No Light (16 page)

             
Keane shook his head slowly.

             
"I expected you would have this worked out. Maybe, I gave you too much credit."

             
"You disgust me."

             
Keane had the gall to laugh at his sneer.

             
"You've ripped people apart with your bare hands, and you think I'm disgusting?" He snorted in dark amusement.

             
Farran rose slowly to walk toward to the bars. He pressed his hands against the security shield until the energy burned his palms. Keane's eyes widened in alarm when he did not move away. Farran sneered.

             
"One day, very soon, this wall will not be between us."

             
"I could keep you locked in there."

             
Farran's smile widened at the slight waver in the handler's tone. He watched Keane rise from his place and move closer.

             
"I got rid of Bill and Margaret. That little shit, John, is as good as dead. You really think I would bat an eye if that red-haired bitch went missing?"

             
Farran snarled before he could stop himself.

             
"That's what I thought," Keane continued. He nodded.

             
His gaze drifted away, as he seemed to think. Farran watched him carefully, quickly logging each expression that crossed the human's face. A surge of protective anger suddenly filled him. Keane licked his lips and turned back to him.

             
"What is the secret?" At his raised eyebrow, Keane clarified. "The healing, the life span, all of it."

             
Farran stepped back, shaking his head in amusement.

             
"That is what you want?" He laughed, at Keane's pinched face. "There is no weakness. You have wasted my time and your own."

             
"There has to be something. Tell me what it is and I'll ignore Mackenzie's snooping."

             
"There is nothing. Do you truly think you are the first to entertain that idea? That no one else has sought our destruction in six thousand years?" He scoffed. "You are pathetic."

             
Keane's jaw clenched, before he appeared to gain control over himself.

             
"Nine generations of meddling Mackenzie's. Nine accidents." His lips curved into a mockery of a smile. "And you think I'm pathetic."

...

              "Hey you! I didn't think I'd see you again until tomorrow."

             
Sarah gave Luke a small smile, as he struggled to push himself up in bed.

             
"You don't have to go through all that trouble," she assured him quietly.

             
Her eyes flicked toward the bedside table. The piece of paper was absent.

             
"Nonsense. I can at least put in a little effort for a guest who's nice enough to visit me?" He gave her a bright smile.

             
"So, how's your head? I'm sorry I didn't get to ask earlier." She glanced at the chair next to his bed.

             
"It's doing alright. The doctor said it looked worse than it really was. Just a gash." He gestured to the back of his head.

             
"Oh." She shifted awkwardly.

             
"Where are my manners? Please have a seat." He waved her toward the chair, smiling when she perched at the edge of the chair.

             
"Did you need stitches?"

             
He nodded and grimaced. "Just a few. It's wasn't too horrible."

             
A fresh wave of guilt went through her at his light tone. She bit her lip. "I really am sorry, Luke. There's no excuse for-"

             
"Please, stop beating yourself up about it. The Dems are dangerous. I went through training and I know every time I go down there, it could be my last. I let my guard down. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine."

             
Sarah sighed and slumped in the chair. At Luke's persistent smile, she nodded.

             
"Good. Now that that's settled, what are you up to today? The doctor said I'm free to go sometime this afternoon."

             
She could not help her lips from curving at his eager tone. "I don't have any plans," she said slowly. "I spoke with my brother this morning after I saw you. I had a sandwich at home, then I did some window shopping." She shrugged nervously at his intense gaze. "And then I came back to sit with John."

             
Luke nodded. She watched him pluck at the hospital blanket.

             
"So.." He scratched his head, wincing slightly when his fingers grazed fresh stitches. He coughed. "Would you, maybe, want to have a late lunch? With me?"

             
Sarah started to open her mouth, but he continued quickly.

             
"Or an early dinner? Or maybe drinks?"

             
She felt her cheeks heat and smiled.

             
"Ok. I guess I should go change." She started to stand, when he sat forward.

             
"Oh, wait. I wanted to talk to you about something before you go."

             
"Ok..." She settled back down, frowning slightly at the suddenly serious tone.

