Don't Look Now (19 page)

“More of a disagreement,” Noa said, wondering how much Zeke had told them and how he’d framed it. She debated coming clean about the gun, but hesitated. She didn’t feel right about ratting him out, not before she’d had a chance to talk to him first.

“Well, I hope you smooth it over. Hate to see you fighting,” Roy said diplomatically. “You know that boy’s crazy about you.”

Noa shifted uncomfortably, glad he couldn’t see her face in the dim light. She mumbled something unintelligible.

“The need not to look foolish is one of youth’s many burdens,” Roy said with a sigh. Seeing her raised eyebrows, he explained, “Updike.”

“Who?” Noa asked. Roy was always doing that, quoting people she’d never heard of. And the quotes never made sense, either. But he was a nice guy, so she let it slide.

“Never mind,” he said, sounding amused. “Just thinking out loud.”

As they approached the house, a series of motion-detecting lights automatically clicked on. Caught in their beam, Roy turned to face her. He had the weather-beaten face of a farmer, despite his advanced degrees. A battered Grateful Dead baseball cap covered his close-cropped gray hair, and he was wearing a fleece jacket, jeans that were probably decades old, and battered black clogs.

He was pretty much indistinguishable from every other middle-aged guy who strolled the streets of Santa Cruz sipping a fair-trade latte. But Noa knew better. Roy and Monica were special. She hadn’t met many people in her life who were truly good, all the way down to their core. The two of them had almost restored her faith in the rest of humanity. Almost. “It’s really good to be back,” she blurted out.

Roy smiled warmly at her. “Well, it’s good to have you back, Noa. Too damn quiet around here with you kids gone. And Monica rides me something fierce when she doesn’t have anything to occupy her. You know she’s actually trying to get me to rebuild the old barn by hand? I swear, that woman will be the death of me. . . .”

He chattered on as they approached the house. Despite the late hour, warm light spilled from the windows. The smell of roasted meat and potatoes wafted out the door as Roy held it open, setting Noa’s mouth watering and raising unexpected tears to her eyes. It looked and smelled like home, she realized. And she’d never expected to feel that way about a place again. Right on the heels of that thought came another, one conditioned in her by a lifetime of disappointments:
It can’t last
.

Amanda fought back a yawn. After her confrontation with Mrs. Latimar, she’d almost skipped the two-hour study group for cultural anthropology class. But there was a test coming up in a few days, and she was woefully behind on the syllabus. She was hoping that one of her classmates would be willing to share notes, and then maybe she wouldn’t disgrace herself with another bad grade.

She was regretting that decision now, though. They were sitting in a corner of the library, plopped in overstuffed chairs dragged into a rough circle. The heat was cranking, making it stiflingly hot. She’d stopped for green tea on the way here, but the caffeine had barely made a dent; she should have had an espresso, maybe even a double. Anything to help keep her eyes open.

No one else seemed to notice that she was barely participating, though. For the past ten minutes the group had been engaged in a heated debate. Amanda had lost the thread of the discussion a few minutes in, focusing all her energy on staying awake. She should have skipped this, and emailed Jessica for her notes; she took the best ones anyway, and wouldn’t mind sharing if Amanda offered to trade last semester’s psych flash cards. She would’ve been better off getting a good night’s sleep; after all, tomorrow she had to figure out a long-term plan for Mrs. Latimar.

Amanda had almost called Peter as she was leaving the Coalition, figuring he might have some thoughts. And also, she admitted to herself, because hearing his voice would steady her.

Mason had already proved that he could get to her if he wanted to. But as the months had passed, that danger had become more of an abstract concept.

Not anymore. Mrs. Latimar was plainly terrified. And somehow, the responsibility for extricating her and her granddaughter from this mess had landed squarely on Amanda’s shoulders.

Still, in the end, she’d held off on calling. After the way they’d left things in the diner, she worried that the conversation would turn into another fight. And right now, just thinking about him made her feel like crying.

Amanda sighed and surreptitiously checked her watch, repressing a groan when she saw that it was nearly eleven o’clock. She had a nine a.m. class, and she’d already missed it once this week. Plus she hadn’t done any of the reading for her feminist history class. . . .

The mountain of obligations towering over her was overwhelming. Everything seemed to be slipping; she was falling so far behind, she might never catch up. A raw ball of panic formed in her stomach. She could feel it growing, slowly rising up her throat to choke her. . . .

