The Memory Key (23 page)

I turn around, hoping it's my aunt. It's not. It's a man in a gray suit accompanied by a woman, also in a gray suit. They nod in response to the receptionist's greeting, their expressions solemn. They do not seem to recognize me.

But I recognize them immediately.

They are the ones who took my mother away.

“THOSE PEOPLE WHO JUST CAME IN, WHO ARE THEY? THEY LOOK
familiar,” I say. My voice sounds normal. Impossibly normal.

The receptionist grins. “I'm sure you've met them before. They're your aunt's aides. They've worked with her forever.”

“Forever,” I say.

“Not literally forever. But years and years.”

I try to process this information, that the blue-jacketed strangers work for my aunt, that they've worked with her for years and years. I cannot process this information.

“I have to go,” I say slowly. Slowly because my tongue seems to have swollen inside my mouth. In fact, all of me seems to have swollen. My lungs strain thickly inside my chest. My skin feels about to burst. I stagger out of the office, past the security guard, into the elevator, and back down to the lobby.

I remember Aunt Austin in her bedroom, standing over her suitcase.
I loved your mom, Lora. I really
, she said, then zipped her bag closed without completing the sentence.

I remember my mother sitting on Jon's couch.
Why don't
you give me her number and I'll call
, she said, and I gave her her sister's number.

Fumbling my phone from my pocket, I try Jon's house again. Again I get a busy signal, tinny and echoing in my ear. I try his cell again. Again it goes to voice mail. So I try Darren's sister's apartment. I leave a message on the answering machine—“It's Lora, pick up, pick up, pick up!”—but no one picks up.

Then my phone rings.

“They're not going to release him until the judge sets bail. His lawyer says this is unusual for a trespassing charge, and she's going to fight it, but it sounds bad, Lora, it sounds really bad. Did you talk to Jon Harmon?” Wendy says all of this in one breathless rush.

“I'm going to his house. Do you want to meet me there?”

“Yes! I'm going crazy waiting,” she says.

“We've got to hurry. Before it's too late,” I say.

“Too late for what?”

“I'll tell you when we get there. Hurry, okay?” I give her Jon's address. Then I look around for my bicycle, and realize it's at home. Then I look around for my umbrella, and realize I left it in my aunt's office. So I pull my hood over my head and race outside. The rain has eased; now it falls in thin, sharp needles.

A bus is pulling away from the stop on the corner. I chase after it, waving. I run two blocks to catch up. “What's the big rush?” the driver asks when I get on.

I shake my head.

Traffic is bad because although it's no longer pouring, the roads are soaked and slippery. I groan at every stop, every red light. When I get off the bus, the other passengers are probably glad to be rid of me, but I don't care. I dash up the street to Jon's house and ring the bell. Then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The door opens.

“Hello,” says the man. He is short and slim, with a lot of red-blond hair.

“Hi. You must be . . . Darren.” It takes my damp brain an extra second to recall the name of Jon Harmon's partner.

“And you're Lora,” he says. “It's so nice to finally meet you. Please, come in. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, I was upstairs.”

Darren hangs my coat in the closet while I step out of my dripping boots. He invites me to borrow some slippers and I choose the plaid pair closest to my size. They are still much too large. “Would you like something to drink?” he asks.

I shake my head impatiently. “Where's Jon? And my mom?”

“I was hoping you'd know. No one was here when I got here,” he says, waving me into the living room. He sits in the armchair, normally Jon's armchair, and I sit on the sofa.

“I called the apartment. There was no answer there either,” I say.

His pale eyebrows come together. “Where could they be?”

“Could they still be at the department store?”

“The department store?”

“The one on Greenfield Avenue,” I say.

“Ah, yes, that one.” He gazes at me, eyes gleaming. “Lora, I can't imagine what it must be like for you. To have thought your mother was dead, and then find out otherwise. You must be so happy,” he says.

