Freefly (19 page)

I click on the contact, press my ear to the phone, and listen to the number dial. 

CHAPTER 8

Sammie

As the jet soars, I keep my eyes on the windows, soaking up my last bit of sunlight before being returned to the science lab.  The arrow has worked its magic:  drowsiness trickles through me, but I’m determined to stay awake for as long as I can, before I’m seriously drugged up...and, well, dead. 
That’s what this is going to come to. 
I wonder what Thorne would do if he knew. 

Now that the jet is stable, Thorne unstraps himself from his seat and stands.  He walks toward me, whistling, his eyes on the arrow jutting from my shoulder.

“Guess we should take care of that, shouldn’t we?” he says. 

I’m belted into a leather seat, my hands still cuffed behind me, bulging into my back.  Thorne crouches beside me and adjusts my chair so that I’m completely horizontal.  My hands begin to go numb beneath me.  

He stands up and smiles into my face.  “You look tired.”

I snarl.

“Woah!” he says, in mock awe.  “That’s not the Sammie I remember.”

I roll my eyes toward the window.  He yanks the arrow out of my shoulder, and I shriek.

“Now, now,” Thorne says. 

He grasps the neckline of Damien’s sweatshirt and, in one swift movement, tears the collar wide enough to see the wound.  Pain jolts through me at the sudden movement, as well as anger at Thorne for ripping the sweatshirt:  it was the last little piece of Damien I had.  Thorne lifts a black bag off the floor and removes a clear bottle of liquid from it, then pours some of the liquid onto my bare shoulder.  I grit my teeth and try to keep from screaming.  It feels as if he’s lit me on fire. 

“Don’t want it to get infected,” Thorne practically sings, dabbing happily at the wound with a piece of white bandage.  I loathe the way he’s eyeing me, like I’m his property or something.  I can’t help but remember the time Damien pulled the arrow from my leg, how opposite it was from this. 

As if Thorne is reading my mind, he holds the arrow in front of my eyes and says, “We found one of these little puppies in the boy’s room.  That’s how we found you, you know.”  He tosses it aside.  “We knew you went down a year ago in Boorsville, so we searched every house.  One little talk with Damien and we knew he’d been in contact with you.  I guessed right away that he
loved
you.”  His face warps with cruelty.  “The question was, and this is what we were really banking on when we kidnapped him, did
you
love
him?
”  He lets out a chuckle, this one long and hearty. 

“I hate you,” I spit.

He raises his eyebrows.  “My dear, there’s no such thing as hate, nor is there such a thing as love.  There is only advantage.  Does having you in my possession give me an advantage?  Why, yes.  It
does.
”  He roars with laughter.  “That’s where you went wrong.  Keeping company with Damien Savage offered you no advantage whatsoever.  In fact, I would argue that it was distinctly disadvantageous.  Don’t go blubbering that he
cared about you
or
really understood you
.”  He scrunches up his face and speaks in a high-pitched, mocking tone.  “That’s bologna. 
Indulgence
.  You lost sight of the big picture, my dear.  You let temporary pleasure get in the way of what you wanted.” 

“How do you know what I
wanted?
”

“You wanted to not be here, right?”  He lets out another round of laughter, making my eardrums feel like they’re going to explode.

He stretches some sticky bandage onto my shoulder and smooths it with his fingers.  His gray hair is slick and shiny, contrasting sharply with the many wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.  He pulls away to reach down into his black bag, then turns back with a syringe in his hand. 

The muscles in my stomach clench.  “What is that?”

Thorne smiles slightly as he sticks the syringe into a small bottle and draws the clear contents into the needle.  “Just something to make you a little more...unconscious.”

“Don’t!”

“Oh, but why?” 

My voice trembles.  “I’ll
—
I’ll die.”

He tilts his head in confusion.  “My dear, I have no intention of killing you.  As explained, having you alive is very much to my advantage.”

“That’s not what I mean
—
”

“Damien Savage on the other hand...”

I stiffen.  “What about him?”

Thorne crouches beside me, reaches behind my back, and unlocks the cuffs around my wrists with a few clicks.  He yanks one of my arms towards him and jerks up the sleeve of Damien’s sweatshirt, then examines the blue veins in my arm, probing them with his two forefingers.  “I think he knows just a little too much.”  He shakes the syringe and raises it.  “I think he’s about to have a
tragic
accident.” 

With my free hand, I jab at the buckle of my seatbelt and arch into the air, knocking Thorne back and whipping to the other side of the plane.  I flatten myself against the back wall, literally shaking with anger.  Thorne brushes himself off and eyes me carefully. 

