The Delphi Revolution (The Delphi Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  When my hitchers move on to whatever waits beyond, I relive their last moments. I’ve had “exit dreams” with all of my former hitchers. I don’t know if the old saying about having your life flash before your eyes when you die is accurate, but I get a wave of memories, and it’s like my brain gets stuck on the last moments. And my ghosts didn’t die peacefully. People who die happily in their sleep with no regrets are eager to see what’s on the other side. They don’t stick around with the living. There’s something tethering my hitchers to this realm—something they need to know or something they need to do. And maybe I dream those last moments again and again because it takes rehashing their death multiple times for them to finally accept it as reality.

  The one exception to the rule was Hunter Bieler. He was one of the six kids who were killed by Dacia Badea. She abandoned their bodies in a training area near Fort Bragg, presumably to let the military authorities know Senator Cregg wasn’t impressed by their failure to keep the offspring of Delphi subjects out of the public eye. Hunter’s ghost stuck around because he needed to be sure his twin sister, Bree, was safe. Once he knew that for certain, he simply vanished. No farewell, no dreams, no cabinet full of memories in the back of my head.

  “It is odd,” Kelsey agrees. “But Hunter’s departure also coincided with your concussion, so . . . who knows?”

  She doesn’t look at me, instead she concentrates on lining up a stack of files on her desk. This is the second time I’ve mentioned Hunter’s strange exit and the second time Kelsey has shown very little interest. Normally, she’d be all over this, asking if there were any other anomalies, hoping to make all the puzzle pieces fit. This is definitely not her usual pattern, although I guess it could simply be that she now has a number of other patients whose abilities fall outside of the ordinary. She may not have the mental energy to keep track of the psychic minutiae each of us is dealing with.

  “You’ve processed all of the memories from Jaden?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I’m surprised she asked, since I’m pretty sure we discussed this last time. Processing Jaden’s memories was fairly easy. I already knew how he died, so there were no surprises. When I heard the gunshots that day at Fort Bragg, I’d been terrified they’d shot Deo. Instead, when I entered the room, I found Deo frightened but still alive, seated next to three other adepts who were murdered as part of a twisted aptitude test devised for me by Graham Cregg. Jaden Park was one of the spirits Cregg forced me to pick up if I wanted Deo to stay alive.

  “And there haven’t been any more visions?”

  Jaden’s gift from the Delphi serum was the ability to see brief, verbatim glimpses of the future, although I think he found them more of a curse than a gift. They occurred at random, and he couldn’t change anything he saw. What happened, happened. When Jaden came on board as a hitcher, I began having the visions too. Most of the time they were inconvenient as hell, but I’m not sure we’d have found the other Delphi adepts if not for the clues I got concerning their location in one of those flashes. Even though Jaden has moved on, that ability, like his memories, remains. My visions aren’t as frequent, but they still hit like clockwork if I touch Deo.

  “The only vision I had was the one I mentioned last session. And it was really mundane. A conversation I had with Deo about Ein needing his nails trimmed.”

  She nods absently. “And what about Myron?”

  Her words suck the air out of my lungs. I sit there, openmouthed, hollow, unable to respond. If I live to be 120, that name will still be the auditory equivalent of a gut punch. And Kelsey knows this.

  I picked up the spirit of Myron Wells when I was five. Like most of the hitchers who’ve taken up residence in my head, I found him at the place where he last felt safe or happy. In Myron’s case, that was the back seat of a train on the DC Metro’s Orange Line. He’d killed a homeless woman and her son in that seat late one night in 1996. Stabbed them repeatedly while the three other passengers, college students headed back to their dorms after a night of heavy drinking, hid at the other end of the car, terrified. When the train reached Metro Center, they ran screaming. A guard entered the car and shot Myron, who was still standing, knife in hand, smiling down at the carnage.

  The gunshot wound wasn’t fatal. Myron died three years later in a fight with two other inmates at the Lorton Reformatory. But eventually his spirit made it back to that Metro car, that seat . . . because it was the last place he was truly happy.

