Mindwalker (36 page)

I huddle on the floor, probing my neck with careful fingertips. “How much do you remember?” My voice sounds like someone ran it through a meat grinder.

“I—I don't know. How can you even
think
about that now? I just—”

“Steven.” I speak as firmly as I can. I need to confirm that we saw and heard the same thing before the elusive memories slip away. Already, the details are fading. “What do you remember?”

His eyes lose focus. He touches his own cheek, a slow, dazed movement, and stares at the moisture on his fingertips. “I saw … There was a girl. Lizzie.” His voice is soft, faraway. “She was …” His brow furrows, as if he's trying to work out a math problem in his head. Slowly, he raises his hands to his own throat. Horror dawns in his expression.

“Steven, listen to me,” I say firmly. “You were a child. A child in a desperate, terrible situation. You're not responsible for what happened.”

He closes his eyes and presses the heels of his hands against them. “I
killed
her,” he says, his voice thick and choked. “I almost killed you!”

“You weren't in control of your actions—”

He lurches to his feet and takes a few wobbly steps backward, away from me. “You've seen the inside of my head. You know what I'm like.” He draws in a rattling breath and raises his fists to his temples. “Maybe they were right to watch me and collar me. Maybe I'm a monster.”

I stand, facing him, and grab his arm. He looks at me in
surprise. “I've been inside plenty of heads,” I say. “I've seen monsters. Trust me, you're not one of them.”

“Lain …”

I wrap my arms around him. Slowly, he returns the hug. I comb my fingers through his soft hair, slide a hand beneath his coat, and stroke his back. I can feel the bumps of his spine through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. I wish I knew what to say to him. I feel so young, so lost. We both are.

At last, he straightens, wiping his eyes. “Those two guys,” he says. “The doctors …”

“One of them was Dr. Swan,” I say, my voice hardening. “I'm certain.” The first two times Steven took Lucid, the memories were fuzzy, but this time I got a good look at their faces. There's no doubt.

“And the other?”

I close my eyes. Deep down, I already realized the truth, but I didn't want to accept it. Even now, I can't understand why the good man I knew would get mixed up in something like this. I don't want to say the words, because that will make it real. But I have no choice. “My father.”

Silence descends on us.

“I'm sorry,” Steven says at last, very softly.

My father was partially responsible for his kidnapping and torture, and he's sorry for
me.
I want to laugh. Or cry. But I can't let myself fall apart. If I start to cry now, I don't know if I'll ever stop. I try to console myself with the knowledge that Father treated Steven with some kindness, at least—he let him out of his cell, took him to see Lizzie—but still, he was
there.
He was part of it. “Never mind,” I say, with a lightness I don't feel. “We have other things to worry about right now.” I look
again at the empty rooms, the crow-filled rafters. “This doesn't look anything like the place in your memories. How could it have decayed this much in ten years?”

His expression goes hazy and distant, turning inward. He walks toward the statue of the robed figure.

“Steven?” He doesn't answer. I shoulder the pack, pick up the flashlights, and follow, leaving the Gate behind.

As we near the base of the pedestal, I sweep the flashlight beam over the statue, the blank face with its slack mouth and upturned eyes. White crow droppings streak the gray robes.

“It's underground,” Steven says.

“What?”

“The real St. Mary's. It's hidden underground.” His voice seems to be coming from far away. “The passageway is under this statue. When they brought us here, they—” He stops. His hand drifts to his temple, and he shakes his head. “Shit. How did they do it?”

I look at the statue again—at its hands, outstretched and cupped, as if offering something invisible—and I notice that the right hand has a hairline crack around the wrist. It's jointed, like the wrist of a marionette. My pulse spikes. “Look.” I point.

His breath catches.

Before I can say anything else, Steven grabs the stone hand and twists. It bends upward with a faint creak. For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then a low, rumbling grind fills the air—a sound like ancient gears turning—and the statue's pedestal ponderously slides to one side, revealing a square opening about six by six feet. A set of wide stone steps leads down into darkness.

We stand motionless at the top of the opening, staring
down. I shine my flashlight inside, but it doesn't penetrate very far; the gloom swallows up the thin yellow beam.

Steven grips my hand. His palm is hot and slick with sweat.

“You know,” I say, “we don't have to go down there.”

His pulse drums in his throat. “I need to see it.”

I give his hand a squeeze. “Whatever happens,” I say softly, “I'll be here.”

His grip tightens.

We descend.

Ten steps. Then twenty. The square of light above us grows smaller and dimmer. Eventually, I stop counting. There are too many steps.

Darkness presses in around us. The only sound, aside from our footsteps, is our rapid breathing. At last, we come to the bottom but even with the flashlights, I can't see much of anything—at least, not more than a few square feet at a time. Curling yellowed tiles cover the floor, and the walls are rough plaster.

“Listen,” Steven whispers, his voice very loud in the silence. “Do you hear that?”

I listen, and I
do
hear it—a low hum, so faint it's more vibration than sound.

I tuck my flashlight under one arm and reach out, fumbling in the darkness. There's a wall. My fingertips slide along the plaster until I encounter smooth plastic. “I found a light switch,” I say. “I'm going to try it.”

I don't really expect it to work. Why would it? But it's worth a shot.

I flick the switch, and bright light floods the hall. My eyelids slam shut, then open a crack. I wait for my eyes to adjust before opening them fully. The light isn't as bright as it first seemed. In fact, the fluorescent tubes overhead are dim. They illuminate a long and narrow hallway lined with doors. Faded tiles stretch on and on.

Steven's breathing quickens.