“Amanda? Are you okay?”

Amanda tried to focus, but her vision had suddenly blurred. She opened her mouth to form the words
I’m fine
, but nothing came out.
I have to get out of here
, she thought, suddenly frantic. The walls were closing in, she was . . .

Amanda dropped to the floor, twitching. Horrified faces faded in and out, gradually replaced by others: men in dark jackets, hunched over her. She kept trying to say that she was okay, she just needed a minute to rest, but no one seemed to understand her.

She was lifted onto a stretcher and carried out into the night, a chorus of agitated voices following her. Amanda tried to protest, but her whole body felt rigid and locked, like it had suddenly become a prison she couldn’t escape.

Red lights panned past overhead, and she dimly realized they were putting her in an ambulance. Which was so absurd, it made her wonder if she was dreaming. They didn’t call an ambulance for people unless they were sick, and she was fine, just a little tired. Yes, that was it—this was only a nightmare.

Which was why she thought nothing of it when the ambulance doors closed and Mason’s face appeared directly above her.

Peter lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. According to his phone it was nearly three a.m., and he had to be up in four hours for school. But the weird conversation with Mason was playing over and over in his mind.

Initially, he’d thought that Mason was threatening Noa.
You’ll never find her!
he’d typed, simultaneously wishing he could believe that was true.

I’M NO LONGER INTERESTED IN FINDING HER
, Mason wrote.
I MERELY WANT ACCESS TO THE RESEARCH
.

Which was unexpected, and probably total bull. This had to be Mason’s twisted way of getting Peter to give Noa up. But he’d never let that happen; he wouldn’t contact her again, if that’s what it took. Even though the thought of it made him cringe.
Why?

THERE IS QUITE A BIT AT STAKE, PETER, AND IT DOESN’T JUST INVOLVE YOU
, Mason wrote.

Peter shook his head as he retorted,
You’re Pike’s lapdog. You want the research, just ask him for it
.

Another beat, then Mason replied,
I’M DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, PETER. IF YOU’D DUG DEEPER INTO MY FINANCIALS, YOU’D REALIZE THAT I WAS RELEASED FROM MY OBLIGATIONS TO PIKE & DOLAN FOUR MONTHS AGO
.

Released?
In spite of everything, Peter’s face split in a grin. Mason had been
fired
? Something occurred to him, and he wrote,
Really hoping I had something to do with that
.

APPARENTLY MR. PIKE WAS LESS THAN THRILLED BY THE WAY THE SITUATION WITH YOUR PARENTS WAS HANDLED
.

“Ha!” Peter said out loud. So he and Noa
had
accomplished something. Although if that was true, then why was Mason still following Peter? And why did he want those files? A suspicion formed in his mind.
So, what? You want to blackmail Charles Pike?

IF THAT’S WHAT I HAD IN MIND, PETER, I ALREADY HAVE AN EXTENSIVE ARSENAL AT MY DISPOSAL
.

That wasn’t hard to believe; Mason was definitely the type of guy who took “cover your ass” seriously. And Pike probably had something on him, too, to ensure Mason’s silence in the wake of his dismissal.

So why did he want those records? And why would he expect Peter to help him? This had to be an elaborate trap.

Still, if Mason really knew where the other server was . . . that was tempting. If Peter got his hands on concrete proof linking Charles Pike to Project Persephone, he could disseminate it so widely there’d be no way to bury it.

But in the end, caution had won out. Peter had told Mason where to put his offer in the strongest terms his keyboard could manage, then closed the laptop. A second later he’d snapped it back open, realizing belatedly that he should have saved the transcript of their conversation. But poof: It was gone, like it had never existed.

Peter could reconstruct it from hard-drive data, but he quickly realized that would be useless. After all, what had Mason really admitted to? Getting fired by Charles Pike? Sure, he’d named the project, but hadn’t said anything damning about it. And he never said that he’d kill Noa, just that she was in danger. To an outside observer, it might appear to be a relatively benign conversation. Even though Mason had asked for help hacking into a server, the only person Peter could go to with that information was Charles Pike himself, and he wasn’t about to do that.

Peter groaned and flipped over in bed. As usual, his parents had the heat blasting, global warming be damned, and the house was sweltering hot. He batted his pillow into shape. He had to get some sleep before the alarm went off. He couldn’t skip school again; his parents were already suspicious, and the last thing he needed was for them to start watching him more closely. Their complicity made him sick. They’d be sitting at dinner, or perched on the couch watching TV together, and the whole time he wanted to stand up and scream at them.

