Mindwalker (31 page)

“If that's the bartender who pointed a rifle at us, then yes,” Steven says.

“That would be him. He's a little rough-mannered, but he's a good man.” She smooths her dress. “Well, come in.” She steps aside, beckoning.

I hesitate. From what I can see of the interior, it's ordinary enough. The walls and floor are of dark varnished wood. There's a couch and a table with a stained-glass lamp. No TV. No modern technology in sight at all. The phone next to the lamp is the sort that hasn't been made for decades—a landline with a long, curly cord. I recognize it only from old pictures.

Gracie waits, watching us.

We're here. It seems rather pointless to show up and then refuse to come in. Slowly, I step into the house. Steven follows. The floorboards creak underfoot, and the whole place smells faintly of pine. A fire crackles in a stone hearth.

“Close the door, please,” she says. “It's cold out.”

I ease the door shut.

“This way,” Gracie says, leading us into a small kitchen. The walls are papered with a design of bright yellow daisies, and the squat refrigerator looks like a prewar relic. Which it
probably is. “I was just making some coffee. Would you like some?”

Steven and I exchange a long look.

She smiles, showing a dimple in her left cheek. “I'm not going to poison you or drug you.”

“How can we be sure?” Steven asks.

Gracie pauses. Her gaze focuses on his collar. Then, slowly, she turns. Her braid trails down to the center of her back, thick cords of shiny brown hair threaded with a few strands of gray. She lifts the braid, exposing her neck, then peels off a skin-colored square of material from just below the base of her skull, exposing a tiny, puckered scar. It takes me a moment to realize what it means, but when I do, my jaw drops. Gracie had a collar. The scar marks the place where it was once wired into her nervous system.

“Holy shit,” Steven breathes. His eyes are wide.

“I thought it was impossible to remove the collar,” I whisper.

“Not impossible. Just difficult.” She replaces the patch, drops her braid, and turns to face us. “I didn't always live in Wolf's Run, you know. I came here for the same reason you did. To escape.”

“And IFEN hasn't come after you?” Steven asks.

“I had to cover my tracks very carefully. Gracie Turner is not my real name.” Her expression is grim, her lips a thin, pale line.

She picks up a silver coffeepot and pours a cup. “I grew up in a state ward,” she says. “A war orphan. Like many of those orphans, I was a Four from an early age. My options were limited. As I'm sure you're aware, very few people will
hire someone like me. I started stealing and selling drugs on the black market, because it was the only way to survive. I was caught and evicted from my apartment, and I ended up on the streets. I'd probably have taken Somnazol by now if someone hadn't helped me escape the city. The people of this town allowed me to stay, fortunately.” She pours another cup of coffee, then sets both cups on the table. “Once, I believed that I was defective. A broken machine. I grew up hearing that from everyone. Instead of blaming my oppressors for my suffering, I blamed the wiring in my own brain. It took me a long time to abandon that view.” She sets a small pitcher of cream on the table, alongside a bowl of sugar. “IFEN's propaganda is powerful and insidious. It creeps into your mind like poisonous gas and invades the deepest corners of your identity. There's just enough scientific truth in it to sound plausible … but then, systems of oppression have always twisted science to fit their goals. Centuries ago, they used to measure the circumference of skulls and weigh human brains on little scales to prove the alleged inferiority of certain types of people. The methods have become a bit more sophisticated now. But we have been here before. So many times.” She nods to the table. “Sit.”

Slowly, I sit. My mind churns. I feel like I should say something in response, but Gracie doesn't seem to expect it. I pick up the nearest coffee cup and take a tiny sip. It's bitter—I've never much cared for coffee—but the heat feels good going down my throat. “Thank you.”

“Cream?”

“Yes please.”

Steven is still standing, hovering near the door, hands shoved into his pockets.

“And you, dear?” she asks. “How do you take it?”

Judging by Steven's disoriented expression, being called “dear” is not a common experience for him. “Uh, black.” After a few seconds, he slides into the chair next to mine.

She pours a cup of coffee for herself and drinks. “I take it you're headed for the Canadian border?”

“Yes,” I manage. My voice emerges faint and hoarse.

“Follow the highway north until you reach Thorn Road, then take that deeper into the forest. You'll have to leave your car behind once you reach the fence. The roads crossing the border are too well guarded. But there are other ways to get through. Secret tunnels leading under the fence.” She drops a cube of sugar into her coffee. “I can show you how to find them.”

“Then it's possible?” Steven asks. His eyes are fever-bright, intense.

“Of course,” she says. “People escape into Canada all the time. There are safe houses scattered across the country, places where refugees can hide.”

Steven leans forward. “So, how can we find these safe houses?”

“There's a symbol.” She draws it on a paper napkin: a curved, stylized letter
Z.
“You'll see it somewhere on or near the house, usually in red paint.”

“And how many refugees are there?” I ask.

“More than you'd ever believe. There's a movement going on up north. A movement to help people like us.”

For a moment, I can't find my voice. I realize, to my surprise, that I'm close to tears. We're not alone, after all. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“No need to thank me. This is what I do.” She interlaces her plump fingers. They look soft, but I get the feeling they're toughened with calluses. “Would you like some cookies? I made them today.”

Even though I've just eaten, my stomach gurgles. “That sounds wonderful.”

She brings out a plate of enormous oatmeal cookies studded with nuts and raisins. We sit at the table eating the thick, chewy treats and sipping our coffee. I take a swig, washing down a sticky mouthful.

