HEAR (22 page)

Pankaj follows his orders, sliding his legs into the hallway and keeping the top half of his body in the lab.

“Good,” Alex says. “Now braid your hands together behind your back.”

Once Pankaj's hands are behind him, Alex picks up his bag and starts walking Brian out, using him as a human shield. When he gets to the doorjamb, Alex slowly bends down. In one fluid motion, he violently releases Brian and grabs hold of Pankaj's clasped hands.

As Brian crashes to the ground, Alex stays focused on securing Pankaj's hands. But what he ignores are Pankaj's legs. They spin into Alex's ankles, knocking him off-balance. Pankaj wriggles away as another body, leaping in from the hallway, hurtles itself on top of Alex.

I watch Pankaj struggle to stand, his hand holding his bleeding midsection where the wound from the bombing has reopened. Still on the ground myself, I can't see the face of the person now holding Alex. But as I look across the floor, I recognize him from his shoes: Flip-Flops. From his waistband, the man-boy I'd assumed to be no more than a drunken college student pulls out an industrial-size garbage-bag tie. He wraps it around Alex's wrists and yanks it closed.

Pankaj helps Brian to his feet. “Professor, are you okay?”

Brian closes his eyes. “I will be.”

Nobody bothers to ask this question of me. But that's okay. I doubt I would have given the same answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Mara sits between Pankaj and me at one of the picnic tables in the lobby of the Merion Building. Uncle Brian and Chris Figg are on the other side. It feels like we're in some sort of bubble within a bubble. The people who casually walk by have no idea what we've just been through. They couldn't begin to understand. How could we possibly explain it?

After Alex was hauled off, Uncle Brian, still shaken and rubbing his bruised neck, suggested we too leave the lab. “We could all probably use a cold drink and some refreshments,” he said as he shepherded us out. “We'll make Mr. Figg pay for it,” he added with a meaningful glance in Figg's direction.

But I don't want a drink. What I really want is time alone to process what just happened . . . and what was said. Still, what I most want is for Figg
to pay
, so I went with them.

Here, at this ridiculous indoor picnic table, as I sit next to my “allies,” I can feel the distrust and disgust boiling on our side of the table. We all still want and need answers, but none of us seem ready yet to speak to Figg, or to one another. I look at Mara and Pankaj and shake my head. With allies like these . . .

Fine, I'll start.

Both of their heads turn in my direction. Message (obviously) received.

“So while you were running Camp Dodona, you were also training an army of violent children. You needed them to do your dirty work; is that right, Mr. Figg?”

He takes a sip of his drink and sets the can down before answering. “We want to be careful not to stigmatize by calling those children violent, per se, Kass. We use the acronym CU, for callous-unemotional.”

Even after all that happened this afternoon, the old spook's still trying to spin the story.

What a dick
,
Mara says silently.

“ You're a dick, Figg,” Pankaj says out loud. “We're all thinking it.”

I nod. “And I'm curious, Uncle Brian: Did any of those
CU
s have ESP?”

“No,” Brian replies. “The CU children did not possess any extrasensory perception as far as I'm aware. But, truth be told, there's a very fine line between psychopath and telepath neurologically speaking.”

Glancing at Mara and Pankaj, I realize
that
was information I could probably have done without.

“And for your information, callous-unemotional people excel at certain tasks that those with a conscience frequently find difficult to accomplish,” Figg says. “They require very little convincing to become snipers, for example. And though
you
may consider this dirty work, it's work that's necessary to the security of our country.” The man is unbowed; he's argued this point of view many times before.

I can't even look at Figg. I'm so angry I might spit on him. So I refocus on my uncle and try to make sense of this. “Didn't you personally invite Alex to be part of the group here this summer? Or did Figg force you?”

Brian's nod of admission is more like a pathetic shake of the head. “I invited him myself, under no orders from Chris. I was under the misimpression that he had talent for some reason.”

I recall the research I did on my fellow HEARs. The pages of Google results attesting to Alex's abilities scroll through my mind . . .

They were all lies.