  Kelsey and I have talked about Myron many times. Most of those conversations took place years ago when I was working to contain and evict his ghost, but we still discuss him on occasion. She knows when I say I’m having “garden-variety nightmares,” I’m referring to dreams about Myron.

  But any time Kelsey brings up Myron, she approaches the subject gently, tentatively. She asks if I want to talk about him. She doesn’t just drop his name like a live grenade into the middle of a conversation.

  “The Myron memories are behind the wall,” I say, struggling to keep my voice level. “Where they always are.”

  Kelsey’s eyes are sympathetic when they meet mine, but she pushes ahead. “You said there were cracks in your walls after Jasper hit you. Shattered bricks and . . .” She takes a deep breath and continues, speaking quickly, as if she’s worried I’m going to interrupt. “When Myron was active, you had memory gaps. You ran off without telling anyone. You were prone to angry outbursts—”

  “Myron. Is. Gone.” I slam the mug onto the desk with that last word. Coffee sloshes out, pooling toward her papers. She yanks the files away, and I’m relieved to have a reason to get up so I don’t feel her eyes burning into me. I grab a handful of paper towels to sop up the mess, taking my time and breathing deeply so my voice will be calm enough to finish this damned discussion.

  Kelsey watches me silently as I shove the soggy towels into the trash. “You never dealt with those memories, Anna. Never unpacked them, never worked through them, so . . .”

  “Fine. Yes. There were cracks in the wall around the Myron memories after Jasper hit me. Cracks and a few missing bricks. But the wall was patched the next time I checked. Good as new. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, right? They’re just memories! You’re the one who told me a few years back I could tear that wall down anytime I wanted to. That I should tear it down. That I might be happier if I worked through those memories instead of repressing them.”

  “I still think that’s true.” Kelsey’s voice is calmer than mine, but it shakes slightly on the last word. “There were things you weren’t equipped to deal with at age six. You’re older, and if you did it in a controlled setting, it could be beneficial. But my worry is that you’re tapping into those memories in a way that’s harmful, as a result of your injury.”

  “My recent nightmares weren’t even about Myron, okay?”

  It’s only a partial lie. Most of the dreams have starred the mystery woman, and others featured Dacia or Grady, the guy Aaron shot when we were trying to escape from Overhills. The bodies of Hunter Bieler and the other dead children pop in from time to time. But my most frequent nightmare is still a variant of the one I began having when Molly Porter left—one minute it’s Cregg holding me captive in the basement, then the face morphs into Myron. And occasionally it mutates into some creepy-looking rat-spider-thing, but that’s really not as weird as it sounds. Rats and spiders seriously freak me out. Both creatures have had cameo roles in my bad dreams for as long as I can remember.

  “Okay,” Kelsey says. “That’s what you told me at our last session, but you seemed somewhat evasive about the whole thing, so . . .”

  At our last session? What the hell is she talking about? We didn’t talk about Myron last time. She hasn’t mentioned Myron to me in ages. I’m about to point this out, but then I remember Kelsey is sixty-seven years old. Her mind is usually razor-sharp, but she’s laughed a few times about having a senior moment. Maybe she’s not entirely joking when she says that?

  It would be hypocritical to call her o
n it, given all of the things I’ve forgotten in the past few months. So I sidestep. “I’m not the only one having nightmares. Normal people tend to have bad dreams when they see horrible things, right? Aaron’s had a few. Deo said he and Taylor both had bad dreams about those dead kids for weeks after we left Overhills. Have you called them in here to rehash their childhood traumas?”

  “No,” Kelsey admits. “But did any of them suffer a head injury? Are they having memory gaps?”

  These are clearly rhetorical questions, so I don’t answer. We just stare at each other silently for a moment, until she sighs and glances up at the clock.

  I’m surprised to see thirty minutes has already passed. Kind of relieved, to be honest, though it felt like ten, maybe fifteen, minutes at most.

  Kelsey seems surprised, too. “Oh, wow. My next appointment will be here any second. We need to wrap up. And if you still feel like you need to get out of here, like you need a break . . . let me know, okay? Maybe we could go for a walk on the beach later. Me and you and Deo. Like we did a few months ago. That was a good day.”

