Tremor (10 page)

“Why would we do that?” Clara didn't ask so much as make it clear there was no way they were leaving Andre alone with this guy. She hadn't taken her eyes off Dylan since discovering him in the cell, and it wasn't clear if this was because she didn't trust him or because she longed to be with him. It was complicated.

Dylan hadn't brought along anything, not a Tablet or a backpack or even a jacket to protect him from the cold. Black T-shirt, jeans with bullet holes in them, boots. That was it. He pulled the pockets out of his jeans, held up his hands, turned in a full circle.

“Unless you count my underwear and my socks, you're looking at everything I brought in here with me.”

Wade laughed, then used his mind to throw Dylan into a wall inside the cell. Dylan flexed his entire upper body before impact and aimed his arm and shoulder to take the blow. He'd trained for this, preparing like a football player who would be expected to take some big hits, but the impact nearly buckled him over with pain.

It's going to take a lot more than that,
Dylan thought as he stared Wade down. The blow had gotten through Dylan's second pulse and would, in due time, leave a bruise on his right arm. How had he let Meredith talk him into this again?

“Your brain is the only weapon you need,” Wade said. “What do you think we are, idiots?”

Dylan focused his mind on Wade, stared him down like the enemy he was, and thought about throwing him down the long hallway.

“Don't—”

Wade tried to speak, but it was too late. He tumbled twenty yards end over end and slammed into the cell block D security door.

“You guys about through, or should we settle in for the show?” Gretchen asked.

Wade was back in a flash, ready to slam Dylan against the cell walls until he was finished for good.

“I say we end him right now,” Wade said. “He's the only reason we've been waiting for whatever this grand plan of yours is. We kill him now, and nothing's in our way.”

Andre didn't know what to do. His family was right: Dylan was extremely dangerous. He could wipe out the entire single-pulse army they had if he got out, Andre included. But the nagging question remained:
Can Dylan Gilmore really be my son?

“Don't touch him,” Andre said. “Not yet. He's not going anywhere as long as we've got him locked inside this cage. I need to think about our options. Gretchen, assess damages and put the units on high alert. Clara, stay here; keep an eye on our prisoner.”

Andre turned on his heels and started walking away.

“And don't let any single pulses down here, too dangerous,” he said over his shoulder.

“If we're not terminating this loser, then you can fill me in on your plan later,” Wade said. “I don't trust him. I'm checking the perimeter.”

Andre had expected as much. Wade was always looking for a reason to escape the supermax. Seventeen and holed up for months on end with his parents and his sister was wearing thin. Clara, for whatever reason, had taken to the secret training center more readily than Wade had. But then she had always been more focused than her brother, more willing to bide her time in order to get what she wanted.

“That's a good idea,” Andre said as he stopped and looked back, seeing his chance to splinter the team long enough to do what he needed to. “Give it a good flyover, check for anything unusual. Go alone. Now's not the time to risk losing anyone.”

Wade was already moving down the corridor before Andre finished talking, and Clara seemed perfectly happy to stay with Dylan and keep an eye on him. Her second pulse would protect her if anything went wrong. That left Gretchen, who was boring down on Andre with her machine-like eyes as she walked toward him.

“We should interrogate him,” she said. “Find out what he knows. I can do that if you'd like.”

“Gretchen, please. Give me some time to think about this. Go talk to the units, get them organized. Make sure they know not to come down here; keep them on high alert. But let me deal with this situation my way.”

There was a hint of condescension in Andre's delivery, a tone that had come up before when sensitive information was being discussed. There had always been a certain pecking order to which they adhered, and Andre, while technically the weakest among them, had been second in command after Hotspur Chance all along. When Hotspur was gone, Andre took over the directives for which they'd fought. Gretchen had always maintained a suspicion that it was because Hotspur, too, was not a second pulse. He could orchestrate the re-organization of the entire planet, but there was nothing he could do that would give him the power he lacked. He trusted Andre the most, Gretchen thought, because Andre was vulnerable in a way that she was not.

“I don't like the way this is playing out,” she said. “Something is off. I can feel it.”