But he and Noa had agreed that he should act normal, like he also wanted the whole thing to blow over. So Peter sat there, gritting his teeth and making small talk. Once he left for college, though, he was never coming back. Peter had decided that the minute he’d discovered the full magnitude of his parents’ involvement.

His iPhone chirped, and he grabbed it off the nightstand. There was a text from an unfamiliar number. Peter frowned. Was Mason messing with him again? “Learn to take no for an answer, dude,” he grumbled as he unlocked the screen. But the message wasn’t from Mason.

Amanda passed out in study group, they took her to the hospital. Thought you should know.—Diem
.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

N
oa splashed water on her face. By the time she’d gotten back to the house, most of the other kids had scattered, assigned to bunks in various outbuildings. That was one of the great things about the Forsythes’ compound; they could comfortably house twenty people without batting an eye.

They’d offered Noa her usual room in the main house. It was linked to the tower bathroom, a luxury in and of itself. The house epitomized Roy and Monica’s eclectic taste, or what Zeke called “design schizophrenia.” Every room had a different theme. Downstairs there was the “Victorian Formal Room,” with elaborate wallpaper, wainscotting, and a fireplace you could practically walk into. The kitchen was pure French farmhouse, and Monica had nicknamed Roy’s study “The Gentleman’s Club” due to all the red leather and heavy oak furniture. The bedrooms varied from “The Winter Palace,” which sported a Russian theme, to “Gauguin’s Tahitian Retreat.” And as a nod to Roy’s favorite band, a small study had been converted into the “Grateful Dead Opium Den,” with tie-dyed wallpaper and rainbow-hued teddy bears everywhere.

Noa’s favorite was the bedroom she always stayed in: “The Cowboy Room.” All the furnishings had been purchased during one of the Forsythes’ Sedona vacations. An old-fashioned cast-iron canopy bed dominated the small space. There were colorful throw rugs on the wide plank wood floors, a massive matching wooden bureau and chair, and framed prints of sunsets and horses. Noa would never have expected to feel comfortable in such an environment, but as she padded across the room in stocking feet, she felt as sated as a cat in a sunbeam. After a long, hot bath, the final kinks in her body had finally released, and her belly was full of meat and apple pie. She drew back the covers and slid between the sheets, groaning slightly at the feel of the four-hundred thread count. Thankfully, the Forsythes’ passion for hemp didn’t extend to their bedding.

She’d just dropped back against the pillows and closed her eyes when there was a soft rap at the door. Noa frowned and considered ignoring it. All she wanted was to zonk out for at least twelve hours.

Another knock. Sighing, she propped herself up on the pillows and said, “Yeah?”

The door opened. Zeke slouched against the frame, hands tucked in his pockets, his face cast in shadow. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Noa said, suddenly wide-awake. She scrambled upright. “Um, do you want to come in?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Zeke crossed the threshold, carefully closing the door behind him. He stopped a few feet from the bed.

“You can sit down, you know,” Noa said, slightly annoyed.

Zeke didn’t say anything, but he came over and sat on the edge of the bed.

It was funny—they’d spent almost every night of the past few months sitting, eating, and sleeping right on top of each other. But for some reason, having him at the foot of the bed felt too close. Noa was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she’d stripped down to a tank top. It was probably too dark for him to see anything, but she crossed her arms over her chest anyway.

“I’m sorry about the gun,” he said after a long moment had passed.

“That’s okay,” Noa responded quickly, without thinking. Silently, she reproached herself; she’d spent the whole day planning this conversation in her mind. She’d wanted to explain how betrayed she felt, since they’d agreed to steer clear of lethal weapons. How the fact that he’d been hiding something that big made her feel like she couldn’t trust him. But instead, like an idiot, she’d come right out and forgiven him. Noa bit her lip, wishing she could take it back.

“I know you don’t like them.”

“No, I don’t,” she said more firmly. “I thought you didn’t, either.”

His shoulders rose and fell slightly. “I just figured that if we needed it, I’d rather have it than not have it.”

Noa opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Part of her realized she was being a hypocrite. The people they went up against in these raids were dangerous, they were armed, and no matter how clever her plan was, there was always a chance something could go wrong. Like it had last night. They’d been incredibly lucky to get everyone out alive and unscathed. And Zeke was right, there was no saying how long that luck would hold. If someone had gotten shot . . .

