Supersymmetry (28 page)

Liddle scowled. “Angel is being debriefed by two of my colleagues. If he's cooperative, he may only be arrested. If not, he may find himself disappearing down a deep, dark hole of the kind only the intelligence services of the United States can create. And nobody comes out of those.”

“You don't scare me,” Sandra said. In fact, at that moment, not even the varcolac would have scared her. She felt cushioned on a cloud of good will, and long-term consequences seemed like a distant curiosity.

Liddle leaned down into her face. “There's a conspiracy going on here. You, your sister, your father, your boyfriend—you're all involved. Who are you working for? Is it Turkey? Japan? What's your goal? What are you hiding?”

He had one long hair growing out of his left nostril. Sandra could see it quite clearly, given how closely he was leaning over her. She felt a giggle rising to the surface, but she reluctantly tamped it down, realizing, at least in a distant way, that it was not appropriate for the situation. Instead, she just said, “He's not my boyfriend.”

“I'm not fooling around here, Miss Kelley. Do you admit to being at Muncy Prison?”

“I don't think I have to talk to you.”

“What sort of explosive did you use to destroy the prison?”

“I didn't use any explosive.”

“What weapon, then?”

“I didn't destroy it.”

“Did you break Jean Massey out of prison?”

Sandra sighed. “I want to talk to Detective Messinger.”

“You're talking to me now.”

“Not anymore. You don't believe me. This is a waste of my time.”

“And Messinger does believe you?”

“Look, bring her in here. I'll tell her everything. Then she can tell you.”

“Is she part of your conspiracy, too?”

The sound of a scuffle down the hall caught Liddle's attention. “Let me in! She's my daughter, not some criminal. Let me in, or I'll call a lawyer. I'll call the press. Get your hands off me!”

Liddle stepped into the hall. “Let her through,” he said.

A moment later, Sandra's mother turned the corner, her face red and her curly hair askew. Sandra grinned. “Mom!”

Her mother glared at Liddle. “You,” she said. “I might have known. Do you always conspire to keep mothers and daughters apart, or is it a special interest with my family?”

“I could arrest you for interfering with an investigation,” Liddle said. “Do you have information relevant to this case? Or am I about to throw you out?”

“Leave her,” Sandra said. “And send Messinger in. I'll talk to her.”

Liddle held her gaze for a moment. “This is your one chance. I'll bring in Messinger, but I will also be here. If you talk, good. If not, I will have you relocated to a facility of my choosing, even with your injuries. Under the National Defense Authorization Act, I can hold terrorism suspects, without trial and without access to a lawyer, indefinitely. Do not cross me on this. I will do it.”

He walked out. Sandra's mother rushed over and wrapped her arms around her. Sandra threw an arm around her neck and held her close. Her mother's thick dark hair spilled over her face, and Sandra inhaled her familiar scent. “I'm so sorry about Dad,” Sandra said.

Her mother leaned back. “I didn't just bully my way through there to hug you,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I found something.”

She held out a thin card. Sandra took it. “Dad's phone?” she said.

Her mother nodded. “It wasn't on your father's body at the stadium. The police tore the house apart looking for it and finally concluded that it must have been tossed away in the blast and destroyed.”

“Where was it?”

“In the toaster.”

Sandra looked at her incredulously. “The toaster? But wouldn't it have melted in there?”

Her mother smiled. “We haven't used that toaster in years, not since Sean left home. Your father knew that. He hid it somewhere nobody but him would think to look for it.”

“But why?” Sandra bit her lip, trying to concentrate through the buzz of the pain medication. Her father had been in the kitchen when she saw him last, possibly right up to the point where his probability wave collapsed and he disappeared. “Do you think he hid it on that last day, when you stepped out of the room?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you could look at it, figure out what was so important that he had to hide.”

“I can do that.” Sandra took the phone and slid it under her sheet, just as Melissa Messinger came through the door. Angel was with her.

Sandra smiled in relief. “I thought they were going to disappear you,” she said.

“Not yet,” Angel said. “They tried, but I threatened to use my ninja judo jiu-jitsu on them, and they fled.”

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don't know, but it has lots of J's in it. Sounds impressive.”

“Look, I don't think Liddle is kidding around,” Messinger said. “He's on his way back in. You need to spill the beans, and it better be convincing, or he's going to start throwing his weight around.”

“He's a scary dude,” Angel said. “But, speaking of disappearing . . . we've got to go.”

Sandra wasn't expecting it. The room disappeared, and they were in sudden darkness. There was a loud crack, and she was falling, sliding off the bed. Her mother screamed. She was turned around, disoriented. What was happening? An eerie, multicolored
something
was moving to her left. She heard Angel cursing. Finally, light flooded the room.

They weren't in the hospital anymore. It was a large, windowless laboratory of sorts, filled with machines and apparatus of various kinds. In the center stood what looked like a large laser-light display, swirling and sparking out colors. “Where are we?” Sandra asked.

“Welcome to the evil scientist's lair,” Angel said. “We're on the eighth floor of the High Energy Lab at the NJSC. Ryan Oronzi's home base.”