“Of course, I'm very happy.” I nod. Darren is not what I expected. He is intense, almost uncomfortably so, in stark opposition to Jon's laid-back cheerfulness.

“I truly admire the way you got your mother out of Grand Gardens. What an elegant plan you came up with, and so quickly,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say, idly scratching at an itchy place above my ear, but there's no relief, only increasing discomfort. I force my hand down, clamp it underneath my leg. The irritation is not on my head, it's inside my head. I've forgotten something.

“And you didn't even panic when you got outside and bumped into your friend who works there, what's his name, Ralph, Ron . . . I'm so bad with names.”

“Raul,” I say, distracted, as I try to remember what I've forgotten.

“Yes, Raul. How's it going with Raul? He seems so nice.”

Then my full attention is abruptly on Darren. How does he know about Raul? I haven't told Jon about Raul. How does he know I saw Raul outside the retirement home? I haven't told anyone about seeing Raul outside the retirement home.

“How do you know about that?” I ask.

But now Darren is the one distracted. He is gazing out the front window. I turn to see what he sees, and I nearly choke when I see it. A silver sedan is pulling into the driveway. The car door opens and a tall man unfolds out. He holds his hands over his face to protect against the rain as he strides quickly to the house. The doorbell rings.

“Finally,” says Darren. “Now don't move. I'll be right back.”

I don't move. I can't move. So complete is my confusion. So complete is my fear. There is the creak of the door opening, and a bang as it closes. There is the low murmur of deep voices. I cannot make out what they are saying. Perhaps because they are speaking so carefully quietly. Perhaps because I am remembering what I had forgotten.

The only part of me that will budge is my gaze, so I push my eyes away from the window, away from the silver sedan in the driveway, and over to the family portrait on the wall above the fireplace. There's Jon Harmon, bald and beaming, and the two kids, cutely freckled. But I'm focused on the other man in the photograph. The other man is tall, unlike Darren, who is of average height. The other man is plump, unlike Darren, who is slender. The other man has brown hair, unlike Darren, whose hair is a reddish blond. The conclusion is obvious. Darren is not Darren. But if he's not Darren . . .

I've got to get out of here.

I stand. But then there's a clatter of footsteps and Not-Darren reappears. “Sorry for the interruption,” he says. “You
stay put while I talk a minute with my friend. We'll be right here in the hallway, so don't worry about a thing. You might as well sit back down and relax.” Not-Darren smiles at me, and I know that he knows that I know. I sit back down. He nods approvingly as he goes.

I've got to get out of here.

But how? I ease myself up and tiptoe to the window. With great tenderness, I tug on the frame. The wood jiggles, but won't lift. I search for a latch or a lock or a lever, fingers crawling into dusty cracks and corners, but then I'm distracted by a flash of color. I look through the glass and am appalled by what I find.

Wendy is walking toward the house.

Her umbrella is open high above her head, and that's what caught my attention because her umbrella is hot pink. I tap on the window. Then I tap more frantically. I can't let her fall into this trap I've fallen into. For that's what this undoubtedly is: a trap. Set for my mother, but now that Not-Darren has caught me, he's keeping me instead. Or in addition.

I tap as loudly as I dare, then consider more drastic action, looking around the room for something heavy, something I can use to smash the glass.

Wendy stops mid-stride. She sees me.

I shake my head and wave my arms and mouth a million desperate words. When she nods I exhale with relief. Now she will walk away, she will go for help, she will save herself, and maybe, hopefully, me.

But instead, Wendy dashes out of my sight.

But instead, the doorbell rings.

No, no, no.

The two men fall silent. A moment passes before they begin whispering again. Then one of them treads toward the door. I run to the fireplace, to the iron poker resting against the bricks, thinking I can use it to smash the window, the room, anything, everything, and create a diversion so that Wendy can get away.

But as I reach for the poker a hand grips my arm and pulls me backward. “Lora Mint,” says a voice in my ear. I turn around.