Still, Noa couldn’t suppress the sense that arming up made them just as bad as the people they were fighting against. She hated guns and everything they represented. “I get that,” she said. “But I’d wish you’d get rid of it anyway.”

“Okay.”

“Really?” She squinted, trying to see if he was serious.

“Yeah, sure. But when my ass gets shot off, I’ll be saying I told you so.” His teeth gleamed white.

Noa smiled back at him. “And you’ll probably be expecting me to sew you up.”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “I got about as much faith in your sewing as I do in your cooking.”

She slugged him on the shoulder. “I can cook.”

“Sure you can. That’s why we always leave you off the rotation.”

“Hey!” Noa protested.

“Seriously, even Turk could do a better job with chili.” At the mention of Turk, they both fell silent. The awkwardness swept right back in.

After a long pause, Noa asked hesitantly, “Do you think I messed up by making him leave?”

“No.” Zeke shook his head hard. “He had to go. Can’t trust a user, you know that.”

“Yeah, but still . . .” Noa fingered the knots on the quilt. “He was one of us.”

Zeke was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “We can’t save them all, Noa. You know that.”

She acknowledged that with a tilt of her head. He was right. Six months ago, all she’d cared about was saving herself, anyway. Which in many ways had been so much easier. “I’m tired of it.”

“Tired of what?”

“All of it,” she confessed. “Being in charge, trying to keep everyone in line, trying to keep them all safe. It’s exhausting.”

“Yeah, it is.” Zeke moved up the bed toward her. His face was caught by a shaft of light, so that she could finally see his eyes. They were warm and brown, sympathetic. There was a catch in his voice as he said, “I meant what I said the other night. You’re doing great. You know that, right?”

Noa opened her mouth to respond, but before she could he moved forward suddenly, and his lips met hers. A charge spread from her mouth all the way through her body. She let her head fall back in his hands, loving the way his fingers felt as they cradled her neck. His mouth abruptly moved away. Noa started to protest, but then he was nibbling her neck and ears, setting her nerve endings jangling.

Suddenly she was lying back against the pillows, and Zeke was beside her. His hands ran up her bare back under her tank top. Zeke’s breath caught as she ran her tongue over his lips, then down his throat. He let out a small moan, grabbed her, and rolled on top of her, his mouth exploring hers again.

In the back of her head, a small voice was protesting that she should stop. Noa ignored it. Everything about this felt good—it was like suddenly discovering that she possessed a whole other set of senses. She couldn’t get enough of his mouth on hers, the way his fingers felt as they lightly brushed the surface of her skin. She never wanted it to stop.

A knock at the door. At first Noa thought that her own heartbeat had gotten so loud it was echoing through the room, but no—that had definitely been a knock. They pulled apart. Zeke’s chest was heaving, and his hair was mussed. They stared at each other in the moonlight, the spell abruptly broken.

The knock repeated, louder this time. Noa groaned inwardly. Why was her room suddenly Grand Central? “Yes?” she said, annoyed.

“It’s Taylor.”

Zeke had already slid off the bed; he ducked into the bathroom. Noa ran a hand through her hair, trying to gather herself. Tugging her tank top back down, she went to the door and opened it.

Taylor stood in the hallway. She was only wearing a camisole and panties, and had her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Where’s Zeke?” she demanded.

“Why?” Noa said, not bothering to curb the irritation in her voice.

“We were supposed to meet in his room.” Taylor peered past her. “Were you sleeping?”

Noa suddenly felt ill. “Why were you guys meeting?”

Taylor smirked at her. “Oh, you know.”

“No, I really don’t.” Noa glared at her. “You don’t look like you’re dressed to meet anyone.”

Taylor laughed. “Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a prude. If you see Zeke, tell him I’ll be waiting in his room.” She turned and sauntered down the hallway.

Noa closed the door behind her and fell back against it. The nausea was getting worse, and she felt shaky. The bathroom door opened, framing Zeke in light. They stared at each other for a minute without saying anything. Noa finally managed to swallow. Her voice was thick as she said, “So. You were going to meet up with Taylor tonight?”

Zeke shrugged. “Yeah. She wanted to talk about something in private.”

“I’ll bet,” Noa muttered.

“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, crossing the room. “Honestly, Noa, we were just going to talk. I figured maybe she’d remembered something about the lab.”

“Right. That’s why she was basically naked.”