             
He shifted his body to face her.

             
"Your parents didn't really get along with your uncle, is that right?"

             
Sarah frowned at the question, but nodded.

             
"How much do you know about your family?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, do you know anything about your grandfather?"

             
She looked away from his steady stare.

             
"I know Uncle Bill was much closer to him than my father ever was. They didn't really get along, my father and him."

             
Luke nodded vaguely, frowning down at his lap. She watched him closely. He finally nodded to himself and met her gaze.

             
"I wasn't going to mention it, because I think you have a really good head on your shoulders. And I," he paused to lick his lips. "I really like you, Sarah." He stared at her until she nodded. "Which is why I'm a little worried."

             
"Why?" The question popped out before she could snatch it back, and Luke smiled slightly.

             
"The Mackenzie's have gotten a bad rap for a while now," he answered. The smile faded. "Some people think they were..." he seemed to search for the right word. "Some people consider them troublemakers."

             
Sarah froze. Luke continued unaware of her tense posture.

             
"See, they all had this idea in their heads. This crazy idea that the Dems deserved freedom." He let out a forced sounding laugh in her direction. "That their imprisonment was somehow wrong." He shook his head in apparent bemusement. He glanced at her.

             
Sarah forced a disgruntled frown.

             
"You see how that's crazy, right?" he asked softly.

             
She nodded quickly. "Of course."

             
"Because, they are obviously there for a reason." She felt him studying her.

             
"What's the reason?"

             
He frowned in obvious confusion. "What do you mean?"

             
Her mind instantly went to the book under her pillow at home. She turned to Luke and gave him her best fake smile.

             
"Nothing."

             
He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it.

             
"I'll just run home and change. Should I be back around four?" She tried to hold her smile and ignore the searching look he gave her.

             
Finally, he sighed and smiled. "That sounds great."

             
She felt his eyes on her all the way to the door.

             
"Sarah?" he called.

             
She smiled over her shoulder.

             
"So, we're on the same page, right?"

             
"Of course."

             
She pulled the door closed behind her.

Chapter Nine

Discarded Hearts

              Sarah closed the door to the hallway behind her and turned the lock. Her hand slid along the wall to the right of the door, until her fingers caught the light switch. It snapped up and the room filled with light. She took a step forward and looked around.

             
The room appeared colorless in the light of the dusty bulb. Everything, from the concrete walls to the white filing cabinets, appeared the same dingy dishwater-grey. She tightened her grip on her bag and walked to the table in the center of the room.

             
The top of a computer screen peeked out from beneath the blanket of paper that crowded the small writing desk. She carefully shuffled everything into one stack and set it on the floor next to the desk. She took a deep breath to steady herself and sat. Her hands shook, as she grasped the keyboard and pulled it toward her.

             
The screen flickered on. The emblem of the city blazed a bright gold from the azure background. She tapped the keyboard and the crown and scepter symbol dissolved to be replaced by a menu page. The left side of the screen held date ranges. Her eyes scanned the gold writing.

             
The top of the screen started at 1800 and ranged to 1810. She followed the dates down the page. They ended at 2024. The year was highlighted. She pressed the key to move the cursor to 1800 and selected the year. The screen filled with text. Twelve months followed the heading for each year. She frowned.

             
A search box in the top right corner of the screen caught her eye. She quickly typed in her last name. The full page of text dissolved and twenty-two names appeared in two neat columns. The left started in 1800 and ended with Alexander Mackenzie's birth in 1912. His name had a purple star to the left of it.

             
Sarah tipped her head to the side. She scanned the names on the list and noticed eleven of them had the same symbol. She tapped a key to highlight the symbol next to her name. The screen dissolved and reformed into an image of her identification picture for The Corridor. To the left of her face, a list of documents glowed a faint purple.

She skipped down the list, skimming over her birth certificate and education record, until she found the document with the symbol. Her application for The Corridor. She bit her lip and pressed the key to return to the list of Mackenzie's. She selected the name at the top of the list on the left.