  It was a good day, back before the memory gaps really started. Maybe the only good day I can remember since we returned to Sandalford. It was unusually warm for early January, in the upper sixties. Bright and sunny, as though winter needed a day off before diving in to finish the job. We collected shells and chatted about nothing of consequence, which I think Kelsey needed even more than we did. After about an hour, Deo phoned Taylor and told her to grab Aaron, some matches, and a bag of marshmallows. We pulled pieces of driftwood into a circle, built a fire, ate way too many toasted marshmallows, and told silly jokes. Somewhere along the line, the pointy sticks became Harry Potter wands. Deo nearly laughed himself sick when Kelsey flicked her wand, crying Avada Marshmahllow in her best imitation of Professor McGonagall, and sent a flaming ball of sugar into the sand. And then we walked back to Sandalford, all agreeing we should really do that more often.

  But we haven’t. I think it’s because Deo mentioned one of the other adepts, in passing, while we were laughing. And just that casual mention of the others brought the party to a halt. It was like that scene in Mary Poppins where they’re having a tea party on the ceiling. The other adepts are allowed to go outside the fence in groups of no more than two, and then only if Kelsey and two of the security guards tag along. Remembering that the other kids at Sandalford lack even our limited freedoms pulled us back down to reality.

  Kelsey now reaches out to touch my arm. “I’m here if you want to talk. I’m on your side. I’m always on your side, Anna. You know that, right?”

  Her eyes, familiar and safe, fill with tears. That sight knots my stomach with so many conflicting emotions—guilt, frustration, anger, and beneath it all, a horrible smidgen of satisfaction—that I don’t trust myself to speak. I simply nod, partly so this can be over, but mostly because I do believe Kelsey has my best interests at heart.

  It’s just that I believed it even more before she mentioned Myron.

  NEWS ITEM FROM THE WASHINGTON EXAMINER

  April 20, 2020

  Two more are confirmed dead in yesterday’s explosion in Colorado Springs, bringing the total to four dead and seven injured. The attack is believed to be the work of a splinter group of West Coast separatists known as WOCAN. The building that was targeted housed several military contractors, including the Decathlon Services Group, an organization linked to psychic experiments on members and former members of the US military.

  Eight attacks have now been claimed by WOCAN, including one that disabled the Texas electrical grid, which left most of the state without power for nearly a week. Fourteen deaths were attributed to that outage. The group has also taken credit for two car bombs and last week’s explosion on a commuter train in Northern Virginia, which killed six people and left dozens hospitalized. In addition, WOCAN claims credit for the murder of six children in North Carolina, destruction of the Tome School in Maryland, and the attack on a regional airport in Upstate New York that took the life of Graham Cregg, son of presidential candidate Senator Ron Cregg (UA-PA), and several of his associates.

  Prior to this surge of violent activity, WOCAN—which stands for Washington, Oregon, California, and Nevada—was a loose-knit alliance of center-left political groups advocating economic and political independence for those four West Coast states. They blocked roads leading to several oil fields and briefly occupied one oil field in California. This resulted in a minor constitutional crisis when the president sent in the National Guard to remove the protesters, despite the fact that the governor of California opposed using military force.

  Technically speaking, the original WOCAN is now defunct. Its leaders resigned last month and announced there would be no annual convention this year. Benjamin Weber, the former president of the group, claims they had nothing to do with the recent spate of attacks. “I don’t know who these people are, but they didn’t splinter off from WOCAN. No matter what Senator Cregg and the others claim, we’ve never seen a psychic supersoldier. We don’t have weapons. We haven’t killed anyone or engaged in an armed attack against the United States. Aside from those early efforts at the oil fields, pretty much the only thing we accomplished was adopting the WOCAN flag and the grizzly bear as our mascot.”

