for a bit, but it can't erase what I know now, and it's too soon to give up the rest of my life. I just have to hold on to my convictions, to ignore the seductive whispers in my head telling me that everything is okay, that there's nothing to worry about. I can do that, can't I?