But she didn't protest any further; instead she followed Wade toward the door and decided she would find out soon enough what was really going on. All the Quinns, most of all Gretchen, were in the habit of lying and deceiving one another. It was in their blood.

And so they went, all in different directions, all with their own hidden agendas in mind.

Chapter 8
She's a Little Unpredictable, This Girl

Clara was only too happy to have Dylan to herself. She hated to admit it, but she'd been obsessed with Dylan Gilmore at Old Park Hill, their last high school. He was eye candy, with his thick, dark hair and muscular body, and he was confident. He had been a diversion she enjoyed, someone to occupy her thoughts as one boring day led to the next, and she waited. It wasn't until she killed Faith's best friend that Clara realized her feelings were, possibly, much more serious than she'd ever realized. Once she discovered Dylan was a second pulse her emotions had intensified even more.

“You know what's really interesting about the two of us?” Clara asked, flashing a toothy smile. She had kept her blond hair cropped short, which added to her assassin's beauty: strong, focused, gorgeous.

Dylan was tempted to say
Well, the really interesting thing is that we have the same father
, but he didn't.

“Go on, try to guess,” Clara said.

“I'm no good at reading minds,” Dylan said.

“You're the only other second pulse in the world besides my crazy mother and Wade. We're equal that way. We're special.”

Dylan wanted to tell Clara that no, there was another.
Her name is Faith, and she's going to kill you.
But as much fun as that would have been, it was not in the cards just yet. It was the biggest secret he had going for him. So he played along instead.

“Look, Clara, I'm here because I'm through with the drifters. You think your mom is crazy? You don't know crazy until you've spent some quality time with Meredith.”

“How is she nuts? Tell me,” Clara asked. She was genuinely curious if Dylan's situation was like her own: an egomaniacal, controlling mother.

“She's got a god complex,” Dylan said. “And she's mean. And she won't tell me what her plan is. It's like being in a cult over there.”

“Where's over there?” Clara asked, smiling through the bars.

“Why should I tell you that? What's in it for me?”

“So you do have an agenda then,” Clara said, smiling slyly as she paced along the bars like a caged lion. “I could open the gate on this cage and see what comes of it. I could come in there. That might be fun for the both of us.”

Dylan smiled faintly and held Clara's gaze. How far was he required to take this in order to stay undercover? He regretted how he'd let his mom talk him into this and tried to move the conversation in a different direction.

“I don't have an agenda that involves Meredith or a rebellion or any of that. I came here because I have questions. Questions I think only Andre can answer.”

“I've got a question only
you
can answer,” Clara said playfully. “How's Faith Daniels? Or is she already dead?”

The blood at the back of Dylan's head pushed forward, a great pressure of resentment against his eyes as he willed himself not to slam Clara's head into the bars. It would do no good anyway. She would only laugh, and unlike her, he was sitting in a room surrounded by the one thing that could kill him if she slammed his head into it enough times.

“So she is dead?” Clara asked. Her brother, Wade, had gone quiet about Faith in recent weeks, but for a while Faith had been all he'd talked about. Her parents didn't respond one way or the other—an ordinary single pulse, who cared? Well,
Clara
cared. Clara cared a great deal.

“I don't see her much,” Dylan said. “But she's not dead. At least I don't think she is.”

Clara was pleased to hear Dylan wasn't with Faith and surprisingly enthusiastic about the fact that Faith was alive. She fantasized about killing her quite often. Now, it would seem, her wish might come true. It was only a matter of when.

“Clara?”

It was Andre's voice in her Tablet. Clara answered as though hearing from Andre was the biggest bother in the world.

“Yes, Andre?”

“Pick up.”

Clara took her Tablet out of her back pocket and held it to her ear.

“What?”

A pause as instructions were given, in which Dylan tried but failed to hear the voice on the other end.

“Can't he do it himself?” Clara asked, obviously displeased with whatever she was being asked to do.

“All right, all right—I'm going.”

She snapped her Tablet large and input a few keystrokes, searching the screen for information Dylan couldn't see.

“Dumb ass,” she said under her breath, then, looking at Dylan, added, “Be thankful you're an only child.”