“ Your friend created a false history for him,” I say. “He planted stories for you to find so you'd invite him into the program.”

When Figg rolls his eyes, suggesting he can't believe it took me this long to figure this out, Mara takes my hand and squeezes it hard.
Cool it
, she tells me, sensing I might jump across the table to throttle him.
You want some ginger?

No. But thank you.

Pankaj sits up, wincing in pain and clasping his open wound. “So if you had Alex so well trained, what happened?”

As Figg looks at us, he knows he must concede at least this one point. “That's the problem with psychopaths: they're unpredictable. That can cause
issues
from time to time.”

“But you'd been watching him the whole summer, hadn't you?” Mara asks, hugging her knees to her chest.

“Of course,” he replies. “ You don't take your eye off someone like Alex, even when you're using him as an asset.
Especially
when you're using him as an asset.”

“So he wasn't just being paranoid when he said someone was following him.”

“No, he was not.” Figg shakes his head. “And still he did what he did.”

My head tilts in confusion.
Did what he did?
I'm fairly certain he's not referring to our recent hostage-taking situation. “What do you mean?”

“Pinberg,” Pankaj mutters.

This is the first thing Pankaj has said to me directly since . . . the lab.

“ You're wrong,” I reply curtly, holding myself back from telling him
all
that he's wrong about. “Alex didn't kill Pinberg. He couldn't have. He didn't have the time to get to that mall.”

“Alex was not responsible for Graham's death, no,” Figg says. “But he
did
plant the bomb in the library that killed his ex-girlfriend and your friend Dan.”

That's what Alex was rambling about in the lab. He bombed that library because Erika broke his heart. I react to these words like a windshield struck by a baseball bat; I absorb the blow and shatter. Tears blur my vision, and I feel Mara grab my arm. When she takes Pankaj's on the other side, everything whites out.

That's when the three of us have a simultaneous vision of the past. We watch as Alex calmly walks into the library to plant the bomb. He sees Erika working behind the desk in the Special Collections Room, and he stares at her for a while as he keeps himself hidden from view. When she turns her back to look through a filing drawer, he darts toward the information desk and leaves a book bag full of explosives in front of it, less than ten feet from where she stands.

The Peabody Library bombing had nothing to do with the US Army Research Institute archive or Uncle Brian. Alex perpetrated the crime because he was angry at Erika for dumping him and he wanted revenge. Dan was simply collateral damage. Dan ran to the library either to stop Alex or to warn us, or both, and he paid for his empathy with his life.

“Brian will be the first to tell you,” Figg says, “love can make you reckless, make you do crazy things.”

Despite myself, I steal a glance at Pankaj.

I couldn't risk Alex hurting you
,
he tells me.
That's why I said those things in the lab.

But I am so broken and exhausted I don't know what to think or how I feel about anything anymore. I don't respond.

You have to believe that that's not how I really feel. I am in love with you, Kass.

When our eyes connect, I feel the truth. I take a deep breath, and I'm finally able to breathe again.

“The good news,” Figg continues, “is that we can all keep an eye on one another as we continue to work together.”

The three of us let out a shocked roar of laughter.

“I'm quite serious,” Figg says. “I've made arrangements so that you will all be able to attend Henley tuition-free next year.”

“Not a chance in hell,” I reply. “Why on earth would we stay here?”

“Because you have nowhere else to go, Kass,” he says matter-of-factly. “None of you do.”

Mara shakes her head. “I'll go anywhere else.
Anywhere
is better than here. We're not safe here.”

“ You're not safe
anywhere
, my dear.” Figg utters this as a promise. Then he extends his arms as if he's the ringleader of an exotic circus. “So what do you say?”

What do we say?
Pankaj asks us silently.

I can tell he doesn't yet know the answer himself.

What can we say? We're trapped
,
Mara reasons.

But we're not powerless
,
I reply.
We have one another. We determine the future from here on out.

EPILOGUE

When I jolt awake, my heart feels like it's trying to beat its way out of my chest. My eyes scan the room searching for what's on fire.

This has been happening a lot lately.