Angel had teleported not only Sandra, but her bed, her IV pole, her heart monitor, and her mother, who had still had her arms around Sandra when Angel came in. One leg of the bed had materialized in the same location as the frame of a swivel chair, obliterating both. The bed sagged crazily to one side, and Sandra lay on the floor, with only her legs still in the bed. The IV had torn free, and her arm was bleeding. The heart monitor beeped wildly.

“Sorry about that,” Angel said, helping her up. “Not exactly a stylish rescue.” He nodded to Sandra's mother. “Mrs. Kelley. Pleased to meet you.”

Sandra's mother did a slow turn, taking in the room. “Amazing,” she said. “And good move, getting us out of there.”

Sandra struggled to her feet. She was wearing only a hospital gown, which was open at the back. She tried to hold it closed, but it didn't work.

“Let me,” her mother said. She tore the pillowcase to tie a makeshift bandage around Sandra's bleeding arm. Then she folded the sheet and wrapped it around her, under her arms, threading the corners through and tying them together behind her neck. As a dress, it was a little odd, but it kept her covered, and seemed to stay up on its own.

“Gorgeous,” Angel pronounced. “You're ready for Paris Fashion Week.”

“Why did you pick here?” Sandra asked.

“It was the only set of coordinates already stored on the projector Alex gave me. I didn't have time to get creative.”

“It's a good spot,” Sandra said. “Isolated, hard to find, and with plenty of computing and communication equipment. I wish I could see Liddle's face when he finds out we're gone.” She looked at the display in the center of the room, with its twisting neon colors. It was beautiful. “What's that thing?” she asked.

Angel shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Are you going to be okay?” her mother asked.

Sandra shrugged. “I'll probably have a rotten headache when the pain meds wear off, but I feel fine.” She took a step and wobbled a bit, lightheaded. “Almost fine, anyway.”

Her mother tried to guide her to a chair. “Wait,” Sandra said. She hunted around on the floor, and came up with her father's phone. “Let's see what we can do with this.”

The plane flight was the most terrifying experience of Ryan's life. He had never even been on a passenger jet before, never mind a military transport, so he had no idea whether the sounds and vibrations he heard were normal or not. The engine roared like a famished beast, and when it started rolling down the tarmac, every tank and truck and piece of equipment rattled and shook. They built up incredible inertia, hurtling blindly at breakneck speed, and Ryan knew in his soul that this behemoth could not possibly take off. They would plow into the buildings at the end of the runway, and he would die.

The rumbling grew worse, until his jaw hurt from clenching his teeth, and he felt his arms would be bruised from clinging to the straps. The plane gave a lurch, and Ryan vomited, covering his clothing in foulness. He coughed and spat, only to realize that the battering had stopped. They were airborne.

The knowledge did not calm him. It meant only that they were climbing higher and higher, their potential energy increasing every minute. He couldn't help checking the GPS in his eyejacks and watching their altitude climb. In moments, they were high enough to eliminate any chance of survival were the engines to fail.

This was all Alex's fault. She had practically dragged him on board, signing his death warrant. He shouldn't have listened to her. He should have teleported a rock into her head rather than let her strap him into this flying deathtrap. Just because people sometimes survived such a flight didn't mean it was safe. People survived shark attacks and gunshots, too, but that didn't mean they were a good idea.

He screamed, drawing the attention of the few other passengers, a few soldiers and pilots who were strapped in farther up the decking. And Alex. Alex looked at him with pity. He didn't want her pity, not when it was her fault he was here. If he could have reached her, he would have slapped her. Except that slapping her would have required him to release his grip on the handles attached to the plane's fuselage. He couldn't do that, not even to wipe the vomit from his face.

This was all Jean's fault, too. The only reason Ryan had agreed to come along was because Jean had stolen the varcolac's favor away from him. He had to get it back.
He
was the One, not her. He was born to it. With the varcolac on his side, he wouldn't be afraid anymore. With the varcolac on his side, everyone else would have to be afraid of him.

Alex was probably laughing at him. She didn't show it on her face, but inside, she was laughing. She thought he was ridiculous. He screamed again, in frustration and fear. Why couldn't she just laugh in his face? At least then he would see it. He wouldn't have to imagine her later, recounting the flight to friends, imitating him, mocking his terror.

Maybe the plane would go down, and she wouldn't get the chance. That would wipe the smile off her face. He'd be laughing at her, then. Only he wouldn't, would he? His fragile body would be hurtling toward the ground, then crushed and torn apart by thousands of tons of twisted, razor-sharp metal. The image sickened him, and he vomited again.

He had to get off this plane. He couldn't take it, not a moment longer. He opened his eyes a crack and found the straps. He fumbled at the buckles, trying to get them free. The knots were too tight. He couldn't get his fingers into them enough to separate them, especially with how they kept shaking. He was trapped. Alex had trapped him here to die.

He wasn't made for this. He hated his body, hated every physical limitation and danger. The varcolac never had to fear something so prosaic as a fall from a height. Ryan was so much more than this. Why should his mind be trapped in this fragile flesh? He longed to be free of it. If by some miracle he made it through this flight alive, he was going to do everything he could—everything—to insure that this never happened again. He was a varcolac. He was pure mind. And he wasn't going to let Jean Massey take that away from him.