(Blood and Bone, #1) Blood and Bone (23 page)

The machine sucks the keys in, keeping mine and then almost instantly pushing his back out. He takes it and nods at the door. “I will wait in the hallway.” He leaves, and as he does, the doors lock with thick steel bolts.

I am trapped in a glass cage, and I have a feeling it’s not the first time.

He stands with his back to the doors as the machine comes alive, clicking and grinding. It sounds medieval until a slot opens in the back wall and a large black metal box is placed on the single wooden desk.

I walk to it as the entire system sounds like it’s doing everything it has just done in reverse.

My hands tremble. My heart races. My mouth dries completely as a threat of vomit attacks me. But I lift the lid, stepping back. I expect it is the Holy Grail inside. I expect light and fireworks. I expect to be wowed just by the sight of the greatness within this box. It is something to die for, after all.

But inside is a thick folder, something of a disappointment, I have to admit. It’s huge, actually. I lift open the cover, scowling. “TOP SECRET” is stamped in red on the top of every page. Names
are blacked out of some of it. JFK is mentioned on the second page, along with a man known as the Ruse. His name isn’t mentioned but his deeds are. They call it an assignment—JFK was his assignment.

Oh shit. What do I have here?

I flip through, not understanding what all of this is until I reach the last couple of pages and find Derek. On these pages he is Dr. Benjamin Dash. My interest piques when I see his name repeatedly. The first couple of pages are what appears to be a doctor’s report on “the incident,” as they call it. A man was found dead, killed by venom from a snake not indigenous to the area they are in. Area Seven is what it is called. The person writing the report does not disclose what has transpired, but it appears Dr. Benjamin Dash’s test subjects have been caught doing something unspeakable to fellow military personnel. The dead man’s name was Dr. Andrew Holt, and an explanation is discussed, but it seems to be invented for the benefit of the deceased man’s wife.

The next page is a summary by the doctor for the council. It doesn’t explain the council or who they are.

Dr. Benjamin Dash has approved our test subjects. All seven have gone anywhere from twenty-five to thirty years without their disorders being discovered or diagnosed. They have never stood out as a problem and have managed their disabilities well enough to blend into regular society. For this reason we feel they will excel at the training. None are seriously disabled, the best to worst ranging from slight OCD to ADHD. In the beginning they were all forthcoming and up-front about all points of their prior lives. After only one week of training with Dr. Dash, the answers to the very same questions about the subjects’ childhoods are suggestive and yet deliberately unhelpful. They are already showing signs of manipulation and overconfidence in areas where they have absolutely no expertise. Dr. Dash’s theories on memory stimulation and the induction of psychosis in a person
through false-memory stimulation are pioneering our ability to weaponize a person after they’ve moved to a country or become a useful asset through their career or ranking in society. The test results are the only reason we are continuing Dr. Dash’s research. His ability to create the perfect agent through disassembling the brain and re-creating a weapon is unmatched in his field.

I feel the incident with Dr. Holt is not something that will repeat. Dr. Dash’s control over the subjects has proven itself through exercises in which he is able to command them even as they are under the influence of the memory stimulation. We have approved seven of our own personnel to work with him in this study. All documentation will be Top Security Clearance, Level S. This shall further be known as Area Seven. Our hopes for the area are growth in the use of memory stimulation in sedated or deceased patients. We wish to unlock the secrets many try to take to the grave with them. The tests we are running are giving us the results we need to be hopeful that this is indeed a possible outcome for the project.

Regards,

Dr. Jenner Piscapault

There is a date stamp on it, but it doesn’t make sense. It’s only one year old. It would suggest I was here a year ago, which is impossible, considering I haven’t been out of Seattle in a year, apart from now. Someone else has a key? Is that possible? It doesn’t seem likely, considering the security here and level of friendship I clearly have with the man outside the door. I shake it off, pushing past the information. I need more answers than this. This has only raised questions.

Next I find an evaluation by the very same Dr. Jenner Piscapault. His write-up is technical, but from what I can comprehend, he is the psychiatrist in charge of determining a test subject’s mental health. The assessment is tricky to understand; words like
diminished
empathy
,
abnormal personality dimensions
,
disinhibition
, and
high psychoticism
stand out as the most used. I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I understand the gist of it. The subject is a psycho, it’s fairly obvious. They don’t use the word, maybe afraid of labeling him or her. Or maybe all the words they keep repeating just mean
psycho
. I don’t know, but I can tell they aren’t the sort of words a person wants to have written about oneself.

Well, apart from one bit in the evaluation. The doctor found that test subject seven had remarkably low levels of narcissism for someone with such a lack of remorse or guilt.

She has a strong connection to animals. She refuses to kill them when she’s awake. The trauma from her childhood has stuck with her, and created psychosis. She sleepwalks, killing whatever comes into her path, even animals. When she wakes to find what she has done, the remorse returns. She cannot shake it when she discovers she has wronged an animal. She has become less attached to humans, though. She is the last test subject to assimilate to the cutting off of the emotional mind from the physical body. Permission has been granted to remove her from this test facility. She is to join him in a RL scenario testing. Dr. Angela O’Conner, from the United Kingdom, will be joining him. She specializes in this type of deep-cover, scenario-based training. It will be a controlled environment to further reach inside her.

My brain feels like it’s about to explode, but the cracking sound inside my head is from my heart. Even if, apparently, I don’t actually have one.