It's not Not-Darren.

This man is tall. This man is thin. This man has salt-and-pepper curls and dark eyes. I know this man. He's the doctor from Keep Corp, the one who replaced my memory key. The one who said my mother was a wonderful person and a great scientist. The one who looked at me with such grief when I told him I was her daughter. Dr. Trent. Driver of the silver sedan.

“It's you,” I say. I glare.

“Quiet,” he says. “You don't want anyone to get hurt, do you?”

This quiets me instantly.

Wendy's voice soars nimbly through the stillness. “Are you Jon Harmon?” she asks. “I'm the journalism student who called to interview you about your experiences in activism. I know I'm early for our appointment, I hope you don't mind.”

“No, I'm not Jon. He's not home right now. You'd better come back later, when he's expecting you,” says Not-Darren.

“Do you know when he'll be back?” asks Wendy.

“I'm afraid I don't,” says Not-Darren.

“
Get out of here
,” Dr. Trent hisses.

“What?” I'm sure I heard him wrong because I was focused on the conversation between Wendy and Not-Darren. I stare at the doctor. His face is narrow eyes and narrow lips and nothing revealed.

“Is there another exit? A back door?” he whispers, releasing his hold on my arm.

“Through the kitchen?” I say.

“Then go that way. Now.” Dr. Trent is obviously exasperated by my confusion.

But I still don't understand. “Go?” I say. “Go where?”

“Anywhere! Just get out of here!”

I take a step toward the door, then turn back.

“Why?” I ask. “Why are you letting me go?”

For a moment, I think he's not going to answer. I take another step toward the door, and another, before he speaks. “I owe your mother this much,” he says softly. “Now, go!”

I go. I sneak across the hallway. Wendy is still chattering to Not-Darren, even as his responses get impatiently short. Still she prattles on, telling him how important this article is to her, and how hard it is to get a regular column at the school newspaper, and how she's always wanted to be a journalist, even when she was a little girl. Terrified as I am, I'm still able to admire Wendy's act.

In the kitchen, I undo the deadbolt. But when I ease open
the back door, the hinges screech, they scream, they wail. I freeze.

I freeze and wait for the thunder of footsteps. What I actually hear is much worse. “Wait, I recognize you,” Not-Darren says to Wendy. “You're Lora's friend. Cindy? Mindy? Winnie? I'm so bad with names . . .”

He continues guessing, but I've stopped listening. I leap outside, across the wooden deck, down the stairs, and into the yard. My feet slip in the muddy grass, and I realize I'm still wearing those too-large plaid slippers. I kick them off as I race around to the front of the house.

“Wendy!” I shout. “Wendy, run!”

She hears me. She sees me. She runs.

Not-Darren reaches for her, but trips over the hot-pink umbrella she has dropped in her haste. He swiftly recovers, sprinting down the front path. But Wendy has a head start, and with those long legs she's very fast.

“Car! Over there!” she yells, pointing at the end of the block.

I follow her. The concrete is painfully hard against my socked feet. The rain is coming down in dense drops. Wendy unlocks her car and we both dive inside, shut our doors, lock our doors. Only then do we look behind us.

Not-Darren is nowhere to be seen.

“Let's go,” I say to Wendy. My voice is wobbly.

“Yes, let's,” she says to me. Her voice is wobbly, too. She starts the engine and pulls out of the parking space. We have
to pass Jon Harmon's house, and as we approach, Wendy accelerates.

“No,” I say. “Not so fast.”

She raises her eyebrows, but slows down. I stare out the window. Not-Darren stands on the sidewalk, holding Wendy's open umbrella over his head. The umbrella glows pink on his face. Dr. Trent is on the porch, calling out. But it appears as though Not-Darren does not hear him. Perhaps because he is too busy watching us as we drive past. I'm unnerved by his expression. He doesn't look angry or disappointed or frustrated.

