Edgewood Series: Books 1 - 3 (29 page)

“Hey!” I struggled to get up, but they kept pushing me back. I wondered at the venom in their eyes. They didn’t even know me. Why would they hate me?

Snake Boy’s hands were on my chest thrusting electrical charges repeatedly into my torso; his buddy was squeezing my head so hard my eyes hurt. “Admit defeat,” said Wavy Hair, in the same tone he’d used when he’d said, “Make me.” This was war, grade-school style. “Say it. Say we’ve won.”

I choked out one word: “Never.”

Every time I managed to get myself up on one elbow, I got pushed down again. It looked like I couldn’t win at this game. I stretched my arm toward the door, longing to be there. Voices swirled around me—memories of everything I’d heard that day.

Carly saying:
You’re the weapon
.

Tim, our tour guide, leading us like an overeager puppy, saying:
You’re Russ Becker. A second gen. Someone like you only comes along every hundred years or so
.

Shirley, at the reception desk who said:
I stuck around tonight to meet Russ Becker.
And shaking my hand
like it was an honor. Like I was somebody special.

And finally I remembered Frank’s message on Carly’s phone:
Can you send Russ to come get me so I can come home?

Frank was waiting to go home. What I was currently doing, getting the crap beaten out of me, clearly wasn’t working. I needed a new strategy.

I sucked in my breath, stopped using my muscles to resist, and thought about the electricity instead. I’d been carrying around my own share, and they were giving me more. Just like when the Associates were trying to abduct Mallory, I summoned all of the electricity together, and like a surge of adrenaline, it gave me a boost of superhuman energy.

I don’t remember getting up. It happened fast. One second I was pinned to the floor by Snake Boy, the next I was on my feet, a force to be reckoned with. The abrupt movement knocked Snake Boy and Wavy Hair off balance.

As soon as I reached the door, they were on their feet and after me. I turned the knob and was almost through, with both of them on my heels. Using his full weight, Wavy Hair slammed the door against me, holding me pinned halfway through. His buddy came up and zapped my shoulder, making me wince only slightly. I was so close, so close. I was two-thirds of the way into the next room, but that didn’t matter. If I couldn’t get away from these guys, I’d never reach the next challenge.

I heard Snake Boy’s voice taunting me. “What you gonna do now?” The door pressed against my chest, holding me in a vise grip. Someone was now yanking on my arm, and it felt like it was just about to come out of its socket.

I didn’t hold back, but shot a violent shaft of electricity out of the arm being yanked. I’d never released so much electricity before: it created a deafening boom and a blinding flash of light. The bolt lacked direction, but I knew it made contact because both of the guys let go and the door swung open. I heard an ear-shattering scream of pain coming from one of the guys, and when I looked back into the room, I saw Wavy Hair on the floor, legs thrashing, his head shaking like he was having a seizure.

Snake Boy, who stood over him, gave me a horrified look. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out.

I shut the door behind me.

I found myself in a doctor’s office waiting room, complete with a scattering of people sitting and reading magazines and a motherly-looking receptionist behind the counter. One woman sighed and glanced at the time on her phone, while a young mother jostled a crying baby on her lap. An elderly man was checking in at the front; the receptionist handed him a clipboard and was giving him instructions on how to fill out the forms.

Call me puzzled. I had no idea what to do. My body was on high alert watching for ninjas or sharpshooters, but none jumped out. In fact, no one even looked up when I walked into the room. I wondered if being in a doctor’s office had something to do with the fact that I was injured. Even without a mirror, I knew I was a mess. Blood stained the front of my T-shirt, the side of my face felt swollen, and I could have sworn I’d broken a few ribs. Every breath brought stabbing pain.

I walked up to the front, past the old man who had just walked away with the clipboard. I stood nervously at the counter. The receptionist looked up and said, “Yes? Do you have an appointment?”

An appointment? She had to be kidding. I played along. “I’m not sure,” I said. “My name is Russ Becker.”

Her face lit up. “Oh yes, Mr. Becker. The doctor is expecting you. Please take a seat. We’ll be calling you shortly.”

