Eye of the Storm (23 page)

“Maybe we can't!” Tears stream down my face. Tears for Tomas and his family, whose house will probably be gone within seconds once the storm starts its march forward again. Tears for Alex's parents and Julia and Newton, wherever they are. Tears for the little girls whose swing set blew into the road. Tears for this whole world, where no one can even go outside without the risk that they might be swallowed up into the sky.

And tears for myself.

Burning, shameful tears because I know the truth, that my father has waved his magic wand at this sad, hot, churning world and made it even worse.

“Maybe we
can't
! But look at it, Alex! It's going to come! We're not going to make it anywhere safe. There's no time. And when the third tornado merges—”

“Stop it! We don't
know
that's what—”

“Yes, we
do
!” I swipe at the tears in my eyes and scream over the roar of the storm. “You
know
what's going to happen! We have to find my father!”

“Your
father
?” His eyes are furious. “You think your father is going to help?”

“Listen, please. We have to . . . we can
talk
to him. Once he knows it's out . . . that people know, he'll have to—”

“Have to
what
, Jaden?
Kill
us?” he spits out.

“Stop!” I scream. “Just stop!” I choke back sobs and press my hands into my eyes to make it all vanish.

It doesn't. And all I can do, all I can hope to do, is try.

“I know you think he's a horrible human being.” My voice shakes. “And right now, I do, too. But he's my
father
, Alex. My father, who used to throw me up in the air and sing me to sleep and”—I swallow hard—“and love me, the same way your dad loves you. We have to find him. He can fix this . . . he . . . he
has
to! He
will
!”

I let my head sink back into my hands, but I can still hear Alex's angry, ragged breaths. And then his voice.

“I don't believe it. Not for a second.”

“But we have to at least—”

“What we have to do is get out of here!” He yanks the truck's gearshift into reverse.

“Stop!” I scream.

And he does. But he looks at me with eyes that are colder than any weather I've ever seen. “I'm leaving.
Now
.”

I squeeze my eyes shut tight for a second, then open them, throw off my seat belt, and reach for the door handle. The wind flings it
open, and I hear Alex shout “No!” but the wind swallows his voice, and I jump down before I can think about it. Before I can think how stupid and dangerous it is. Before I can think about flying tree limbs or barn pieces or the three tornadoes that are about to merge into a single, churning monster and come for me.

I don't think about any of it, and I don't look back. I just run.

The wet strap from my backpack flies loose and slaps at my face over and over. I tighten it and keep running. The wind batters me back and forth across the road, like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse. If there were traffic, if there were anyone else crazy enough to be out, I'd have been run over a dozen times by now.

But I keep running. My backpack thumps against me, soaked, heavier with every step.

Horizontal rain stings my face, and my wet clothes cling. I've sucked in so much water with every desperate breath, it's a wonder I'm not drowning.

Another tree branch flies into the road a few feet in front of me, and I leap aside to keep from tripping.

My backpack strap flies loose again. I can't run with it slapping at me, and I can't keep stopping to tighten it, so I pull out my Data-Slate. As quickly as I can, I stuff it into the waistband in the back of my jeans and pull my shirt down over it. I fling the backpack off into the wind and step back onto the road, but an HV is barreling around a curve, so I leap back into the brush just in time to avoid being flattened by the only other person crazy enough to be out.

When its taillights are lost in the blur of rain, I step back out and run as fast as I can. My lungs are full of needles. My legs are
burning. And my heart is breaking, wondering where Alex has gone. Whether he'll make it.

But all I can do is run.

Finally, I round the last curve, and the big steel-and-glass building looms up out of the gray.

The storm is raging, growling, roaring behind me, but I force myself to slow down as I near the entrance.

It's after hours.

The gate is closed and unmanned. But there are HVs in the lot.

I unfold my hand, cramped from being clenched in a fist so long. The bio-print is wrinkled and wet, half falling off, but I stretch it, smooth it as much as I can, and raise my finger to the bio-scan.

The gate slides open with a grinding sound, and a snapped-off pine bough goes flying through ahead of me, as if it had been waiting.

Inside, I stand dripping and panting in front of the gleaming building, unscathed by the winds howling just down the road.

Dad's office on the top floor is dark, but the lights on the ground level glow through the pounding rain. A silhouette passes across a window, and I duck behind one of the shrubs along the sidewalk. The shape passes down the long hallway toward the wood-paneled conference room at the end.

At first I can't believe there's still power in the midst of this storm, but then I remember it's StormSafe. No matter how big this storm grows when the three winding ropes merge, it will never get past the gate. Dad will make sure of that much.

Dad.

I have to find Dad.

I look back. The third tornado swirls closer to the first two. Closer—then away—as if they are dancing. But I know how this dance will end if it goes on.

I have to find Dad.

I crawl out from the bushes and hold my breath, watching the windows of the reception area. There's no activity—just quiet yellow rectangles—so I creep forward and peer inside.

Even the reception desk is empty. Are they all still in that meeting Dad was busy with earlier, when we were supposed to have dinner? And how could that have been just an hour and a half ago, when it feels like the whole world has changed?

I drop to the ground and crawl along the wall. Mud soaks through my pants, and my knees are caked with it by the time I reach what would be the end of the long hallway—the conference room.

I hold my breath and rise up enough so my eyes clear the edge of the window.

The fat leather chairs are all full except for one at the end. On one side of the table are two women I don't recognize. I don't let myself stop to stare, to wonder if one of them is the DataSlate woman whose voice I heard that night in the office. I have to find Dad. Four men face the other way, so I'm looking at the backs of their heads. The first three don't look familiar, but the last one has Van's thick ponytail.

There are papers at the empty seat. And a half-empty bottle of BioWake Cola.

Where's Dad?