              Arthur Mackenzie. She selected his birth certificate and read over the information. Born May 18th, 1898 in Ameretat. Oldest child of George and Caroline Mackenzie [see archive 2694]. She hummed to herself and selected his documents for The Corridor.

             
"Began work in The Corridor in 1838 after the death of Caleb Mackenzie," she muttered to herself.

             
She read over four pages, until she found his death mentioned. She selected his death certificate from the documents at the left of the screen. Her eyes skimmed the document until she found the cause of death. Accidental drowning. She frowned and closed his information to select the next.

             
"George Mackenzie. Born 1826," she read. She closed his birth certificate and skipped The Corridor documentation to read his death certificate. Died 1875. Accidental poisoning. She hurried back to the list of names.

             
Her eyes scanned over two names, before she came to another with a purple star. She selected it and skipped to the death certificate. Henry Mackenzie. Died June 14th, 1901. Hypothermia. She closed his information to open the next. Michael Mackenzie. Died 1924. Fall. Her eyes narrowed. A woman laughed in the offices above her. She glanced toward the door, but opened the next name on the list.

             
James M Mackenzie. Hunting accident. She started to open the next name when her eyes caught on the signatures at the bottom of the death certificate. It was signed by the city clerk, Frederick Robinson, and witnessed by Sheriff Robert Keane. She hurried to open the next name. Alexander Mackenzie. Industrial accident. Her eyes searched the document and landed on the same two names. Keane and Robinson. A sick feeling began in her stomach.

             
She selected her great-grandfathers name and read over the death certificate. James A Mackenzie. Airway obstruction. At the bottom of the death certificate, the coroner had left a note for supporting documentation and signed below the city clerk. The names Keane and Robinson made her swallow hard.

             
As she stared at her grandfather's name, something made her pause. Her hand hovered over the keyboard. Eight Mackenzie's had represented her family in The Corridor from 1800 to 1979, and all eight of them had suffered fatal accidents. The limited possibilities circled in her mind.

             
She licked her lips nervously and selected her grandfather's name. Albert Mackenzie. Smoke Inhalation. Her breath caught. It was just like her brother. Only he had survived. The same two names, Keane and Robinson, were signed at the bottom of the death certificate. Hands shaking, she forced herself to pull up her uncle's information.

             
William Mackenzie. Industrial accident. She shook her head in denial. She could clearly remember the day her uncle died. He stayed home from The Corridor to discuss something important with John. It was something between the two of them. Her eyes scanned the screen.

             
The city clerk, Sharon Keane, signed just above Sheriff Robinson. She searched the page for more information about the supposed accident, but there was nothing.

             
"We can't just be unlucky," she whispered.

             
She exited out of her uncle's profile and stared at the three remaining names on the list. Her father, Louis Mackenzie, was the only name without a purple star. Her eyes dropped to land on her brother's name. She felt her eyes start to burn and had to look away. She took a deep breath. Her eyes fixed on the only door.

             
The sound of dozens of people hard at work just a few yards from her, made her jerk her eyes back to the computer. She let her breath out slowly and selected her brother's name. She opened his birth certificate, even though she knew the information by heart. She skipped over his name to read the multiple birth information. She raised her hand to run her finger across the screen.

             
First born twin. She blinked away her tears. Her eyes landed on her own name under his with a note for her profile. She sniffled and dropped her hand back to the table. She punched the keyboard until her brother's list of documents appeared at the left of the screen. A document near the bottom made her gasp. She quickly selected his death certificate.

             
Her eyes jumped to the cause of death and she grit her teeth. Smoke inhalation. She skimmed the document and her eyes landed on the same two names. Sharon Keane and Joseph Robinson. She shook her head hard. Her eyes slowly rose to read the death date. March 3rd, 2024. Two weeks away. She collapsed back in the chair and stared at nothing, as her mind tried to make sense of it.

             
The door at the top of the stairs slammed and she jerked upright. Heavy footsteps started down the stairway. Her eyes flicked from the door to the surrounding shelves. The footsteps continued toward the basement and a man coughed. She leapt from the chair, barely remembering to exit from the computer archives, before she raced behind the dusty stacks.

