The Scattering Page 16

The blond guy frowns and looks down.

  When Riel turns in my direction, her eyes search my face so intensely that it feels like she’s climbed inside me and is busy inspecting my internal organs. Contempt, that’s what I read when she’s done. But it is so complete that it seems weirdly suspect. Most people usually feel more than one thing at any given time.

  “Who are you?” she asks finally. Her eyebrows bunch sharply when I stay silent. That’s when she glances up and notices my hair—which I can only imagine now looks full-on insane. “What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you talking?” She’s still pointing at me when she turns back to the blond guy. “Does she not talk?”

  “She’s the one from the camp,” he says, like this alone explains everything. And in a way I suppose it does. “Her dad’s the scientist. You know, she’s the ‘Outlier.’” He hooks quotes in the air as he shakes his head. “I told you not to come out here.”

  Of course they’ve got opinions about me. Level99 were the ones combing through all our personal data, heading off my dad’s texts. They might know more about me than I know about myself.

  “Nothing Quentin told you was true,” I begin. But when Riel spins around, her wide-eyed fury knocks the wind out of me. “I just mean whatever he told you about what he was doing up at that camp. It wasn’t what he said.”

  Riel starts to laugh, then bats her eyelashes viciously. “No. Fucking. Way.” Like I’m the idiot. But however angry she is at me, she is even angrier at Quentin. I can feel that much. “What was the giveaway for you? Your dead friend or the eleven people somebody shot?”

  “Twelve,” I say, trying not to flinch. It’s a small thing, but I don’t like the idea that she’s getting the number of people they found wrong. “Twelve people were shot.”

  “Sure, if you count your friend as one of them,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I said shot, not dead. And, personally, I wouldn’t want to group her with the rest of those psychos.”

  I want this not to matter, this inconsistency. But it was something that I had my dad follow up on specifically. I kept holding out hope that Lexi or Miriam had made it out alive. I wanted hard numbers. Real facts. But then sometimes the police count the “shooter” among the dead and sometimes not—there could be a totally logical reason for this inconsistency.

  “Whatever.” Riel shakes her head when I stay silent. And for a split second she feels sorry for me. A little guilty, too, about what happened to Cassie. But it’s just a flash and then it’s gone.

  “Kendall told me to come here,” I say. “I don’t know if you met him at the camp, but he—”

  “Kendall?” She steps forward and points a furious finger right in my face. “Did that lunatic follow you here? Because if he did, I swear to God, I will have your ass kicked.” She nods her head in the direction of the blond guy, who seems to accept this as his role: head ass-kicker.

  I feel Jasper shift behind me like a guard dog ready to lunge. Not again, I think, not yet.

  “Kendall wouldn’t have to follow us,” I say carefully. “He’s the one who gave me this address.”

  “Goddamn it!” Riel shouts, putting her hands to her head. “Well, we can’t stay here then.” She’s not talking to me anymore.

  “Seriously?” the blond guy asks. Disappointed, not concerned. He looks around. “I like this place.”

  Riel takes a deep, exasperated breath, then turns back to me.

  “You come clean right now, and I mean right this goddamn second, about why and how you’re helping Kendall, and maybe I won’t drain your dad’s bank account.”

  “I’m not helping Kendall.” I raise my hands like she has a knife pointed in my face. And she might as well have. I can only imagine how Level99 could wreak havoc on someone’s life. “Kendall found me in the hospital and told me to come here.” I hand her his note. Her eyes narrow as she looks at it. “They have this group of girls, all of them are Outliers like me, at least I’m pretty sure. I don’t know how they found them or what they’re planning to do to them but—”

  “Wait.” She holds up a hand and cocks her head to the side skeptically. “They who?”

  “The NIH, I think—that’s who they said was in charge. But it didn’t feel like the truth, to be honest. They said we all had some kind of bioterrorist strep. There’s some immunologist guy who’s trying to say that it explains the Outliers.”

  She crosses her arms. “And you believe that?”

