The Epidemic (34 page)

My heart seizes at the realization that each time, he made me over. The real me, the fake me—there was no distinction. I’m an imposter in my own skin. It’s not just my identity that he fabricated. They continue to erase and rebuild me like some twisted version of role-play therapy. They’ve taken my truth and filled me with lies.

“And you plan to do it again?” I ask, fear strangling the words. “Even though Virginia’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so, yes,” Arthur says. “We need a cure—we need to learn the breaking point of this therapy. Virginia was pushed too far.” He lowers his eyes. “I see that now. But she also fought
it. I only wanted to help her.” He stops abruptly, his body going so still he’s like a statue. After a moment his eyes flick to mine. “She was all I had left,” he adds. “And now, without her, there is only The Program.” He rises. “Perhaps if you came willingly, we could strike a deal.”

That’s not going to happen. I grab the phone from my lap and throw it as hard as I can in his direction. There’s a pop as the phone ricochets off his forehead, and Pritchard cries out in pain. I jump to my feet to escape, but at that exact moment the door opens and two men come rushing in.

I shoot a panicked look at Arthur and find him bent forward, watching me with his cold eyes as if he’s seeing right through me. Blood trickles from a gash on the corner of his forehead, a bruise darkening just above it. I wonder then if he hates me as much as I hate him. I’m the child who survived—not Virginia. There’s pain in that. We were both his experiments.

One of the men grabs me around the waist, while another stabs me in the arm with a syringe. There’s no way I’m getting out of this. It’s too late. The room starts to fade, and my eyelids grow heavy and start to slide shut.

I should have made a deal for Deacon’s and Aaron’s safety. But I already know what my father tried to tell me before: Arthur Pritchard isn’t the kind of man you can make deals with.

I hear Arthur tell the men to take me to the treatment room and prep me. He says to erase everything.

Erase.

I’m not sure if there’s a more terrible word.

THE FIRST THING I NOTICE
is bright white walls that are so stark that I feel an immediate sense of unease. How can anything be so void of life? I try to move and realize my wrists are strapped to the arms of the wooden chair I’m sitting in, thick leather bands lashing me in place.

I’m panic-filled, my eyes flicking throughout the room as I analyze any means of escape. I see none, but it’s possible that the way out hasn’t presented itself yet. I’m about to be erased—the last thing I can afford is to be irrational. I have to keep my head clear, my emotions detached. It’s the only way to survive this.

The door opens, and Marie Devoroux strides in. A painful cry catches in my throat as I look her over. Her hair is neatly tied back, and she wears a long white doctor’s coat. But it’s still her. It’s still Marie.

“Please,” I say, pulling against my wrist straps. “Please help us, Marie. Arthur’s crazy. You have to help us get out.”

She watches me with a careful gaze and sits down on a rolling stool across from me, a clipboard in her hands. “And where’s
out
, Quinlan?” she asks calmly. “Where would we go?”

My lips part, and I try to assess the situation. “We can go—” I wince. A headache has formed behind my eyes, a fracture through my consciousness. Warmth rises in my chest, weakens my muscles. I blink against the pain and shoot a betrayed glace at Marie.

“It’s their brand of truth tea,” she says. “Stronger than what I use. They’re still adjusting the formula.”

“And you’re still letting them experiment on me?”

She clenches her teeth but doesn’t deny it. I wonder if it hurts her, seeing me like this. I wonder how many times she’s seen me like this before.

“Now,” Marie says after a moment. “Where is home, Quinlan?”

“It’s with Deacon,” I say. “And you’ve taken that from me.”

“It’s not with your father back in Corvallis?” she presses.

“He’s not my father.”

“But you love him anyway?” she says.

I tilt my head, surprised by the question. Especially since Marie seemed to think he was in danger earlier. “Yes,” I tell her. “I do.”

She nods and makes a note on her clipboard. I’m not even sure what she’s after, how they plan to erase me. But I have to
believe that the woman who helped raise me will be on my side now.

“Don’t let them do this to me,” I whisper, hoping to appeal to the part of her that might still care about me. “You don’t have to go along with this.”

“Would it matter if I told you that I didn’t have a choice?” she asks.

“No,” I say honestly.