Instead, Not-Darren is smiling as if he doesn't mind that we've escaped. He is smiling as if it was his plan all along to let us go. He is smiling as if we're playing a game and he's just realized he is going to win.

“HE KNEW WHO I WAS.” WENDY IS CLENCHING THE STEERING
wheel so tightly that her hands are bumpy knuckle and nothing else. “How did he know? I've never seen him before in my life.”

“He knew all these things he shouldn't have known. I don't know how.”

“Should we call the police? I think we'd better call them,” she says.

“Turn right and go down two blocks,” I say.

“Where are we going? We should call the police.”

“We have to find my mom. I told him the department store. If she's there—”

“Wait, what? What do you mean
your mom
!” she cries.

“She's alive. Here, just park now, here.” I get out of the car and hurry to the building. Wendy is right behind me, screaming questions at me. I batter the correct rhythm onto the door—one long tap, two short—and immediately it swings opens.

“What are you doing? Where's Jeanette?” asks Jon Harmon.

“You don't where she is?” I say.

“She's late. She was supposed to be back ten minutes ago.”

“She's not still at the department store, is she?”

“No.” He looks confused. (I realize it was hours ago I'd met her there.) Then my panic becomes anger. “Why didn't you return my calls?” I ask him.

“I tried. What's going on?”

“Keep Corp's at your house. Tim is in jail. And . . . If my mom isn't at the store, where is she?”

“They're at my house?” Jon frowns.

“Where's my mother?” I ask.

“She went to see her sister. But what about my house?”

“She went to Aunt Austin's?”

“Yes, but what about Keep Corp
at my house
?” yells Jon.

“I have to go, right now, I have to go. Can I borrow your car?” I ask Wendy, and grab the keys from her hand before she can respond. I race out of the apartment and I'm almost down the hall when she comes after me.

“Lora! You can't leave like that!” Wendy grabs my arm.

“It's okay. Tell Jon what happened, and he'll help Tim.”

“I will. But you're not wearing any shoes.”

I look down at my feet. I'm not wearing any shoes.

“Hold on.” Wendy kneels to unlace her sneakers.

“You'll need them,” I say.

“You'll need them more. I'm not letting you go unless you take them.”

“Fine.” I slip on her shoes and tie them tight. Her feet are larger than mine.

Then I remember something else. I take Tim's diagram out of my backpack. “Here, I don't know what this means, but maybe Jon can do something with it. In case . . .” I don't finish the sentence out loud; I don't finish the sentence in my head. I turn to go.

“Lora!”

I glance back. “Yeah?”

“I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you, too,” I say.

“Be careful, okay?”

“I will.”

Then I'm running outside and instantly soaked, the wind washing through my hair, my eyes weeping rain. The wet sky is the same dark gray as the wet road, and I'm so grateful for Wendy's car and Wendy's sneakers. And Wendy herself.

In this rainy bad weather, I drive as fast as I dare drive. And, fortunately, there is not much traffic. Until I come to the exit for Grand Village. The off-ramp spirals me down to street level, and into a crowd of unmoving cars.

“An accident,” I whisper to myself as we roll forward half an inch.

“Ridiculous,” I whisper to myself as we roll forward another half an inch.

I turn on the radio and flip through the stations, listening
for information on traffic delays. I speed past reports of flooding, electrical outages, a person critically injured by a falling tree, but it's too much to listen to so I turn it off, and, anyway, we're suddenly moving. Forward the car goes, slowly still but surely down one block, and another, and another, until I come to the place where the problem began.

I look. I look away. I look, even though I don't want to look. An ambulance and two police cars are there: lights flashing yellow through the murk, sirens off so the only sound is the falling water and the rough shouts of the emergency workers as they carry their burden across the road. A white sheet settled like snow over hills and valleys on the stretcher. The still terrain of a motionless body.

And I remember that it was a stormy day like today that my mother died. My tense body tenses more. I inform myself I'm wrong. She never died. She's alive and I am going to find her and I can't get distracted by some other tragedy.