  “No, I don’t believe that,” I bite back, and from the look on her face, too hard. “That’s why I got out. But the other girls are still in there and I think they are seriously in danger. Like maybe they are going to get rid of them.”

  “And why would they want to do that?” she asks. As before, all I can feel is her deep contempt. The question is a test. Like she already knows the answer, but wants to see if I do.

  “To stop this whole thing from coming out maybe. My dad was getting funding for a study that everybody would have known about. And at some point, people are going to be pissed if they can’t be Outliers, right? Especially the guys.” Riel rolls her eyes—I can’t tell if it’s directed at those “guys” or my suggestion that they exist. “Anyway, I guess Kendall thought you could help me at least get the girls out.”

  “Don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that Kendall, of all people, would try to save anybody?” she asks.

  “I think maybe he regrets dropping us off at the camp.”

  “Oh, you don’t know, do you?” Riel smiles. “Who do you think killed all those people up at that camp?”

  My ears ring, and my cheeks feel hot. “That’s not . . .” But I can’t even muster up the stomach to defend him.

  “Oh yeah, it’s true. We saw that asshole,” she goes on, pointing two fingers toward her own eyes, then at me. She can tell that she’s shocked me, and she is glad. Maybe she fell for Quentin, but at least she is not as stupid as me. “We left a couple cameras up there. Because I didn’t trust Quentin. I don’t trust anyone.” Except I can feel for a second that maybe she did trust Quentin more than she wants to admit. “I knew there was a chance some seriously bad shit was about to go down. And I mean, there are trees and whatever, so we couldn’t record everything. But we saw enough. We saw Kendall stroll right into that camp with this huge freaking gun.”

  “Jesus,” Jasper says quietly, lowering himself down into a chair.

  “Oh look,” Riel says, turning to Jasper like she’s forgotten he was even there. “It speaks.”

  “But why?” I ask. And I know that’s a stupid question—especially under these circumstances. But I can’t help it. I need to know.

  “Power. Control. Secrets. Who knows?” She waves her toned arms around. “Kendall probably doesn’t even know exactly. Whatever shady bullshit acronym he pretends not to work for probably just told him to go forth and kill. Isn’t that how all of the worst things happen? People ‘just doing their jobs’? Everyone getting a little taste of evil without having to swallow down the whole monster sandwich.”

  “But why would he come to the hospital to warn me then?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Riel snaps. And I can feel Jasper silently shouting: exactly! But he doesn’t say a word. Then something else occurs to her. “Or maybe you were actually better off in there. Did you ever consider that?”

  No. I won’t. I can’t. I still need to believe that Kendall sent us to Gullbright Lane for what he believed was a good reason. And that reason has to be saving the other girls.

  “You don’t have to help us,” I say.

  “Um, yeah, correct. I do not,” Riel says.

  “But we do need help. Those girls do. Because I just—”

  “Let me guess, you have a bad feeling,” Riel says, and she’s aiming for snide. But she doesn’t get all the way there. “You have fully drunk your dad’s Kool-Aid, haven’t you?”

  And now, I’m pissed. “You know what? Fuck you,” I say. “My best friend died at that camp. She died helping us try to get away f
rom Quentin. And you helped him do that. You are responsible.”

  “Bullshit.” Riel glares at me, but her guilt blooms like a rash. I feel her try to knock it away. “What that asshole did to you and your friend has nothing to do with me. Your dad was the one who was hiding shit. If he hadn’t—”

  “How can you possibly try to blame Wylie’s dad?” Jasper asks. And not even angrily. Like he legitimately can’t believe Riel believes that. “Quentin did all of that. And whatever, I get it, you thought you were doing the right thing, but you did help him.”

  And I can feel that Jasper finally believes this—maybe for the first time: that Quentin killed Cassie; that he is not to blame. If we get out of this basement in one piece, at least he will take that with him.

  “No, no, no.” Riel waves a finger. “That asshole Quentin lied to us, same as he lied to you.” She is bothered that he was able to, though, more ashamed than she is letting on. “It happens. Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Nobody’s perfect?” I ask. And I hope I sound as disgusted as I feel. “Cassie is dead. And all those other people—”

  “You’re going to try to blame that shit on us, too?!” the blond guy shouts. He recoils when Riel shoots him a look.