  Whether or not the current group originated with Weber and his fellow separatists is now a moot point. Each time the terrorists release video claiming credit for an attack, the footage begins with the WOCAN flag. They hide their faces behind bear masks. And they appear to be amassing an army capable of both traditional and very untraditional warfare.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carova, North Carolina

  April 23, 2020, 10:59 a.m.

  I close the door to Kelsey’s office and lean against the wall. I’m too wound up to talk to Deo or even Aaron right now. What I really want is to go directly to the beach. Do not pass go, do not sign out at the gate. Just run and clear my head. But that’s what got me in trouble in the first place. Maybe I’ll walk around on the deck instead.

  That plan lasts all of ten seconds. As I approach the south wing, I hear Deo’s voice. Talking to Taylor, most likely. They’re joined at the hip these days, and I mean that both figuratively and literally.

  But Deo’s not talking to Taylor. He’s in the little hallway alcove with Maria and two of the other adepts, Maggie and Stan.

  Maggie is one of the little girls Cregg’s guards held at gunpoint back in December until they turned the tables on him. She’s very popular with the other adepts. But it’s definitely not because of her conversation skills—she’s painfully shy, and you’re lucky if you get more than a single-word answer to any question before her nose goes right back into whatever book she’s reading. I think she’d really like to spend more time alone, but you’ll usually find her at the center of a group of adepts, often the most volatile ones. Maggie’s a blocker, and when she’s nearby, they can feel normal, without having to worry they’re going to torch the place or whatever. It’s probably nice to feel needed, but it can’t be easy knowing people mostly seek her out because of her ability.

  The guy with Maria is Stan, though Maria—with her little nicknames for everyone—calls him Fiver most of the time, after the rabbit in Watership Down who had visions. He’s not the only “Fiver” here at Sandalford, but he must be the strongest, because he’s definitely the one Maria relies on the most.

  Stan, like Maria, is one of the kids Cregg held captive, first in Maryland and later in the missile silo in Upstate New York. He wears thick-rimmed black glasses that make his dark eyes look huge, but the effect is more Spike Lee than Steve Urkel. Some days he uses a cane to walk, although he seems to be pretty steady on his feet today. Stan keeps to himself for the most part, rarely taking meals with the rest of us. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him speak. The few times I’ve seen him hanging out in the common areas, he’s been with Maria, so Taylor’s assessment that he has a crush on her could well be true.

  Of course, a lo
t of the guys seem to have a crush on Maria. Taylor thinks it’s the liberty of knowing they have no secrets from her. If she’s nice to them, it’s not because she’s fallen for whatever suave act they’ve put on. She knows the person beneath the persona.

  I ignore Maria and her companions and focus on Deo. Yes, I should probably thank Maria for intervening with the guard earlier, but I don’t want to get sucked into a conversation with her. If she and her friends are pissed at me, I don’t really care. Their opinions don’t matter.

  Deo’s, however, does. We stick together. We don’t keep secrets.

  Or at least that used to be the case. I’m not so sure anymore. He didn’t tell me about his relationship with Taylor until Aaron and I caught them in the act. And I haven’t been entirely honest with him about these memory lapses. I’ve tried to be, but I don’t want to worry him any more than he already is. And it’s hard to be honest when I don’t really know what’s going on myself.

  “Well, speak of devil . . .” Maria says as I round the corner. “We need to talk—”

  “No,” Deo says, “I was here first. What the hell, Anna?”

  His words are a direct echo of what Aaron said on the beach earlier. And his expression is a direct echo of Kelsey’s when I left her office. Worried. Hurt.

  I can’t delay this discussion with Deo, but I don’t want to have it in front of anyone else. That’s doubly true since my answers will not make Deo happy, any more than they did Aaron and Kelsey. The mere fact that I have to go through the whole process of giving my lame explanation again makes me want to punch something. Not someone, and definitely not Deo. Just . . . a wall or a door. Hard enough to hurt, so that I can release some of the pressure building up inside me.

  Maria puts her hands on her hips. “Do not be stupid, Anna. Magda won’t like if you put hole in wall, and I already cover for you once today. Go to gym and hit the bag if you are feeling punchy.”