“Oh, by the way,” she remarks, “you may want to park your car somewhere less conspicuous before you settle in for the night. There's a barn out back where you can hide it. You will stay the night, won't you?”

“Well,” I say, “a bed does sound wonderful right now.” We should probably try to get a few hours of sleep, at least. My vision keeps going blurry, and my head feels like a block of cement. “I don't want to impose, though—”

“Nonsense.” Gracie crouches and shoves back a rug, revealing a trapdoor with an iron ring. She grabs the ring and pulls the door open. A set of stairs leads downward. “The cellar's actually quite comfortable. Even if the police come looking for you, they won't find you there, and it has a secret tunnel leading out, in case you need to escape quickly.”

Looking down into the square of darkness, I feel a twinge of unease. I don't think Gracie would betray us. Still, I'm painfully aware of how much trust we're placing in a woman we've just met.

Steven's munching his way through his fifth cookie. “Are
you going to tell us how you got rid of your collar?” he asks, mouth full.

She winks. “I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.”

We both freeze.

“That was a joke,” she says.

“Oh.” I force a small chuckle.

We park behind the barn and throw a tarp over the car, hiding it from the sight of passersby. Nearby, a group of chickens scratch and peck in the dirt. The warbling bleats of the goats pierce the silence. Overhead, stars shine like diamond dust scattered on black velvet. So many stars. In Aura, you're lucky if you can see a handful.

“I think we should stay the night,” I tell Steven. “But if you still want to leave …”

“No. We should rest while we have the chance.” We walk back toward the house. His expression is distant, pensive. “I don't think she's lying to us. That stuff she said about her life, about being a Type Four … it didn't feel like bullshit.”

I nod in agreement.

Steven stops suddenly, looking off to the side. In the distance, a dark wall of forest looms. A shudder runs through him—the movement is barely perceptible, but I notice the telltale twitch of his shoulders. “Thorn Road,” he murmurs. “The
road she told us to take through the woods … that's the same road where they found me after I escaped from St. Mary's.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah.”

The hairs on my nape stiffen, and a primal thrill of something between fear and hunger races down my spine. But hunger for what? St. Mary's is nothing but a ruin. Isn't it?

Steven turns away from the forest. It seems to take an effort.

We return to Gracie's house, carrying the suitcase. I take the Gate, too; I don't want to leave it unattended. The door is unlocked. When we enter, she's curled up on the couch, reading a paper book. “Ready?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She opens the trapdoor and hands me a small gas lamp, and we descend a set of cement steps into a small but surprisingly cozy and clean cellar with two beds. “Good night,” Gracie says. “If you need anything, just call out.” She gently closes the trapdoor. I hear a rustle of movement above as she drags the rug over it. I set the gas lamp on the nightstand.

A cool, dry, spicy smell hangs in the air, and the walls and floor are brick, with a few woven rugs to brighten up the bareness. There's a tiny bathroom off to one side. Steven pulls the ND from his pocket and lays it next to the gas lamp. I take off my shoes and sit on the edge of a bed.

We're close to the border now. If we leave early in the morning, we could probably reach it before nightfall. Yet I find my thoughts wandering to the forest. To St. Mary's. We're so close. I feel it pulling at me, like a gravitational force.

Steven watches me intently, as if he knows exactly what
I'm thinking. “This might be our only chance to see what's in that place.”

“I know.”

“I want to see it,” he says. “Even if there's nothing left.”

St. Mary's isn't due north of here. It would take us off our course. Only a little, but still. “It would slow us down. It would be risky.”

He bites the corner of his mouth. Then he gives his head a shake—not a denial, but the sort of shake people do when they're trying to clear their thoughts. “Let's just get some rest.”

I nod, undo my pigtails, and comb my fingers through my hair. I glance at the nearest rug on the floor and nudge it aside to reveal another trapdoor. “I guess this is the escape passage she mentioned.” I pull it open a crack. Beyond is a rough tunnel supported with a few beams of wood. It doesn't look very safe; hopefully, we won't have to use it, but if it comes down to that, I won't hesitate. Carefully, I ease the door shut. “It's amazing, isn't it?”

“What?”

“That there are people in the world like her—people who are willing to put themselves at risk to help complete strangers. I mean, for all she knows, we could be spies. Yet she opened her home to us. It gives me hope.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Funny. That's about what
I
thought when I met you.”

I open my mouth in surprise. Warmth rises into my face.

Before I can think of a response, he continues: “Anyway, I don't think she's doing this just because she's a nice person. She's got some goal. And she's not working alone, either. You
heard what she said. She was talking about safe houses and secret symbols. This is part of something bigger.”

“What do you think it means?”

He meets my gaze. “I think the Blackcoat rebellion is still going on. She's part of it. The more people they can help, the more possible recruits they have.”

My heart gives a small, sharp lurch. I remember the glimpse of graffiti in the monorail station. At the time, I almost wanted to believe it meant something. Yet now I find myself disturbed by his words. “You know what the Blackcoats were like. They killed innocent people. They wanted to tear down society. Gracie's not like that.” Of course, we don't know her. I can't say with any certainty what she would or wouldn't do, but somehow, I can't see her rigging bombs or picking people off with a sniper rifle. “You don't really think she's a terrorist, do you?”

He slips off his coat and throws it across a chair. “Well, you know what they say. One person's terrorist is another person's freedom fighter.” He flashes a humorless smile.

My mouth has gone dry. In school, they showed us the footage over and over—the bombs, the blood, the charred rubble. The images flicker through my head in a grisly slide show. “Surely you don't
agree
with their methods?”