She presses her lips together as if admiring my answer. She takes in a deep breath, her dark brown eyes studying me. “The truth is,” she says, her voice hushed, soothing, “I had a choice and I made it. I gave you the Quinlan McKee file. I sent Aaron away. Deacon was clear, or so I thought.

“Yes, I knew what was coming,” she continues. “I’d been watching Arthur Pritchard dissect his daughter for months. She was never going to get better, not with him. He was losing his grip on reality, becoming more zealous. I knew you were next. So I made the choice to get you out of the department, much to Tom’s dismay. I’m sure he’ll never forgive me for the danger I put you in.”

“Why didn’t you just tell us what was going to happen?” I ask, thinking that her methods led us to this place.

“I thought knowing we were liars would be enough to keep you away. I underestimated your attachments. Your bravery. When you contacted me and asked for my help, I knew it was too late anyway. I doubt you found my number by chance. Arthur probably left it for you. It ensured he’d trap both of us.”

In a matter of an hour I’d found Marie’s whereabouts. I feel stupid for thinking it would be that easy.

“You could have run again,” I say.

She shakes her head slowly like I’m not understanding. “No, I couldn’t,” she says, “and Arthur knew that. It was a message to me that he’d found you. He had you already, even if you didn’t know. And then I had my second choice: an exchange.” She closes her eyes and swallows hard before continuing.

“I offered up my best closers in your place: Tabitha, Shep . . . Reed. In return I asked that Arthur leave you alone. You, Aaron, and Deacon. Initially, he agreed.”

My eyes well up, and my bottom lip quivers. “You got him killed,” I say. “You brought Reed in, and it got him killed. You fucking murdered him, Marie. I thought it was Arthur. Thought it was
me
. But Reed’s dead because of you.”

She turns her face away and brushes the tears as they fall on her cheeks. I let mine fall because there will be more for Reed. So many more. Unless they erase my memory and take him away forever.

“He was only supposed to become a handler,” Marie says, her voice rough. “He was supposed to be fine. I didn’t protect him the way I should have; you’re right.” She looks at me. “I will bear that for the rest of my life. That is mine. But it’s only one of many weights.” Her expression grows wary, and I know there’s more.

“What else did you do?” I ask.

“Your father was serious when he told you not to make a
deal with Arthur. He changes the rules. After Tabitha disappeared, Arthur wanted to amend the deal. He’d already converted Shep. He decided Aaron would be next. And then he gave me one last choice to make.” She takes in a shaky breath. “You or Deacon.”

“You didn’t,” I say, leaning forward, eyes wide. “Please tell me you didn’t just hand him over.”

“I chose to keep you safe, Quinn. Deacon would have come willingly given the option; you know that. When he arrived, the handlers were waiting for him. They told me nothing else. I had second thoughts—that’s when I asked for your help to find him.

“Eventually, I discovered that Arthur brought Deacon here. He’s been slowly picking through his memories, trying to find the right ones to erase. Deacon won’t know you when it’s done.”

“Then stop it,” I growl.

“There’s still one more deal to be made,” she says with a small smile. I’m utterly confused when she gets up and goes to the desk with her clipboard. She moves a metal skull paperweight to the side and presses the intercom on her phone. “The patient in one fifteen is prepped,” she says.

“No,” I tell her, thrashing against my restraints. “Don’t let them erase me, Marie! Please don’t do this!” I start to scream.

The door behind me opens, and I’m a sobbing mess, trying to cling to every memory desperately. My mind spins through big and small moments as if they all have the same importance. They do—because they all filled my heart.

Deacon kissing me for the first time. Aaron and Myra fighting over a video game. My father holding the seat of my bike as he taught me to ride. Marie bringing me to pick out my first bra. Reed telling me he wanted to be a good person.

“Please don’t take them,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut as I feel the handler’s fingers close around my arm. I realize that all these memories combined are me. They’ll erase
me
.

There is a wet thud, and I feel a spray of warm liquid splash across the side of my face. It startles me, and when I turn, I see the man next to me contort his face. In the next second his eyes roll back and he falls to the floor. Blood begins to seep from under him.

