Relentless (32 page)

Drexel was taken aback and nearly struck her again, but stopped himself. She
couldn’t
lie or withhold information while under the influence. The drug he’d used was far too powerful, even for someone with conditioning.

‘‘Why not?’’ he asked.

‘‘He doesn’t exist.’’

‘‘Grant Borrows does not exist?’’ Drexel repeated.

‘‘
Duh
,’’ she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated, childlike way.

He followed her eyeline to the ceiling far above, where a dimming skylight was letting in the first effects of dusk. The empty warehouse where they sat was musty and dirty and dark, but it suited his purposes. They had been here for hours, days even. The truth serum was his last resort.

He tried a different tactic.

‘‘A military base was raided about a week ago. Sources say they saw Grant Borrows there.
Was
he there?’’

‘‘Yep,’’ she replied.

‘‘Why did he go there?’’

‘‘To talk to Harlan Evers.’’

‘‘Who is Harlan Evers?’’

‘‘Used to be Frank Boyd’s best friend, before he died.’’

‘‘And who was Frank Boyd?’’

‘‘Grant’s father,’’ she replied, exasperated, as if it were painfully obvious.

Boyd . . . I know that name
.

He took a few minutes to word his next question carefully.

‘‘Does Frank Boyd have any surviving relatives?’’

‘‘His kids. Collin and Julie,’’ she said.

Collin Boyd
. That was it.
The man who died in the arson in Glendale.
The UCLA professor’s brother . . . Of course
.

Drexel let out a slow breath as comprehension spread across his face.

Got you now
, he smiled.

‘‘Now, my dear,’’ he said, settling into his seat, ‘‘we’re going to head back to the station and run a background check on Mr. Boyd . . . But first, why don’t you tell me everything you know about our good friend Collin.’’

38

Daniel watched from his wheelchair as Grant paced the living room. It was late at night, and Julie and Lisa had both given up long ago and gone to sleep.

Daniel didn’t know Grant very well yet, but he could tell that this was not normal behavior. Despite the dark circles that were now a permanent fixture around his eyes, every step, every gesture, every word screamed agitation.

Grant had decided to try walking around, moving his joints and muscles, which from the way he was walking were incredibly stiff. He’d been at it for hours and had been forced to stop several times, but he seemed determined to push through the pain and exhaustion. Daniel envied him. It’d be weeks before he could pace like that.

‘‘I know something’s wrong . . .’’ Grant said for the umpteenth time. Daniel had heard him say these words so many times now, he’d decided Grant wasn’t actually saying it to him. Daniel wished for a way to help, but he was exhausted. A glance at his wristwatch showed ‘‘1:57 A.M.’’

‘‘Why don’t we try a mental focusing exercise then?’’ he suggested, pulling the small electronic device Lisa had retrieved for him the other day from a bag at his side. Grant continued to walk back and forth. ‘‘It might help you relax, and it could be a first step toward harnessing your abilities.’’

‘‘Sure, sure,’’ Grant said, distractedly, plopping down on the sofa. He saw the device.

Daniel noticed his glance and said, ‘‘It measures your pyschokinetic output.’’

‘‘You’re going to . . .
clock
my brain power?’’

‘‘Something like that. Just ignore it, you won’t ever know it’s on. Lean back and let your eyes go out of focus,’’ Daniel instructed. Then he began speaking in a soft monotone. ‘‘Relax your body, let go of your tension. Ignore the sounds of the world around you. Let everything fade away. Make your mind a blank canvas, with no distractions, no thoughts. No doubts. No worries. Slow your breathing. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. That’s good.’’

He watched as Grant seemed to be following his instructions to the letter, and he suddenly wondered if this might be a bad idea—surely Grant would fall asleep if they kept this up for long. ‘‘Very good. Keep your eyes closed, and keep breathing slowly,’’ he said, looking all around, trying to find . . . ‘‘Let’s see, here we are.’’ He spotted a magazine on the coffee table.

‘‘There’s something directly in front of you, Grant, on the table. A magazine. Keep breathing in and out slowly, there you go. Now when I give the word, I want you to open your eyes and focus on that magazine. Don’t look at anything else, don’t let yourself
see
anything else. Just focus on the magazine, and don’t let go of it.’’

Daniel waited, watching Grant inhale and exhale repeatedly.