“Hey,” he protested, stopping in front of her. “I didn’t tell her how to dress.”

Noa kept her arms crossed in front of her chest and her head down. She stared at his bare feet, ghostly white against the dark floorboards. She felt like an idiot. “You should go.”

“Noa—”

“I mean it.” She raised her head, meeting his eyes. “I want you to leave. Now.”

“C’mon, don’t be like this,” he protested. “What is it with you and Taylor, anyway?”

“Something about her is off. I don’t trust her.”

“But she hasn’t given you any reason not to, right?”

Noa opened her mouth to retort, but he was right. All she really had to go on was a gut instinct. But in the past, that had always been enough for him. “I’m just saying, she’s not hurt, or sick. Maybe we should send her off to the Northeast unit. They could use the help.”

“You’re just trying to get rid of her.” Zeke snorted. “You know what? I think you’re jealous.”

“What?” Noa said, flabbergasted.

“Taylor’s hot, and smart. And she doesn’t just take your crap the way everyone else around here does.”

Noa was struck dumb. They’d argued a few times over the past few months; living on top of each other in stressful situations, they’d had their share of disagreements. But Zeke had never spoken to her like this before. Even worse, he thought Taylor was hot. “Well, enjoy your private conversation,” she snapped. “Better get going; she’s waiting for you.”

Zeke made a noise in the back of his throat, then stalked toward the door. Without looking at her, he flung it open and disappeared down the hall.

Noa pressed the balls of her hands to her eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill over. Her lips trembled as she pictured Taylor stretched out on Zeke’s bed, and him lying down beside her. . . . Well, if that’s how Zeke really felt, then they deserved each other, she thought angrily.

Holding on to that anger, Noa marched back to the bed, crawled in, and tugged the sheets up over her head. No matter who else came knocking tonight, she was done answering the door.

Peter barely remembered leaving his house. The drive was a blur—he’d probably broken the Prius’s land-speed record getting to the student parking lot outside Amanda’s freshman dorm room at Tufts. It was almost four a.m., and nearly all the windows were dark. He parked at an angle across two empty spaces and raced to the door. He yanked the handle, but it didn’t budge. He suddenly remembered that it could only be opened with a key card, and he’d returned his to Amanda when they broke up.

Swearing, he dug out his phone.

He’d considered calling Amanda’s parents, or the cops, but ended up rejecting both ideas outright. He didn’t want to spook her folks unless he knew for certain that something bad had happened. And he still didn’t trust the cops to help. In that way, Peter thought wryly, he’d been won over to Noa’s way of thinking. She didn’t trust any authority figures, regarding them all as the enemy.

Besides, maybe Amanda was lying in a bed at Boston General, recovering from a fainting episode; she hadn’t been eating regularly, she’d admitted as much.

But deep down, Peter knew that wasn’t true. Mason had her again. And somehow, he had to get her back before something even more terrible happened.

He dialed Diem’s number. It rang repeatedly, then went to voicemail. Irritated, Peter hung up, then tried again. On his third attempt, a sleepy voice said, “Hello?”

“Hi, Diem?” He drummed his fingertips against the door. “It’s Peter.”

“Peter?” She sounded confused.

“Yeah, you know. Amanda’s . . . friend. You texted me?”

“Oh, right.” Diem yawned. “What time is it?”

“Late. Listen, I’m outside the building and can’t get in.”

Another yawn. “I told you, I’m not sure which hospital they took her to.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just thinking that maybe someone else in the study group might know.”

“I’m not in that class,” she said, clearly annoyed.

Peter bit back his retort. Sure, she and Amanda weren’t exactly friends, but he’d like to think that if his roommate was carted off on a gurney, he’d display a little more concern. “Can you buzz me in, please? I’d like to find out more about what happened.”

Diem issued a deep, pained sigh, then said, “Fine.”

A second later the door bleated, and Peter yanked it open. He took the stairs two at a time and tore down the hall, pulling to a stop in front of their room. It looked so normal, he thought with a pang. Battered wood, the only decoration a mounted whiteboard with flowers scrawled below
DIEM
& AMANDA
.

Diem opened the door to let him in. She was wearing boy’s boxer shorts and a tank top, her long black hair draped over her shoulders. As he pushed past, she snorted and said, “Come on in. Make yourself at home.”

“So who can we call?” he said curtly.

Diem rolled her eyes. “You know it’s, like, the middle of the night, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “But some people must still be up.”