I gasp and dart my gaze wildly around. I find Marie standing at the doorway, a bloody paperweight still raised in her hand. A long drip of red runs off it and streams down her wrist and into the sleeve of her white coat. Staining it red like a moving inkblot test.

“Oh my God,” I say, trying to catch my breath. Marie lowers her arm and lets the metal skull fall to the ground. It leaves a crack in the linoleum and rolls next to the unconscious man. “What are you doing?” I ask her.

“My choice is you,” she says. She walks over and undoes the leather straps. I watch her face, smell her perfume—a bit of home here in hell.

“Aaron is—” I start.

“Aaron is waiting outside in the car,” she says. “Arthur can do as he wishes with me, but I’m not letting him take my kids.” She undoes the other strap, and when I’m free, I jump up.
Marie pauses, looking me over. Her expression is a mixture of sorrow and regret—but mostly love.

She grabs the clipboard from her desk and rips off the top page to hand it to me. Confused, I look down and see a building map. Room 134 is circled with a key code scrawled next to it.

“Deacon?” I ask, my adrenaline spiking.

She nods. “Now hurry,” she whispers.

I’m about to dash out, but I stop and look down at the body at our feet. Marie might have killed that guy—surely she’ll have to face up to that. What will they do to her? “You have to run, Marie,” I tell her. “If you—”

“I can’t go with you,” she says her eyes softening. “Evelyn Valentine and I . . . we’re trying to find an alternative to all of this.” She motions around. “We’re trying to stop what The Program wants to do. Arthur isn’t thinking clearly—hasn’t been for a while. With Virginia gone, I can only imagine how bad it will get.” She takes a step back from me, and I can feel her tearing her heart away from me.

“Go,” she says. “Deacon’s in the lab, probably in the final stages of his therapy. Get him and go.” She closes her eyes and presses her lips together. “And please tell him I’m sorry.”

Final stages.
I move to the door and pause only a second to look back at Marie. But it’s long enough to memorize every feature—because memories, I realize now, are what build us.

“I love you, Marie,” I tell her. She puts her hand over her heart as if my words hit her straight there, and then I turn and bolt for the laboratory.

I’M STILL SLIGHTLY DISORIENTED FROM
the medication, but I do my best to follow the map toward the lab. I get confused, turned around. I have to stop once or twice to push the heel of my palm into my temple, willing myself to pull it together. At least this one last time.

I manage to dodge a nurse who’s exiting a room, and eventually I find the lab in room 134. I enter the code from the paper and then shove it into my pocket when I hear the click of the lock opening. I quietly slip inside the room.

The room is larger than the other two I’ve been in. It’s set up like triage, a long rectangular room with several curtained-off areas. There is the murmur of conversation in the corner, and I see the silhouette of two people standing behind the white fabric.

I duck down near a set of cabinets and work my way around
until I see who it is. My breath catches when I find that it’s Arthur himself. There’s a small, older woman in a doctor’s coat next to him; she has dark hair and glasses. I assume she’s Evelyn Valentine.

I see them standing over a kid—someone I don’t recognize. He’s asleep, and Arthur and Evelyn are looking him over and discussing his condition. With them distracted, I make my way to the closest curtained area and peek inside.

My luck holds out when I discover it’s Deacon. He’s strapped down to a bed, and his eyes widen when he sees me. He darts a terrified look around to make sure it’s safe and then purses his lips as if saying
Shh . . .

I don’t have to ask if he remembers me—I can read it on his face. I can see it when his soft brown eyes well up with tears. But his condition is terrible. There are scratches on his cheek that look like fingernails, a bruise under his left eye. He didn’t come here of his own will. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for him. I don’t know what they’ve taken from his memories. But it’s him. My heart is full because I’ve found him. My love. My home.

I go to him and work the strap from around his chest. He doesn’t speak, afraid to draw their attention, but he watches me, inches from my face. When I get him free, he pulls me fiercely into a hug. I have to choke down my cry of relief.

I move back and level our gazes. Now we have to get out of here.

I help Deacon off the bed, when I realize he’s unsteady.
He has to hold on to my arm. He’s wearing hospital scrubs, this terrible yellow color, and his feet are bare. I poke my head around the curtain and see the route to the door is clear. Our best option is to run for it.