‘‘Open your eyes,’’ he instructed.

Grant’s eyelids opened leisurely and immediately focused on the magazine atop the table, about four feet away from him.

‘‘Relax, keep breathing slowly, that’s good,’’ Daniel was saying. ‘‘Focus your attention
only
on the object. Now I want you to picture an imaginary hand, reaching out from your own body and picking up the magazine. Really
see
it in your mind. Use your imagination to stretch out and grab it. Let me know when you have a firm grip on it.’’

Sweat formed across Grant’s forehead as he focused with tremendous intensity on the paper object resting on the table. ‘‘I can’t . . . I can’t see it . . .’’

Daniel watched him patiently. ‘‘If it helps, reach out with your real hand as far as you can. Use it as a focal point.’’

Grant extended his arm, which was still a foot and a half shy of touching the magazine. But he found it a little easier to concentrate on holding the paper booklet this way. When at last he felt comfortable with his focus, he whispered, ‘‘Okay, think I got it.’’

Daniel turned to the magazine. ‘‘Lift it,’’ he said.

Ever-so-slowly, as Grant’s arm inched upward, the magazine did as well. It hung there in midair, suspended by nothing.

Daniel watched in astonishment.

After a second more, Grant let the magazine fall. He seemed dazed.

After a moment he asked, ‘‘Do you really believe all that stuff you told me the other day, about me and . . . what I’m meant to do?’’

‘‘Absolutely!’’ Daniel answered. ‘‘Look at what you just did! Grant, you might as well get used to it: you are a bona fide he—’’

‘‘
Don’t
say the ‘H’ word!’’ Grant bellowed, releasing some of his pent-up energy. ‘‘Don’t even
think
it! I am
not
. . . one of those, and I never
will
be.’’

‘‘Yes you are. You’re not like
me,
’’ he added. ‘‘You’re better. Whether you like it or not, you have a responsibility to use this power of yours to help other people.’’

‘‘I don’t
care
about other people!’’ Grant exploded, the confines of the apartment seeming much too small for him. Daniel thought he almost felt the room shake in time with Grant’s tirade. ‘‘What have people ever done for me?’’ Grant fumed. ‘‘Walked out on me, that’s what! Betrayed me! Manipulated me! I never
wanted
this power, I never
chose
it, and if I could undo it, I
would
!’’ He thrust a hand out at the magazine and this time it flew apart with a loud
pop
, becoming a fireworks display of confetti. The tiny, shredded pieces fluttered silently to the ground.

Daniel watched the last of the paper bits fall to the table. Silence permeated the air but when he glanced at Grant, the man was far away again.

Farther than ever.

‘‘I see them,’’ Grant whispered. ‘‘Oh no . . .’’ He gasped, and then stood to his feet.

‘‘Who? What’s wrong?’’ Daniel stammered.

‘‘They’re not
moving
. . .
That’s
what I’ve been feeling—this strange sensation. I was feeling
them
!’’ Grant shouted and ran to the front door.

‘‘They’re still. All of them!’’

Then he burst from the door and Daniel was left only with the echo of the man’s horror at something Daniel couldn’t fathom.

39

What if they’re all dead?

The question burrowed its way through Grant’s gut like a worm during the impossibly long drive to Morgan’s facility. He went far above the speed limit whenever he felt he could get away with it, but had to slow down at the busier intersections. When he finally hit the suburb roads, he floored it.

At last, the cement driveway came into view, and he never slowed as he screeched his tires into a full-on turn onto the long, ruined path. When he came to a stop in front of the asylum, he hopped out of the car and ran to the front steps.

Grant slid the I.D. card Morgan had given him through the reader and was met by a cold stillness when he opened the door. He couldn’t claim surprise at what he saw, because he had already
felt
it. But his jaw fell anyway, and the blood drained out of his face.

This can’t be real
.

Inside, he carefully stepped around the bodies sprawled on the floor. Each one of them looked as if they had been in the middle of something— walking to another room, carrying a tray full of something to eat, writing in a notebook, or looking for a book to read—when they had simply
dropped
to the ground, unconscious.

Grant crept down the long hallway, his eyes lingering on a younger resident sprawled on the ground. A basketball lay nearby.

Just a kid . . . Couldn’t be more than seventeen . . .