Dylan smiled, but not for the reason Clara intuited. If Meredith was telling the truth about Andre, Dylan had a couple of half siblings, one of whom was staring him in the face.

“Don't go anywhere, my helpless prisoner. I'll be back.”

Dylan did feel helpless. He wasn't used to this feeling, and he didn't like it. A few seconds later Clara was gone, and he touched his sound ring, pressing in and listening for voices. He heard none.

“I'm in the prison, safe for now,” Dylan whispered. He thought about saying that he'd been thrown around some but knew it would serve no purpose other than to worry Faith. “Wade, possibly Clara, scouting. Stay invisible.”

A long pause ensued, then Hawk's voice was big and loud in Dylan's head. It sounded as if Hawk were using a bullhorn.

“Copy, bro,” he said.

“Sounds like you're screaming. Take it down a notch,” Dylan said.

“Right, inside voice. Just excited to hear you're okay,” Hawk said, and the volume went down considerably. “We've moved camp, higher up into the wild. Camo'ed the HumGee, looks like a giant rock. Pretty cool. Faith, you there?”

“Yeah. Hey, Dylan, I miss you. Tell me you're okay. Oh, and I got attacked by wolves. I'm okay, but I have another ripped shirt.”

Dylan could hear the smile in Faith's voice, and he smiled, too. But he didn't answer because he could hear footsteps approaching.

“You're okay, right?” Faith asked. They hadn't been apart in a long time, and it was already weighing on her.

“How's the prison food?” Hawk added, trying to lighten the mood. “I bet they have some grade-A slop in that place.”

“I miss you,” Faith said, in a rare moment of letting down her guard emotionally in front of Hawk.

Dylan couldn't answer Faith for fear of being seen or heard. The girl he loved was saying she missed him, and he couldn't reply. It was agonizing.

Faith, sounding slightly annoyed, kept speaking. “So when a girl says she misses you, that's when you say something nice. Or send flowers.”

“He's obviously got someone within earshot,” Clooger broke in. “Shut up, you two, and stay focused. Dylan can take care of himself. Faith, anything?”

Faith was glad her reddening cheeks couldn't be seen from where she was hiding. Talking this way in front of Hawk was one thing, but Clooger? She'd half forgotten he was even listening in.

“Nothing to see here,” Faith said. “All clear.”

Faith was positioned up in a tree, a hundred yards in front of the HumGee, keeping an eye out for anyone who might come near. She stared off toward the prison, which she couldn't see through all the branches. She'd set up in a bad spot, a useless spot, and began climbing down for a better vantage point. Not hearing Dylan's reply made her anxious. Whatever he was doing, he wasn't alone.

“I'd like to review our situation, if I may,” Andre said. He had returned, alone and focused of mind, and Dylan stood up.

“I'm listening,” Dylan said.

“You have come here, unannounced, and willingly allowed yourself to be taken prisoner. If your mission had been to terminate me, you would have already done it.”

“Still could,” Dylan said. They both knew Dylan was capable of ending Andre Quinn's life in the blink of an eye if he wanted to.

“True enough,” Andre said. “And yet you choose not to. The only explanation is that you really do think you're my son and, that being the case, that we'll have some things to discuss. But you're assuming this is true based on information you've been given by Meredith, who I happen to know is both cruel and deceitful.”

“You know her well,” Dylan said, stepping closer to the bars. He could almost reach out and touch Andre from where he stood. “But what if I am your son? What then? Maybe the two of us could help each other. Maybe we could find some common ground.”

“What kind of common ground are you suggesting?” Andre asked.

“I don't know exactly,” Dylan conceded. “But if you're my dad, I'd imagine we could figure out a way to work together instead of against each other.”

Andre didn't respond. He stared at Dylan, and they held each other's gaze. Andre broke the standoff: “Let's assume I give you a DNA test. I can do that with my Tablet right now in less than ten seconds. I won't even have to draw blood. What happens when you're wrong?”

“I won't be,” Dylan said.

“But what if you are? What then? You're safer to us dead than alive, that's what. Switching sides late in the game will have been a miscalculation that will cost you your life.”