16. I WILL FREE YOU

T
he silence of the frosted-glass room is too much to endure when taking in knowledge such as this. I’m only about thirty percent sure I haven’t actually fallen asleep and dreamt the things I am reading. I turn back, looking at the man with his back to the door, and wonder what he is to me, the real me. The man-made girl who believed a thousand lies and trusted her heart to a master puppeteer.

I am Pinocchio, only my blue fairy turned out to be a scheming bastard who wanted to make me an assassin. I blink again, staring at the words
expected date for reinsertion
, but I am drawing a blank as to what it means. The date is set for three months from today.

Three months?

I don’t even think I can guess what it means, but I know it’s bad. It’s all bad. At the bottom of the box is a box of matches. I lift the folder with the random words, detailing things I won’t ever understand, and feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s heavy like a gun and a key and a secret are. It’s heavy like it contains every secret in the world, every whisper of treachery.

But it doesn’t. It contains only mine. Whispers of love and promises that he would take care of me.

I glance down into the bottom of the black metal bin, stunned when I see the words “I will free you.” They’re silver letters, scratched into the metal box.

One sentence.

I’m pretty sure I have an ulcer, and I’m positive this one sentence has flared it to a bad place. A place I might never heal from.

I turn, hurrying to the door, and bang on it.

He points at the box, shaking his head, and makes a weird motion with his hands. Clearly, he means I have to place the box back before the doors will open.

Of course . . .

I hurry back, stuffing the folder in the box and grabbing the box of matches. I don’t know if I am making a terrible decision or if I am following the instincts that are inside me. I light the match and drop it into the papers. They light quickly, so I cover the box slightly, only letting a bit of air into it. Smoke starts to billow, making me promptly regret doing it. I glance back, seeing the man, and wonder if he can tell I’m burning something. The smoke fills the room, making the frosted glass appear far more frosted than before.

I have to back away as the folder burns up; the smoke is too thick. I blink away the stinging in my eyes and hurry back to the box, pushing the lid down all the way and sliding it to the spot. The door opens on the back wall, pulling the box back into the wall.

I turn and look at the door as it opens. He points at the spot where my key slides from. I shake my head. “I don’t need it anymore.”

He winces in the smoke. “I gathered.” He nods at the large black box next to me. “It’s a burn box.”

I shrug and follow him from the room. “How do I know you?”

He glances back at me, sighing. “Again?” I nod, making him wince. He holds a hand out to the right, not the hallway we came
down. “Come this way.” He offers me his arm. “You and I met five years ago when he was starting something he referred to as the escape hatch. He placed what he called an emergency file into the safety-deposit box and got two keys cut. One for you and one for him.”

“Who are you? Are you a doctor involved in all this?”

He chuckles. “No, Sam. I’m a banker. I just know him because of some business a few years ago.”

“Who am I?”

He shakes his head. “Someone who means a lot to that man.”

“Do you have answers for me?”

He shakes his head. “But I have a bag, a satchel that he left here last year. It will get you to where you need to go to end all of this and find your way back.” He leads me to the back door and enters a small office. He opens a filing cabinet and hands me a man’s satchel. He steps toward me, hugging me. I don’t know what to do about it all or what to do with it, but I don’t fight him on the embrace. He pats my back and nods. “Run, Sam. Run as fast as you can.”

“I feel like a contestant on a game show. I feel like everything is a maze and I’m running through it, trying to survive, but I don’t get answers, only more questions. I’m running in circles, lost in the maze.”

He pulls back, running a hand down my cheek. “I can’t imagine how that must be. I am so sorry, but these are the only answers I have for you.”

“Well, thanks for the satchel.” I have to assume there’s a bomb in it, or worse. That’s just the way my life has been going lately . . .

When I climb the stairs he presses a switch, and I hear the doors unlocking so I can walk out into the alley next to the large stone bank.

I lean my back against the door and sigh. The trip has been a waste in so many ways and a disaster in others. I don’t have any clear answers. I don’t know what aspects of my life are true or false.
I don’t know anything. Clinging to the satchel, I walk the alley to a small coffee shop. I go inside, walking straight to the bathroom, and close the door. Kneeling down, I lift the lid from the bag, and I’m confused by its contents. There are stacks of euros and several passports, each containing a birth certificate to a different country and a driver’s license. There are three cell phones, all turned off completely. A set of keys on a key chain with a boat on it. The boat’s name is
Thackeray Binx
. I don’t know how I know that but I do. My insides twist, reminding me I need to go get my damned cat back. The final thing is a notebook. I open it, finding handwritten notes about progress reports and dream analyses. They’re in my writing.

I close the bag, wondering how the hell I will ever get away from all of this. I turn on the three phones, but only the white one comes up as having messages. I turn off the other two and press the voice mail button. I enter the code that I always use, and of course it works.

“Hi, Jane, it’s Derek. Meet me in Paris at the place you remember. All will be revealed then, if it’s safe.” I scowl at the phone, not recalling a single place until he says the words “I will set you free.” Then an image bursts into my head of an explosion, freeing up space and burning away old images as if I am watching a picture burn slowly. The haze of memories, lies that tell me I remember who I am, starts to clear away. The images are confusing, of course, but also enlightening. Suddenly, I’m alone on a pier, watching a sunset. A man is next to me. He watches the sunset too, not looking at me. For some reason I can’t clearly see his face.

“I killed the doctor,” he says like he is telling me it’s Thursday or he likes sandwiches. I nod, not caring that another man is dead. He turns. His face is still hazy, but I know his voice. “Dash is dead, and I’m going to set us free.”