Tears welled up as he stared at the young man, and for once he was unable to hold them back. A sharp pain began boring into his temples.

Dead . . . They’re all dead . . .

A sob suddenly escaped his lips and he couldn’t hold it back. It was the only audible sound in the building.

He stumbled over an older man’s outstretched arm as he walked past the boy, and then he cried out again.

With great effort, Grant made his way to the Common Room. There he found over two dozen others in similar condition. On the couch.

Slumped over the pool table. Lying on the ground.

He found Morgan on the ground near her favorite chair by the fireplace. She was lying chest-down on the ground, her head turned sickeningly to one side.

Tears poured openly down Grant’s cheeks and he made no effort to wipe them away. This couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing . . .

Another headache pain stabbed at his temples, but still he ignored it.

As he glanced around at all of the dead bodies, the enormity of the scene set in. He was the only living person in a building full of dead people.

The room began to spin . . .

He plopped down hard onto the ground, near Morgan, and began weeping openly into his hands. He barely knew most of these people. But somehow, in a way that defied words or reasoning, he just
knew
. . . This was his fault.

His phone chirped in his inside pocket but he let it ring. It stopped after a minute or two but then started again. Aggravated now, he yanked it out and opened it, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘‘Grant? Hello, are you there?’’ It was Daniel.

‘‘Yeah,’’ Grant managed to get out. Talking was the last thing he wanted to do. Words were pointless now.

‘‘What happened? Where are you?’’

‘‘They’re dead,’’ Grant whispered, choking on another sob.

‘‘Are you sure?’’ Daniel replied. ‘‘Have you checked them? We thought
you
were dead at first, too.’’

Grant felt the headache in his temple again and tried blinking it away. It subsided, and he reached out a hand to feel Morgan’s body.

‘‘Morgan’s cold. I can’t find a pulse.’’

‘‘Hmm,’’ Daniel said with a clinical tone. ‘‘You were cold too, but we eventually found a faint pulse on you. Maybe hers is too faint to detect.

What else can you see?’’

‘‘Hang on . . .’’ he mumbled. He stood up on his haunches and carefully rolled Morgan over onto her back. ‘‘She’s got a nasty bruise on her forehead. She must’ve hit the corner of the table as she fell.’’

Daniel’s words escaped quickly. ‘‘Grant,
dead people don’t bruise
.’’

Grant gasped slightly, a glimmer of hope flickering to life. ‘‘Are you sure?’’ he asked, examining the egg-shaped bruise up-close.

‘‘It’s impossible,’’ Daniel said, still talking fast. ‘‘When a body dies, blood stops flowing. Without blood flow, a corpse can’t develop a new bruise, no matter what you do to it.’’

Grant’s mind spun, and his eyes landed on the ring on her right hand, middle finger.

A ring can be removed after its wearer dies
. He remembered her speaking those words to him.

He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder, and grabbed Morgan’s ring and tugged at it. It didn’t budge.

His heart skipped a beat and he swallowed. ‘‘I think you’re right,’’ he said into the phone, his voice growing stronger now. ‘‘I think they’re still alive!’’

Daniel said nothing.

‘‘But how do—what do I
do
?’’ Grant said.

Daniel’s reply was excruciatingly slow in coming. ‘‘I’ve never heard of anything like this before. If they’re not dead, then they must be in some kind of catatonia, like you were. If we only knew what it was that woke you up . . .’’ Daniel said, thinking aloud.

Grant’s thoughts shot back to his dream and lingered there.

‘‘You still have no idea what roused you?’’ Daniel asked when Grant didn’t reply.

‘‘Not . . . exactly,’’ he said quietly.

‘‘Well, there’s obviously a connection between what happened to you and what happened to them,’’ Daniel began reasoning again. ‘‘You’re all on parallel paths of some kind . . .’’

Grant sat up straight. ‘‘What did you say?’’

‘‘I said you’re all on . . .’’ he began, but Grant was no longer listening. Something had just triggered in his mind.

How did the woman in his dream say it?

‘‘You must ask yourself what you are willing to endure to reach the
journey’s end. Are you willing to sacrifice? Are you willing to absorb
your greatest fear and make it part of your very being?’’

He closed his eyes and remembered the look on her face.

Are you willing?
she had said.

I don’t want to hurt,
he thought.
But I am willing
.