“I'm not on anyone's side. I don't even know what I'm fighting for, not really.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Give me the test,” Dylan said, taking one more step, which put their faces within a foot of each other. Dylan could see the resemblance to himself in the dark hair, the straight nose.

“If I'm not your kid, I swear I won't hurt you. That's all I have; but it's my word, and I mean it. I won't retaliate.”

“Okay, let's assume you are my son. That presents other problems you haven't thought of. Wade and Clara won't be pleased. They're competitive enough as it is. A half brother? They'll want to kill you, and frankly, I'm not sure I can control them like I once did. Gretchen hates Meredith even more than I do. She'll hate you twice as much and trust you even less. You can't win with her. If by some miracle we are in fact related, they can never know. It must be our secret.”

“Agreed.”

There was a long pause as the two of them stared at each other from opposite sides of the prison bars. “Look directly into the white circle, nowhere else,” Andre said. He held his Tablet at eye level. A beam of light moved across Dylan's face, landing squarely in his eye. Dylan did not blink or move as Andre watched the kaleidoscope of brown and gold hues dancing on the screen.

“Andre? Are you in your quarters? I'm coming over.”

Gretchen was on the move as the light from the Tablet clicked off. Andre engaged the Tablet receiver.

“Not now, Gretchen, I'm thinking.”

He tapped out a few commands, one to turn off the voice and GPS activation so he wouldn't have to deal with Gretchen, and the other to set the DNA reading for its second stage.

“Now you,” Andre said, handing Dylan his Tablet. It was strange, in a way, that everyone carried the same devices around. Holding Andre's Tablet in its compact size made Dylan feel that they had, if nothing else, this modern thing in common.

Dylan pointed the light into Andre's eye. If anyone had seen Dylan's eye and Andre's eye in the light, side by side, they would have said they were from the same person. Flooded with light and up close, the colors and patterns were nearly identical.

The light went out, and Dylan handed the Tablet back through the bars.

“So, what's your test tell you?” Dylan asked.

Andre didn't answer right away. He stood for a long time, staring at the small screen. It seemed to Dylan that a mix of emotions passed over his face like clouds shattered with lightning. Finally, Andre spoke.

“We are, as you say, father and son.”

Andre looked down at the floor, and there his gaze remained as the two stood in silence. He was processing some unexpected realities. How many times had he and Meredith slept together? It had been a love affair more of the heart and the mind than a physical passion. But she hadn't only turned against everything they believed in and worked for, she had taken his son from him, lied about it, and kept that lie for seventeen long years. Meredith's betrayal was so much greater than he had ever imagined. It was this that had made it such an unlikely event in Andre's mind.
What kind of woman does that to a man?

When Andre finally did look up, it appeared to Dylan that his father had made up his mind about some things. He was nothing if not decisive.

“This is our secret; you understand? No one can know.”

“Fine by me,” Dylan said.

“Right now we need to get you out of that cell.”

Andre unlocked the gate, and it automatically moved aside. “Let me do the talking.”

“Agreed.”

Dylan started to exit the cell, but Andre stepped in front of him, taking a long look at who he now knew to be his son.

“It's going to be okay,” Dylan said. “We'll figure this out.”

“You're very—” Andre stopped short, searching for the right word.
“Unexpected.”

He put a hand on Dylan's shoulder, slapped it down a couple of times. “Life is never what I predict it's going to be.”

“Join the club.”

The two of them smiled at each other and walked out of cell block D, toward Andre's quarters, as Dylan heard Faith say something into his sound ring.

“You guys, someone's walking up through the woods. We're not alone out here.”

 

“Get out of there, Faith. You'll blow our cover.”

Clooger couldn't believe their bad luck. Why had he allowed Faith to recon in the first place? He'd said no, she'd said whatever, and when he'd looked back she was gone. Sometimes second pulses were a wild card he hated having to deal with, more trouble than they were worth. They could be like star athletes who suddenly disregarded plays called on the court for no other reason than that they could get away with it.
Go ahead, bench me. See how that works out for you.