But the feeling I have this morning seems like more than just the PTSD I've been experiencing since the library bombing. The panic attacks escalated when I went home to pack my belongings for the new school year, and they've been even worse since I returned to Henley earlier this week. Though fall term doesn't start for a few more days, I was hoping if I came back to campus early, I could ease my way in. But this morning, the alarm is more acute than ever; it feels like something truly terrible hangs in the air.

When my phone vibrates moments later, I fumble to grab it, and when I hit the touchscreen, a male silhouette avatar with the word “Dad” beneath it lights up.

“Hi, Dad,” I croak.

“Oh, Kass, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No. I was . . . Don't worry about it.” I look at the alarm clock. It's 7:30
a.m
. On a Saturday. If he's trying to get back into my good graces, this is not the best tack. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's—” He pauses. Obviously
something's
wrong. “Actually,” he says, recalculating, “I think it's better if we discuss this in person.”

“Fine. I'll be home for Thanksgiving. We can talk then.”

“I'm here,” he says.

“Here?” My eyes search the unfamiliar dorm room; I'm still close enough to sleep to feel discombobulated by his statement.

“I'm in town. I'm staying at the Beckwith Inn.”

“Not with Uncle Brian?”

“No.” He stops there, not choosing to give an explanation for the strange accommodations. “Why don't you meet me at the hotel for breakfast?”

Ugh
. “Today?”

“Let's say eight thirty.”

Uggggghhhh
. “I might be a little la—”

“Kassie.”

Ugggghhhh!
“Fine,” I repeat, though this time my tone indicates it's anything but. “I'll see you at eight thirty, Dad.” I put down the phone and crash back on the pillow, yanking the sheet over my head.

“Hey!” Pankaj mumbles, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me toward him. “And good morning.” He kisses the back of my head.

“I doubt it.”

Pankaj flips me over to face him and cracks open one eye. “That doesn't sound good.” He gives me a sleepy grin. His hair is rumpled, and a dark shadow of stubble rings his face.

There's nothing I want to do more than spend the day in Pankaj's bed with his arms wrapped around me. “Promise me you'll stay here, just like this, until I get back.”

He looks at the clock and winces. “That will not be a problem.”

I kiss him again then get out of bed.

It's rumored that George
Washington slept at the Beckwith Inn, and with its wooden ceiling beams, stacked stone panel walls, and early American folk art decor, you can see why a founding father would feel at home here. My own father, dressed in his casual Brooks Brothers attire, looks fairly comfortable himself as he sits in an oxblood-red leather wing chair near the large fireplace in the lobby. He glances up from the paper he's reading as soon as I walk in the door and stands as I approach.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Kass, you look . . .” He eyeballs me before saying anything more. “Well.”

“Thanks.” I have no idea what he truly sees when he looks at me anymore. Our relationship has gone from frosty to heated in the last few weeks, neither of us pleased by the recent revelations.

“Have a seat.” He points to the other wing chair as he sits down. “Do you want coffee?”

I shake my head. “I'm going to go back to bed when I leave.” I think about Pankaj waiting for me in his room, and I try to focus on this happy thought. “So . . . what brings me to the Beckwith Inn so early on a Saturday morning?”

A look of disappointment crosses Dad's face as he continues to scrutinize me. He knows. “Kass, before you left home, we came to an agreement,” he says severely.

“No, Dad.” I'm not going to allow it. I refuse to let him bully me. “ You came to an agreement. By yourself. However, since I
disagree
with your thinking, I decided to ignore your advice.”

“Kass, I wasn't giving you advice,” he replies, carefully enunciating every word. “Nor was I making a request. I told you very specifically you were not to date that boy.”

I stand, shaking my head at him. “Okay, bye, Dad. Tell Mom I say hello.” I begin walking away, but my father catches me by the arm.

“Do you think I get some sort of a kick out of this, Kass? Do you think I told you not to date Pankaj because it's a power trip for me? I'm trying to protect you,” he says in a stern whisper, close to my ear. “Who do you think killed Graham Pinberg?”