I sat down next to the woman with the baby, which seemed like a fairly safe decision. The baby screamed, his face bright red and his eyes filled with tears. His mother, talking over his crying, said, “He’s usually such a good boy, but he’s teething and he’s in a lot of pain.”

“Poor thing,” I said, letting my guard down a little bit. I was fairly sure no one was going to try to kill me when I was next to a baby. The next thing I did, completely on instinct, was to hold out a finger. The baby looked at it with wide eyes and grabbed hold. “He’s got a good grip.” I made a funny face at him and he stopped crying to regard me curiously.

“He likes you,” she said.

The baby appeared fascinated by me. He seemed to have forgotten that he’d been busy crying, and stared, unblinking, directly at my face.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Terry,” she said. And then she turned her attention back to the baby and spoke in the way people do to small children and animals. “He’s a good little man. Yes, he is.”

“Hi, Terry.” I felt my finger getting warmer and the connection between the baby and me growing. His mother was right, his gums were hurting badly. Those molars were killer. But the longer he held my finger, the more the pain subsided, and within a minute or so he felt fine. I sensed the shift in his mood from crabby to happy. And when he got all the way to happy, he was really happy—Disneyland style. “Poor little guy,” I said to his mother. “It’s no fun being in pain.”

“Mr. Becker?” the receptionist called out.

I pulled my finger from little Terry’s grasp and went up to the front.

“The doctor will see you now.”

A petite woman in a white jacket, a stethoscope around her neck, came out into the waiting area to greet me. She was young, early thirties at the most, and had dark hair and straight white teeth. The embroidery above her pocket identified her as Dr. Poore. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

Oh, Nadia, where are you?
I got nothing in response. Since Dr. Poore didn’t look too menacing, I took a chance and shook her hand.

“I won’t keep you long,” she said, “because I know you’re trying to get through the challenges, but I do have a patient I’d like you to see.” She beckoned with one finger and led me down a hallway.

“You know about the challenges?” I was talking to the back of her head, while also trying to stay aware of my surroundings. I still wasn’t entirely convinced that I wasn’t going to be ambushed.

“Well, of course.”

“So is this an actual doctor’s office?”

“For now.”

“But will it be one tomorrow and next week?”

She stopped before a doorway and said, “Well, no, just for today as a scene setting for part of the test.”

“So you’re not a doctor then?”

“No, I’m a doctor, an MD. I work for the organization that’s testing you.”

“The Associates.”

Her lips pressed firmly together. “I can’t divulge the particulars. My role in this is to see you through this particular challenge.” She put a hand on her hip like,
Do you want to continue or not?

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m with you.”

She continued down the hall and turned into what proved to be an exam room. A red-haired teenage girl in a hospital gown sat on the exam table, her legs dangling down over the edge. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, backing out of the room.

“Don’t be silly,” Dr. Poore said, pulling me back in by the front of my stained shirt. “Clarice is why you’re here.”

“What happened to you?” Clarice asked, forehead furrowed. “I’ve got cancer and I look better than you do.”

“I had a disagreement with some friends.”

“Looks like they won.”

“Actually—”

Dr. Poore interrupted. “We want you to try your healing powers on Clarice.”

So they knew about the healing powers. Carly was right. I shrugged. “Okay, I’ll give it a go.”

“She has been diagnosed recently with stage—”

“Don’t.” Now it was my turn to interrupt. I raised my palm and explained. “I don’t need to know.” Part of me didn’t want to hear this cute girl’s sad story, and part of me knew I could figure it out on my own. Clarice still had a head of thick red hair and she didn’t look sick. But I knew that looks could be deceiving.

I held out my hands and Clarice rested her hands in mine.

“You don’t need to touch the affected areas?” Dr. Poore hovered to one side and craned her neck to watch.

“No.” Remembering what Nadia had said, I looked toward the door. “Are all of you getting this?”

Clarice smirked.