             
The light bulb overhead, cast the corners of the basement in shadows. She pressed herself between two tall shelves and knelt. The doorknob twisted back and forth and the door swung open. Almost identical to her trainer, the man stepped into the basement. He scanned the room with a piercing, blue gaze. Sarah froze when his eyes swung in her direction.

             
She held her breath, only letting it out when he took a step in the opposite direction. She watched him walk past the computer and glance at it. She could see the black screen from where she knelt. He frowned and continued toward the stacks at the back of the room. Sarah waited until he vanished behind the shelves, and leapt to her feet.

             
She raced toward the door and pulled it closed behind her without slowing down. She took the steps two at a time, streaking past surprised office workers and slamming out the front door. The shock of winter air almost took her breath away, but she forced herself to keep running. She did not stop until she turned down the alley behind her house.

             
She stumbled across the narrow street and leaned heavily against a fence, breathing hard. So far from the city square, the blare of cars horn gave way to barking dogs. She took a few deep breaths and straightened. Pulling her hood up around her face, she trudged down the alley.

             
She passed nothing, but empty, snow-covered backyards. Her boots scuffed against the gravel and ice, the steady crunch loud to her ears. The wood fence gave way to gnarled chain link. She grasped the gate and lifted it out of the ice. It swung open with a loud screech. She grit her teeth.

             
"Get your ass in here, girl!"

             
Sarah flinched, jerking her gaze to the back door of the house. Her father glared at her. His boot tapped the top step impatiently. She gave him a quick nod and threw her weight against the gate to push it closed. She hurried toward him.

             
"This is the last straw," she heard him mutter, as she passed him and stepped into the kitchen. The door slammed and she jumped.

             
"I put up with you following your brother around like a puppy," her father started.

             
She blinked at him.

             
"I put up with you spending time with that idiot," he spat.

             
"Who?"

             
The back of his hand struck her across the cheek and she gasped.

             
"My brother, smartass."

             
She nodded. Her face felt hot under her fingertips, but she clenched her jaw against the sting.

             
"But, then what do you do? Your ass goes around town askin' questions. Just like your fuckin' uncle, can't just leave good enough alone, can ya?"

             
Sarah tensed, as he raised his hand again. He seemed to change his mind.

             
"You know what? I'm about sick o' you."

             
"Louis..."

             
Sarah jerked her head to look at her mother, just noticing her presence. She watched the two of them stare at each other.

             
"Get out," her father finally said.

             
She stared at him.

             
"I said, get the hell out of my house!" he yelled, raising his fist.

             
Sarah nodded hurriedly and spun on her heel. She ran toward the stairs, but paused in the living room to stare at the wall over the couch. Large, red letters spelled out a warning for her family.

             
"Mind your business or, next time, this won't be paint," she whispered to herself. She scowled and glanced at the front door.

             
It hung at an odd angle, the top hinges the only thing keeping it in place. She scanned the room and her mouth fell open. The glass from the broken TV screen glistened on the carpet. Foam from the couch cushions mixed with scraps of fabric from the curtains, and everything was strewn across the living room floor. Her eyes jerked to the staircase.

             
She rushed across the room and hurried up the stairs. She saw the ashes from the end of the hall. The door was thrown open and, as she walked closer, she could make out the edge of her bed. She forced herself to step into the room and look around. Her mattress lay against the wall between the bed frame and the wall.

             
The pile of ash lay in front of her smashed dresser. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the scorched circle and reached out to touch the small part of the book cover that survived the fire. The brown cotton flaked in her hand, until only a part of the title remained. The Dems. Her fingers curled around the words.

             
"Hey. I just came to see if-"

             
Her head popped up at the familiar voice. She glanced toward her door, as she heard her father respond.

             
"It's none of your business. Now, get the hell outta here!"

             
"I was supposed to meet your daughter for lunch, but-"

             
"I said, get outta here!"

             
Sarah climbed to her feet. She tucked the remains of the book into her pocket.