I look away. I keep driving.

One more mile and there it is: the ultramodern condominium apartment building, gleaming and imposing as always, immune to the indignity of bad weather. I pull up in front, into a parking space I'm not sure is an actual space, and run inside.

I am met with silence. And shadow.

No neatly uniformed man stands behind the front desk, waiting to greet me. No light glitters down from the massive chandelier to illuminate the marble floors. “Hello?” I say, my
voice skittering across the abandoned space. No one answers. The lobby has the look and feel of a forsaken place.

“So much for security around here,” I say, trying to talk normally, trying to destroy the perfect quiet of this deserted room, but one wavering voice does nothing against this vast emptiness. As soon as a syllable trips out over my lips, it disappears.

I continue walking, though the farther I go, the darker it gets. The seeping daylight wavers and weakens in the windowless elevator vestibule. Squinting, I fumble for the button. Find it. Press it. Press it again. Nothing happens.

“The power's out,” I say aloud.

Of course the power's out. That's why the lights aren't lit. That's why the security guard is missing; he must be fiddling with a fuse box somewhere. I'm reassured by the simple explanation. I'm reassured until I realize this means I have to find another way to the fifteenth floor. And the only other way is painful and obvious.

I feel my way around the corner, past the mailboxes, sliding hands across the walls, wet shoes slipping on the floor. At least it's not completely dark inside the stairwell. A pale backup light flickers overhead. I put my hand on the railing and begin the climb.

At first I go quickly, for ten floors I go quickly, until my legs start complaining and my lungs start protesting, so I slow legs and lungs until my feet are a steady thump, thump, thump on each ascending step. I force myself up the final
flights and push my way out of the stairwell. And step into black nothing.

I stumble. I reach out my arms. I stumble again. I stumble down the hallway, across the thick carpet. I stumble again as my palms slam a vertical surface. Which means I'm at the end of the corridor. Which means I'm in front of my aunt's apartment. I find the knob and twist. Then the door—inexplicably unlocked—glides open.

And I'm shocked by what I find inside.

All the usual order has been violently destroyed. There are books splayed on the floor and chairs turned over and the coffee table is leaning at a dangerous angle. Paintings and photographs have been ripped down, leaving ugly scars in the wall. The cream-colored couch has slashes up and down its body, and from each cut bleeds fiber filling.

Away from the chaos, a woman stands at the window, staring out at the rain, one arm across her chest, the other arm folded up so her fingers can gently tap against her cheek, as if she is in deep thought. Suddenly, she whirls around.

“Lora, what are you doing here?” asks Aunt Austin.

“I know what you did,” I say accusingly.

Then I notice her eyes are wet.

“My dear, you shouldn't have come,” she says. She weeps.

“You took my mother away from me.”

A sob breaks open her face.

“Why did you do it?” I am trying to be firm, but it's impossible when she is crying like this; I've never seen my aunt cry
like this. Not even at my mom's funeral—but then, she knew it was no true funeral. This last thought kicks.

“Why did you do it?” I ask again, and this time I'm screaming.

“They were going to have her killed! It really would have been Jeanette in that car if I hadn't sent her away.”

“You should have gone to the police!”

“There wasn't time. I had to do something before . . .”

“Tell me,” I say. “Tell me exactly what you did.”

She nods. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and wipes her swollen eyes. “An associate of mine told me that Jeanette was in trouble. I tried talking sense into my sister, but she was stubborn as she always was—always
is
. She refused to accept the fact she was in danger. So I had to take action.”

My aunt explains she had the car accident staged, and that the recovered body came from a medical lab. Meanwhile, she arranged for my mother to be taken to safety at Grand Gardens.

“Then you let us think she was dead,” I say.

“I was trying to protect her. I was trying to protect
you.
”

“For five years I thought my mother was dead,” I say.