“Well, this is unusual,” he says, wielding the needle at his side.  “Where have you been these last three years, little Sammie?  It seems to me someone’s taught you to fight back.” 

I press my hands against the cool metal wall.  “I’m not going to let you kill him.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much you can do to stop me
—
”

I plow into him.  We land with a
crash!
on the floor of the plane.  I pull back my fist and jam it into Thorne’s face, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch.  Blood gushes from his nostrils, and he lets out a wail.  In an instant, the pilot emerges from the cockpit and rushes toward me.  I roll off of Thorne in time to catch the pilot in my arms and throw him to the floor.  His head cracks against the metal.  Thorne grabs me from behind, and I pull down with all my might and flip him.  When he begins to stir, I kick him in the ribs.  He stills. 

Panting, I look down at myself.  Blood reddens the front of my sweatshirt in little droplets.  Thorne and the pilot lie sprawled on the ground.  The pilot’s eyes are closed, and blood pools around his head.  I’ve killed him.  I know it instantly. 

With a lurch, the plane veers downward.  There’s no pilot.  We’re going to crash.

Damien

The phone rings several times.  I pace my room, anxiety surging through my veins.  I’ve never spoken with criminals before.  What if I say the wrong thing?  What if I somehow make this situation worse? 

“What’s a matter, Sammie?” says a low, gritty voice. 

I squeeze the phone tightly.  “It’s
—
it’s not Sammie.  She’s been kidnapped.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, followed by a pause.  “By you?”

“No.  By the scientists.” 

He says a few curse words.  “How long ago?”

“A few hours.  They took her away in a jet.  You’ve got to do something.”

There’s another long pause, this time with the sound of muttering in the background.  “Who am I talking to?”

I hesitate.  Do I want to reveal my identity?  “A friend of Sammie’s.” 

“I’m a friend of Sammie’s, too.  What’s your name, kid?”

“It’s
—
it’s Damien.”

“Alright, Damien.  I’ll see what I can do.”

The line clicks, and something like relief rushes through me.  I’ve managed to
do
something, something that could get Sammie away from Michael Thorne.  I’m not powerless, not entirely.  I sink down on the end of my bed and allow a small amount of hope to rise within me.  Maybe the criminals will rescue her.  Maybe she will come hovering up to the window this very night. 

Mom blows open my bedroom door.  “Damien, come down and eat dinner.”

I practically jump out of my skin, throwing myself in front of the strange pile of items on my bed.  “
Mom
, what happened to knocking?”

Her eyes narrow.  “What is all that?  Are those Cheetos?  You’ll spoil your appetite, dear.”

Mad scientists and criminals have become involved in my life, and Mom’s worried about a bag of Cheetos.  “I’m not very hungry.”

“Please come down, Damien,” she says.  “Your father and I are very worried about you.”

She stares at me for long moment, before I let out a sigh.  “Alright.”

I follow her downstairs and slide into my usual place at the kitchen table.  In the center, a plate of crumbly, gray meatloaf steams, along with a tureen of gravy and a bowl of mashed potatoes.  Dad sits in the same place Sammie did yesterday afternoon, when she told me about her past.  He shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. 

“You feeling better, son?” he says. 

I spoon a small pile of mashed potatoes onto my plate, pondering my recent phone conversation.  “A little.”

“Good,” he says.

Mom sits down in her chair to my right and cuts me a heaping slice of meat loaf.  Though I’m not the least bit hungry, I jab a small piece onto my fork to satisfy her. 

Dad lifts his glass and takes a long swig of his Coca-cola.  “So, Damien,” he says.  “Are you ready to tell us what went on today?”

“Honey,” Mom says to Dad, “maybe he doesn’t have to tell us.  We don’t want to put too much pressure on him.”

Dad looks at her adoringly.  “You’re right.  You’re always right.”

I swirl my fork around in my mashed potatoes and try to ignore the fact that my parents are freaks. 

“But, Damien,” Mom says, “if you do feel like telling us why you skipped your classes today, you can tell us.  We’ll try not to judge you.  We’re just worried about you.”

“But we trust you,” Dad interjects.

Mom nods.  “We do.”

I gaze down at my plate and find myself, unexpectedly, feeling guilty.  My parents love me and care about me, and they just want to know I’m alright.  I shouldn’t leave them completely in the dark.  After all, I know
I
didn’t like it very much when the person I loved refused to be open with me.

“Well, uh,” I begin, uncertain how to describe what, exactly, went on today.  “I got in a fight.”

Mom clasps her hand over her mouth.  “Oh, Damien!  Are you okay?”

“With who?” Dad says.