I stand up, and my eyes dart from the main headquarters to the outbuildings, trying to remember what was what from our tour.

The buildings are all dark, except for the little one way down at the edge of the property where a rectangle of light glows in the lone window. Dad said it was only a storage room. Why would he be there now?

I run through rain-soaked shrubs, grass that's surrendered to the mud, until I'm crouched by the door. Even though it is made of reinforced steel, low notes of Mozart ooze out around the edges, and I know I've found him.

I reach for the door but feel a rush of fear. I pull my hand back before it touches the cool metal handle.

Who is this man behind the door?

I squeeze my eyes shut and let rain and tears wash my face clean of Alex's harsh words.

He is still my father.

I take a deep breath and hope the air filling my lungs can fill me with something stronger. Faith enough to believe.

He is still my father.

He has the same passion for science.

He still makes funny faces at babies and likes ice cream with sprinkles.

He still loves Mozart.

And I am trying to believe that he still loves me.

I raise my trembling hand to the door and turn the handle.

It's unlocked.

There is no bio-scan on this door.

No excuse not to keep going, to talk to him.

Halfway open, the door hinges let out a low groan, and I freeze, but the only sounds are Mozart and the faint clicking of quick fingers on a computer keyboard in a far corner.

I step inside and stand still as death. My heart explodes in my chest, thumping so loud in my throat and my ears, I'm surprised I can still hear the music.

The steel door swings silently shut behind me.

This room looks a lot like Dad's office, with its giant flat-screen monitors. They swirl with bright green-and-red radar images, but I can't tell if the storm is still stalled.

I try to quiet my breathing.

On the other side of the monitors, the keyboard sound grows louder, as if someone is banging on the keys. Frustrated. Or excited.

What is he doing?

Maybe—

I feel hope rising inside me. Hope that he's calling off the storms on his own. Maybe he never meant to create this nightmare. Maybe—

The tapping stops. There is a sharp huff of breath. A slamming sound, like a book being thrown onto a counter. And my heart goes wild all over again.

What was I thinking coming here?

There is still time for me to go back through the reinforced door, to go back to the reception area and wait out the storm. Time for me to play dumb and pretend I was out wandering and had to rush for shelter when I saw the tornado. Time for me to run.

But I don't. I can do this.

Dad,
I'll say,
I came to night because I know. I know everything. About your files and the storms and the farms. We need to make this right. Everything can be okay again. I need your help.

I take a long breath and step toward the monitors.

The typing on the other side stops, and my heart stops for a second, too, but I make my feet keep moving.

The Mozart rises to a crescendo. I step around the wall of weather data.

And I freeze.

The person at the computer is not my father.

But she has the same charcoal eyes.

She speaks in a voice I've heard twice before. Once on Dad's DataSlate. And once in real life . . . in his office here at StormSafe the night I came to help with Remi.

“I thought you might show up.” She stands to look at me, tucking in a sky-blue blouse that feels out of place with her dark eyes and sharp chin. Her skin is tight and pale. “Stephen said you'd never put it all together, but as usual, he was wrong.” She chuckles but there's no warmth in her laugh. “Never underestimate a Meggs woman.” She shakes her head, tucks a curl of gray hair behind one ear, and narrows her eyes. “You don't know who I am, do you?”

Somehow, I make my head move up and down, because I do know.

I walk by her photograph every day on my way to bed.

I know. Even though it's impossible.

“You're Grandma Athena.”

“Smart as a whip, just like they said.” She cackles, sits, and spins her chair back toward the computer, and pecks at the keyboard so hard her fingers must hurt.

“Grandma Athena.” I whisper the words and wonder how they could be true. But there is no mistaking the woman in front of me, no mistaking the intensity of her eyes.

“Shhh! Be quiet.” Her voice is like ice. Cold. Sharp. “There's something not quite . . .” She trails off, reaches for a DataSlate, and frowns down at it. Her fingers fly, writing a message to someone, and I hear the chime that means it's sent. She calls up a radar screen, and I try to peer over her shoulder, but all I catch is a flash of green before she slams it down on the counter. “Gah! Weakening like nobody's business. Sloppy.” She wheels around to face me again. “I know why you're here.”

I shake my head weakly. How could this woman, this stranger, know anything about me? How could she even be alive?

She smiles, a thin, chapped line across her face, as if she's read my mind. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” She whirls around in
the chair again, dashes off a sequence of something on the keyboard. “Why isn't he answering?” She picks up the DataSlate, tosses it back on the desk, and stands to face me. “You thought I was dead.”

“Well, yeah. They said . . . I mean, the car accident . . .”

“Brilliant, wasn't it? They knew I'd never give up. They knew I'd never rest until—”

My head is spinning. “
Who
knew you'd never rest?”

“Our
fine
and
dedicated
government leaders.” She spits the words; they drip with sarcasm. “They canceled my project, the fools, but they couldn't take back what I'd already learned. I was this close.” She holds up her thumb and forefingers, a hair's width apart. “This close to a breakthrough, when they cut the funding and threatened to throw me in prison if I didn't step back from my research. They didn't care that your grandfather had given his life for his country or that I was about to create a weapon so powerful that no American would have to die in battle ever again.” Her eyes drift off somewhere behind me, somewhere a long time ago. “They never understood the possibilities. The power we can have.”

Her eyes focus on me again. “That's why I had to die.”

“You faked the car crash?”

“Oh, there was nothing fake about the crash. That car exploded at the bottom of the gorge like nothing you've ever seen.”

“But you weren't in it.”

“The car was rigged. Empty. I was on a plane headed for Russia. Viktor, a colleague I'd met at one of the international symposiums, assured me that his government would be happy to fund my work.
It went beautifully, and a few years ago, I sent for your father. He was overjoyed to find me alive. And he was eager to help.”