  I stare at Riel until she finally looks back at me. Contempt once again—flawless and complete. And hard like molded plastic. I am not going to be able to force her to do anything she does not want to do. I’ll have to hope she changes her mind.

  “Listen, there is a doctor at the hospital named Alvarez and another one named Haddox,” I say. “And the professor guy is named Cornelia, and he works at Metropolitan New York Hospital. You can check it all out yourself. If there’s anybody who deserves your help, it’s those girls. They’re all at Boston General Hospital.”

  18

  WE WALK QUICKLY, AND IN SILENCE, AWAY FROM LEVEL99’S HOUSE. IT ISN’T until we’re a block away that Jasper finally slows down. He had been even more worried in there than I realized. The fear is buzzing off him.

  “You okay?” he asks when we are almost at the car. Like he is totally fine.

  I nod. Then shrug. Then shake my head. “I had my hopes up higher than I realized. I thought following Kendall’s note was going to explain everything.”

  “On the upside is the whole not being stabbed thing,” he says, feeling bad, really bad that he escalated things. “I shouldn’t have—I don’t know why I grabbed him like that. I haven’t done something like that in a long time.”

  “Yeah, that was, kind of—”

  “Messed up,” he says. “Sorry.”

  “Well, it was my fault we were in there in the first place.”

  Jasper smiles. “That’s true.”

  His phone rings as he’s unlocking the Jeep. He looks down, confused by the number. “Hello?” His face tightens as he answers. “No. Who’s this?” A pause. “Um, because you called my phone?”

  “Is it the woman who has my dad’s phone?” I ask. I can imagine her jumping in without much explanation.

  He shakes his head. “Yeah, Wylie’s right here.” He sounds offended. Rachel. I can hear her still talking as he hands me the phone. “Wow, she’s a delight.”

  I take the phone and brace myself.

  “Rachel?”

  “Wylie!” she shouts. “What is going on? I just got your message. What do you mean your dad is missing?” She is way more worried than I want her to be. Also, it’s obvious she knows nothing. “I tried his phone and some lunatic answered. She tried to extort cash out of me. What is going on? Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” But this isn’t the time to be putting on a brave face. “I mean, I’m not hurt or anything. But I do need your help. Can we come see you?”

  “Of course, of course.” And I feel so grateful now that Rachel stuck around despite all the times I tried to kick her out of our lives. “You want me to meet you?”

  “No, we’ll come to you.”

  “Okay. I’m at the office. I’ll be here waiting. And don’t worry, Wylie. We’ll work it out. Whatever it is.”

  WE PARK IN a run-down strip mall on the far edge of Boston. The lot is dotted with potholes, and two of the eight storefronts are empty. Four of the others have signs that look like they’re from the 1970s—a dollar store, a hardware store, and a nail salon. There’s a huge Michaels, too, shiny and brand-new; it looks like it was mistakenly dropped from a great height.

  “Are you sure this is the place?” Jasper asks, looking around.

  “This is the address Rachel gave me.” I study the row of stores. “Maybe it’s that one over there.”

  “Sorry, let me ask that question another way,” Jasper says. “Didn’t you say she was like super successful and went to Harvard Law School? How did she end up working here?”

  I realize now that I don’t know Rachel’s whole story, only bits and pieces.

  “Rachel used to be some kind of corporate attorney. My mom called her a ‘fixer.’ And she didn’t mean that in a good way,” I say. “But she defends people pro bono now. Trying to make amends for all the bad people she helped, and all the money she made. That’s what my dad says. Oh, there it is, over there,” I say, finally spotting a simple black-and-yellow sign that is identical to the nail salon’s next door: Rachel O’Callahan, Attorney-at-Law.

  THE DOOR IS locked when we reach it. There’s a small handwritten sign taped inside that says RING BELL. It’s a Sunday, after all. When I do, a crackly voice comes out garbled through the lopsided intercom.