Feeling my hands get warmer, I knew something was happening. I concentrated, trying to send energy where it was needed most. I knew what it felt like when I’d healed my own bullet wound, and when I’d healed Mallory’s cut finger and when I’d infused healing currents in the two Associates who’d tried to abduct her. In each case, I’d instinctively felt where the damage had been, and my energy had been pulled right to that area. With Clarice the energy was searching, but not finding anything.

After a few minutes, I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t figure it out.”

“What can’t you figure out?” Clarice asked. “I have cancer. Cure it.”

I said, “I’m sorry. I don’t feel like anything is wrong with you.” I pulled my hands away and a knot in my stomach twisted. I’d gotten through three challenges, only to fail this one. “Maybe I could try with another patient?”

“No, thanks for trying. I think we’ll just pass you on to the next level,” Dr. Poore said, pressing her hand against my back to guide me out of the room.

As we walked back, I turned to Clarice and said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“S’okay,” she said, sounding bored. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dr. Poore walked me down the hall, away from the reception area. At the end of the hallway was a closed door, and adjacent to that, on my right, was another. “One of these will take you out of this office and on to your next and final challenge,” she said.

I looked at the closed doors and hesitated. They looked identical and yet one would lead me to doom while the other meant life and liberation.
Nadia, are you there?

No reply.

Dr. Poore leaned in sympathetically and said, “Sometimes, when I’m lost, it helps me to think about where I’ve been.”

Good for you
, I wanted to say, and then I realized she’d given me a hint. Where I’d been. Think, Russ, think. I looked back down the hallway and realized it ran parallel to the waiting room. If I took the door on the right, it would lead me back behind the receptionist’s desk, clearly not where I needed to be. The door at the end of the hall, that would be the right one.

I turned to shake Dr. Poore’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” I said, and I really meant it. Besides the baby, Terry, she was the only one in the place who seemed like a real human being.

Talk about a shock. As confusing as it had been to walk into a doctor’s waiting room, this was even more mind-boggling. I opened the door to find myself in what looked like a public place, a large, open sunny area filled with people coming and going. It took a second to get my bearings, but then I realized I knew this place. It was the Milwaukee Intermodal Station, where Carly and I had purchased the ticket to get on the bus.

Had the van circled back on the expressway and returned to Milwaukee without us realizing it? That’s what must have happened, and yet I was sure there wouldn’t have been enough time for them to do that. Of course, Carly and I had completely lost our sense of time and distance being in the dark in the back of the van.

I stood against a wall, unsure how to proceed from here. If I went out to the parking lot, would Carly and Frank be waiting in the car? Was I supposed to be doing something, and if so, what exactly? A voice over a loudspeaker announced a departure, and people came and went. It was a little busier than I remembered it being before.

Déjà vu all over again, as the saying goes. And yet.

Something wasn’t right. I looked at the slant of light coming through the window and remembered it coming in at the same angle when I’d picked up my tickets. Time had passed. Why hadn’t the sun moved?

I made my way through the crowd to the one place I was familiar with—the Greyhound ticket counter. The same bald-headed man was working. I went up and rested my elbows on the counter. When he looked up, I sensed recognition on his part. He smiled. “Mr. Becker! How nice to see you again. Did you enjoy your ride with us yesterday?”

“Yesterday? No, I saw you just a few hours ago.”

“I hate to correct you, sir, but I last saw you yesterday.” He sounded assured, but I sensed something underneath that confident tone. A quiver of deceit. He was lying.

I said, “I didn’t see you yesterday. That was earlier today. And it wasn’t here, but at the Milwaukee Intermodal Station.”

“Sir, this is the Milwaukee Intermodal Station.”

I said, “No, it looks a lot like it, I’ll give you that, but it’s not. It can’t be.”

He turned to his coworker. “Gary, what’s the name of this building?”

Gary, who was handing change over the counter to a customer, looked confused. “The Milwaukee Intermodal Station? Sometimes people just call it the Amtrak station or the bus station.”

“You see?” Baldy said, as if Gary’s testimony proved his point.

“The clocks are wrong too,” I said. “I left here at six fifteen, and at least two hours have passed since then.”