“It was necessary. Jeanette discovered confidential information about a certain project at Keep Corp. She went to the man in charge, her colleague and supposed friend, and told him she didn't approve of his project, that she was going to the authorities about it, and he should cooperate. Instead he reported her to his superiors. They hired people to get rid of
her, and they would have, if I hadn't intervened.”

“And Keep Corp let you do it?”

“I called in favors. I used every connection I had.”

I shake my head. It makes sense, yet nothing make sense. I point at the wounded walls, the mutilated sofa. “What happened here?” I ask.

“Your mother.”

“Mom did this? How? Why?”

“I have no idea. She was gone before I got here. With all the building's power problems today, she was able to get in, but the security guard saw her leaving and he called me immediately,” she says.

“But why would she do this to your apartment?”

“Probably to vent her anger. Jeanette always had a bad temper.”

“Can you blame her?” My voice is dangerously sharp.

“No. I only blame myself.” Aunt Austin stares down at the floor, at the broken glass scattered across the white carpet.

Then she looks up again. She looks at me. “But this is no time for blame. We have to find your mother. Do you know where she is?”

I shake my head, though I suppose my mom has returned to meet Jon. But I won't answer any of my aunt's questions until she has answered all of mine. “What will you do when you find her?” I ask.

“I'll take her back to Grand Gardens. Or somewhere else she'll be safe.”

“Why? She doesn't remember anything. She's no threat to them anymore.”

“Jeanette's a loose end—an employee who is supposed to be dead—and Keep Corp doesn't like loose ends. That's why I have my best people looking for her. That's why we have to find her before they do.”

“Do you know what she discovered about the new keys? We could use that information to protect her. It would give us leverage against Keep Corp.”

My aunt's expression doesn't change, and yet it does. The pinch of her forehead, the downturn of her mouth, seems to fix into permanent place.

“
You know
,” I say. “What is it?”

She exhales heavily, painfully. “I'm going to tell you, Lora. I'm going to tell you because I trust you. I know you'll understand that these sacrifices are for the greater good. It's about the future of our country,” she says.

Then it's all suddenly, horrifically, clear.

“You're working with them!”

“We're collaborating. On a revolutionary new program,” she says.

Which makes me think of that tabloid article about Keep Corp transmitting data to radical extremists so they can carry out political assassinations, and what I'm thinking is crazy, but all of this is totally crazy, so I just ask it: “Aunt Austin, are you helping the Citizen Army?”

“
Helping
them? Don't you know me at all?” She seems truly offended.

“Honestly?” I say.

She flinches. “I guess I deserved that. But won't you give me a chance to explain? I love you, and I love Jeanette, and I'm so, so sorry I had to hurt you. Please, you have to let me explain.”

After a moment I nod, the barest of nods.

“Thank you, my dear.” She sits cautiously on the ravaged couch, and motions for me to sit next to her. When she begins talking again, her voice is clear, and so are her eyes. It's hard to believe she was a mush of tears just minutes before. But this is Aunt Austin's single-minded way.

“You see, Lora, our country has gone from being the most powerful nation in the world to an international laughingstock. Our government is ineffective, our unemployment rate is at a historical high, while our financial markets are dangerously low. So what do we do? To get to the solution, we start at the root of the problem. Can you guess what that is?”

I shake my head.

“Fear,” she says, stretching the word so it fills the room. Then she continues. “When innocent people are killed every day, yes, it's fear that's controlling us now. So what would happen if we removed this fear? Imagine a world with no more Citizen Army, no more bombings, no more hijackings, no more murders, no crime at all.”

“It's not possible,” I say.

“No? But what if we were able to apprehend every perpetrator of every crime, and provide the courts with proof of their guilt.”

And then I realize exactly how it's possible.

“The new keys,” I say.

“Yes, we've partnered with Keep Corp to create a groundbreaking security program. The new keys have a decryption function that will enable law enforcement to access memory data in order to identify and prosecute criminals.”