  “It’s Wylie Lang to see Rachel!” I shout back, hoping they will understand me.

  But there’s just more loud crackling. I try again.

  “It’s Wylie Lang!” I shout a second time.

  More crackling, even louder. Like whoever is on the other side is shouting now. The voice cuts off when the door buzzes open.

  The waiting room is not much nicer than the outside of the office. Actually, it might be worse. There are a half-dozen cheap-looking folding chairs and an empty reception desk. Wood paneling and a linoleum floor. It smells of mildew.

  “Um.” Jasper starts looking around like he’s got a lot to say but can’t figure out where to start.

  “Coming! Coming!” Rachel calls from down the dark hall, her voice an unmistakable mix of Boston and Brooklyn.

  “Are you returning, Ms. O’Callahan?” a man calls after her. He steps out of Rachel’s office and drifts in our direction. “Or should I just . . .”

  “Sorry!” Rachel calls, though her eyes stay locked on me. “But I’ll have to reschedule our prep session for later this evening, Doctor.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but that won’t be convenient for me.” He sounds insulted. When he finally emerges from the dark hall, he is short and gray haired with a bulbous nose and huge ears. He has a thick unsightly scar on his throat, near his Adam’s apple.

  “I have you on a twenty-thousand-dollar retainer, Doctor. Paid out of my own pocket,” Rachel shoots back, not even turning his way. “I decide what’s convenient. I’ll be in touch.”

  Once the doctor huffs out, Rachel locks the door behind him.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let’s go back to my office. It’s more comfortable in there.”

  RACHEL’S OFFICE IS indeed nicer than the rest of the place, if only a little. It’s brighter and cleaner with new, cheap carpeting and the wood paneling is painted white.

  “Okay, now, what the hell is going on?” She motions for us to sit in the worn wooden guest chairs facing her desk.

  I’m so relieved to be there, but as soon as I open my mouth, my throat squeezes tight. I will myself to keep it together. “My dad was supposed to call you—”

  It’s too late. Already, I’m crying.

  “Oh, sweetheart.” Rachel jumps up and comes around the desk. She puts a hand on each of my arms, then shoots an accusatory look Jasper’s way. Like he is somehow to blame. “Why was he supposed to call me? I never talked to him. Tell me what’s going on.”

  And so I begin again,
breaking down everything that has happened. I talk for at least five minutes without taking a breath. When I finally get to the part about calling my dad, Rachel stops me.

  “So he was in the airport when you spoke to him?” she asks. “And then his phone ended up somewhere else in DC?”

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “There’s no sign of him at home either, and he never came to the hospital. And he would have come if he could have.”

  “Of course he would have.” Rachel goes to stand behind her desk. Then crosses her arms as she sits back down. She is very worried, though she is doing her best to seem not the least bit concerned. “Okay, well, at least his phone didn’t turn up in Florida.”

  “Florida?”

  “Oh, that blogger,” she says, waving off her own suggestion. But now all I can think about is EndOfDays.com. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up. Your dad wasn’t worried about that. You shouldn’t be. And this is going to be okay, Wylie. We’ll find him. Do you know who he was meeting with in DC or what flight he was on?”

  “The NIH and some senator, I don’t remember his name. Something with an R. Russell or something like that. My dad was going to leave all his information at the house,” I say. “But I don’t even know if it’s still there.”

  For the first time it occurs to me that my dad’s itinerary and my house being trashed could be related.

  “What do you mean?” Rachel asks.

  “I went by earlier,” Jasper says, then hesitates. “The house is kind of . . . It’s trashed. Someone tore the place apart.”

  “What about Gideon?” Rachel asks.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” I say. “He and my dad had a fight yesterday and he hasn’t been back home. I called the police and told them that my dad is missing, but I don’t think they are going to do anything about it. He hasn’t been gone long enough.”

  “Okay.” Rachel puts her two hands flat on the desk like she is about to push herself up to standing. Instead she looks me square in the eye. “We’re going to find your dad and he is going to be fine.”

  “We need to get the other girls out, too.”