“Steven?”

He wrenches his hand from mine, bows his head, and clutches it, shaking so hard his teeth chatter. “I remember,” he gasps. “Oh God. I—this place—I remember the smell.” He presses his hands to his nose and mouth.

I hug him tight. He clings to me, shuddering. “Breathe,” I urge.

Gradually, his breathing slows. When he straightens, his expression is calmer. He's still pale, but there's a glint of determination in his eyes, and in his posture—back straight, fists clenched at his sides. “I'm okay.” He gulps. “It just … hit me all at once.”

A chill slides through me. “You remember everything?”

His lips tremble, and he presses them together. “I remember enough.”

Gently, I lay a hand on his arm. I want to ask more, but I'm afraid to. Already, he looks like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.

“Let's keep going,” he mutters.

We resume walking. All the doors are closed, but they have small, barred windows. I shine my flashlight into each. Empty
rooms—bed frames and the occasional desk or file cabinet—and one filled with what appears to be lab equipment, lots of it. I linger outside the door, passing the flashlight beam over a huge microscope. An array of sharp tools glitters on a tray. There are poster-sized photos plastered over the walls, displaying delicate webs of stained tissue. Neurons. Brain scans as well, rows and rows of them lining the back wall—ghostly grayish white shapes, like Rorschach blots.

“How can this place possibly have electricity?” Steven asks.

“There must be a generator,” I say. “A small one. I don't think it's connected to the one in town. It's too far.”

There's something else. Something feels wrong, but it takes me a moment to place it. There's no dust, no cobwebs. The place is empty, yet it looks like it's still in use.

Steven stops in front of a door. His face is dead white, his forehead and upper lip glistening with sweat. “This was my room,” he says quietly.

Behind the door is another barren room containing nothing but a bed frame. We step inside, holding our breath. There are crayon drawings scrawled on the wall—faded, like someone tried to scrub them away and didn't quite succeed. I see a tiny figure inside a cage, gripping the bars, a tear on its cheek. A few feet away are two crudely drawn figures in lab coats with grinning wolf heads, one of them holding a saw. Between them is a small person strapped to a table. The top of its head has been removed.

Steven lets out a high-pitched, jagged laugh. The sound sends chills down my spine. “Oh boy,” he says. “This brings back memories.”

“Steven … what …”

“They gave me crayons. Then they took them away because they didn't like the things I was drawing.”

I think about the white room, the bloody scalpels, Steven immobilized and helpless on a surgical table. The doctors were holding up pictures, I remember, asking him questions. As I stare at the drawings, something clicks, and my insides turn cold.
Brain surgery.
“What did they do to you?” I whisper.

“Good question.”

If they were performing necessary and accepted medical procedures, they wouldn't have done it in secret, or modified Steven's memories. Whatever happened here, it was highly illegal.

We retreat from the room and keep walking. At last, we reach the end of the hall and the final door. Unlike the others, which are plain wood, this one is metal and divided down the middle. There's a panel next to it—a biometric scanner, probably. If there's anything to find, it will be in here. I start to reach out toward the panel, then stop.

“Will it even open for us?” Steven asks.

“My father was one of the men who worked here,” I reply. “My handprints are the same as his—just smaller. It might open for me.”

“Hang on.” He draws the ND from his pocket and thumbs it to the highest setting. He raises it, pointing it at the door. “Go ahead.”

I place a hand on the panel. It flashes green, and the metal door slides open to reveal a small room. The floor is white-tiled, the walls are a cool eggshell, and the whole room glows with soft white lighting that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. There's a simple glass table with a pair of slim
white chairs and a coffin-sized black refrigerator standing in one corner. No other furnishings. No one inside.

Cautiously, I step in. Steven enters behind me, still holding the ND, looking warily around. Slowly, he lowers the weapon.

The doors slide shut behind us, and I give a start.

“It's okay,” Steven says. “We're not locked in. There's another panel inside.” He points to it.

Still, I don't like the feeling of being trapped, and suddenly, I'm desperate to get out of this underground hell, out of this building, out of this whole country. “Let's take a quick look and then head back to the car,” I mutter.

“Yeah.”

The refrigerator hums faintly. I swallow, cross the room, open it a crack, and peek inside.

Six brains float in jars of formaldehyde, pale and forlorn-looking in the yellowish liquid. The blood drains from my face. I quickly shut the door.

“What?” Steven says, walking toward me. “What's in there?”

I'm not squeamish about brains. I've handled and dissected a few in my neuroanatomy courses. But something about
these
brains, here, now, is deeply unsettling. Maybe it's the size. They're smaller than usual. Children's brains. There was one detail I always remembered from Emmett Pike's case, one thing that haunted me.
Their heads were never found.

Oh God.

“I don't know if you want to see this,” I say.

“Open it.”

I take a slow breath and open the refrigerator door. Each
jar is labeled with a name. Daniel, Katherine, Louis, Robert, Shawna. Elizabeth.

Lizzie.

I press a hand to my mouth, and my vision goes blurry. Slowly, I shut the refrigerator and lean against the wall, struggling to breathe past the weight in my chest. When I close my eyes, the forlorn-looking little brains float up behind my eyelids like six withered balloons. Dr. Swan is responsible for this. He must be. What kind of sick person keeps a refrigerator filled with dead children's brains? Does he come here and talk to them? Fondle them?

I think about the lab equipment in the other room, the curious lack of dust. Someone still uses that lab. I have a sudden feeling that if I were to examine it more closely, I'd find slides containing slices of preserved tissue from these very brains. Oh God. The pieces are all coming together.