My eyes widen. Pankaj didn't kill Graham Pinberg. I am entirely certain of this. I know it. And yet my knees still buckle at the implication. My father's hand on my arm is the only thing that keeps me from crumpling.

“Sit down.” He guides me back to the chair.

I should regain my composure before I say anything. “Are you suggesting Pankaj killed Graham Pinberg? Because that's—”

“No,” Dad replies, shaking his head. “But I need you to listen to me very carefully, Kassandra. I had a vision when I was in China with your mother—it was hazy and only partially formed, so I didn't understand what it meant at first. That happens occasionally. It was only when you mentioned Pankaj that pieces started coming together. That's why I forbid you from seeing him.”

“Well, that's stupid,” I say resentfully. “He hasn't done anything wrong.”

“I know that now.” Dad pauses and looks out across the lobby before refocusing on me. “But the vision sharpened for me last night, and that's why I came here this morning: Pankaj hasn't done anything wrong yet, but he will. And intentionally or unintentionally, his actions will put you in grave danger.”

“Why would you even say that?” I throw my hands up, exasperated in the way only a parent can make you. “He's done nothing but help me through this crap, and you just said yourself Pankaj had nothing to do with Pinberg's murder.”

“No,” my father says, “but his sister did. On Chris Figg's orders.”

My mouth opens to respond, but I don't know what to say.

Dad seems satisfied by this: my nonresponse is exactly what he wanted. “ You need to stay away from them, Kassie. Trust me when I tell you this is a dangerous family.”

In my father's cold stare, I find the words to answer. “Do you mean their family or ours, Dad?”

As I walk back
to Pankaj's room, I think about how to break the news.
How do you tell someone his sister's a killer?
Unfortunately, despite everything else, I don't doubt that my father is right about Nisha. I'm still not sure what to say when I reach Pankaj's dorm room, so I just take a deep breath before knocking on his door.

“It's open,” Pankaj calls out.

Though the world was already sent spinning for me this morning, it's
still
early on a Saturday, and as promised, Pankaj is still exactly where I left him an hour ago. He holds the sheet out, beckoning me to join him underneath. I slip off my shoes and climb into bed.

“How'd it go with your dad?” he asks, spooning me.

“And here I thought having Mara return to campus today as my roommate was going to be the worst part of my day.”

“
That
good, huh?” he says with a smile.

I can't tell him. I can't tell him yet.

“The past few days have been really nice,” I say instead.

“ Yeah, they have.” Pankaj puts his arms around me and kisses me. The sheet tangles between us as we clutch at each other until suddenly he stops. Like an animal who's picked up a scent, Pankaj bolts upright. His head turns to the side, and his nose lifts to search the air.

There's a knock at the door a moment later. His eyes widen as the doorknob twists and the still-unlocked door swings open.

Though I've never before seen the girl who barges into the room, I instantly recognize her. She cocks one of her full dark eyebrows and lets her giant duffle bag drop to the ground. Then she flicks her head, tossing her long black hair behind her, and the smell of her pomegranate shampoo fills the small room. “Oh brother!” she says with a throaty laugh. “What have we here?”

“Nisha.” Pankaj scrambles out of bed.

“ You must be Kass!” She maneuvers around Pankaj and extends her arms to me as if she expects an embrace. “I've heard so much about you.”

“ Yeah,” I reply, uneasily, “likewise.”

Nisha slowly spins, taking in the room. “Wow, I still can't believe I'm here—I'm so lucky.” She smiles. “And we are all going to have such fun together!”

“What?” Pankaj and I say simultaneously.

“ You mean you guys don't know? Why, I could just kill that Mr. Figg! I guess I'll just have to do the honors myself.” She shakes her head, and there's a sparkle in her obsidian eyes. “Since your friend Alex got busted for all those
terrible
crimes, he's obviously out of the program for a while. So Figgy asked me to come. I'm taking Alex's spot and joining you as the newest HEAR.”

“No,” Pankaj replies, taking my hand and moving me away from his sister.

“Oh yes, Brother,” Nisha says with a familiar smile. “And I don't know about you, but I can hardly wait to see what happens next!”