Memory Girl (17 page)

I still wonder what would have happened if I told Scientist Lila how I really felt about joining the Cross Family. Would she have changed my future? Or was I only fooling myself? Scientists are above ordinary people, devoted to miracles and discoveries. I'm where I was born to be—in a Family.

Still, I'm uneasy with my new relatives. I peel carrots,
listening for hoxen clomping and rumbling carts. What will happen when Leader Cross and the others return? What has happened since we left Sunday Fair? Is Nate still alive? Why do I even care about a killer?

Where does Nate come from? “Outside” was all Rosemarie told me. But how can anyone survive outside the Fence? I've seen drawings of fearsome gorilla-panther hybrid beasts, and sometimes at night I hear roars. I'm safe, though, inside ShareHaven. At least I thought I was. Now I fear no one is safe. Murder is no longer an unreal concept, and this memory won't easily fade. Death's bloody fingers have left a mark on my brain.

Yet it's not Grand Sarwald's face I keep seeing in my thoughts. It's Nate. Stun-looking, smiling, fascinating Nate. Why did he do such a terriful thing? Every morning ShareHaven citizens recite words of thanks to our scientists, who gave us forever life. Life, so precious and sacred. Yet in one blow of a killing pipe, Nate ended a life. I should hate him, want him punished. Yet I can't find hate, only sorrow at the thought of his execution. Because he will be killed, a quick, public death. No one escapes the Uniforms. They're kill-trained, and when they shoot, their aim is perfect.

A door slams, and I hear thudding footsteps. Leader Cross has returned. I duck out of sight and into the kitchen just as he strides down the hall, followed by Arthur, Jarod and Rosemarie's sons. They move swiftly with grim expressions. No one speaks of Sunday Fair.

Cowering in the kitchen, I rinse dishes in the sink. I can't stop thinking about Nate. I see his face in the reflection of water. In that moment our gaze met, his blue eyes widened with surprise, shame … fear? He stared at me,
seconds spilling like blood drops until he ran out of time. If I hadn't called his name, he would have escaped.

I've started peeling potatoes when Rosemarie comes into the kitchen.

“Your appointment is tomorrow,” she says as if announcing good news.

The peeler slips from my fingers. “Appointment?”

She catches the peeler and hands it back to me. “You're due at City Central at noon.”

Her words steal my breath. I guess what this is about—my first memdenity. My whole childhood has prepared me for this important step into adulthood. I'm curious to know more about Milly but not ready yet.

“So soon?” I whisper.

“Not soon enough—unless you plan to take up nudity.”

I gape at her. “What?”

Rosemarie pinches a corner of my white tunic. “We ordered your fabric, but you need to go to their shop for measuring.”

I nearly collapse with relief—although it seems disrespectful to be concerned about fashionizing when our highest leader has been murdered. “But shouldn't we wait? Won't there be … more important things going on?”

“You're important to me,” is all she says. She picks up a knife and chops peeled potatoes with sharp thwacks.

Chills slither up my skin in the steamy kitchen. How can Rosemarie be so calm after witnessing a death? My mind spins with images of Grand Sarwald's cry, his fall to the podium, and the sea-blue eyes of his killer. When Nate looked at me, his expression wasn't that of a killer but of a friend in trouble. He seemed so civilized when we spoke by the sea.
Yet his blood must run cold like a fish.

There is no communal dinner that night. Rosemarie and I eat on the small table in the kitchen. She prepares food trays that she carries away, refusing my offer to help. The scent of simmering secrets mixes with the aroma of vegetable stew. Rosemarie says her head aches and leaves to get a healing tonic. When she doesn't return, I put away the last clean dish. I climb the stairs and hear soft snoring, so I open the door quietly.

Rosemarie is already asleep in her bed. I'm careful not to wake her as I slip beneath my blankets. I fall into an uneasy sleep and dream about Nate.

We're back in the cave, only he's wearing denim pantons, not breathing tubes, and we're swimming together in the Lavender Pool. We don't speak—we only swim in circles around each other. He's all human, with ripping muscles and faint dark hairs on his legs and arms. He reaches out for me, and our fingers entwine. The light water storms to darkness. His hands change, coarse, scaled, and monstrous. His fish-skin hands squeeze my neck. Panic screams through me, agony for a breath, and I'm ….

Awake. I clutch my blankets to my chest, over my pounding heart, and gulp air. My skin is sticky with sweat. But the only terrors in my room are lurking in my thoughts.

I can't go back to sleep. I slip soundlessly out of the room so I don't wake Rosemarie, who sleeps on her stomach with one arm hugging her pillow.

In the kitchen, I pour a glass of milk and sit alone at the table, shivering from my dream. It's a warning about Nate, I decide. He may seem like a friend, but he's a killer. I must forget about him.

After rinsing out my glass, I leave the kitchen. But as I pass the meeting room, I hear rumbling voices.

The door is partially open, so I peek inside.

Empty.

Where are the voices coming from? The rumble echoes from the walls and floor. But there's no breath of life in the room—only flickering shadows from a lamp on the meeting table. I listen carefully, unable to pinpoint the source of the sound.

Could it be a ghost
? I wonder, not really believing unquiet spirits exist. But only hours ago, I saw a man die, which makes unbelievable things more real. Like a soul, which I imagine as a silvery orb of sunshine and stars, small enough to fit into my hand, yet huge with shimmery energy. Did Grand Sarwald's soul die with his last breath? Or did the health workers tuck the soul safely in the tubes with his memories? Will he come back in twenty-five years in the body of a youth?

I hear murmurs again. The noise buzzes like bees from an unseen hive. Only there's no one else in the room.

The curtain has been pushed aside, and a glow from outside draws my attention to the window. When I press my face to the glass, I notice the double doors to the vehicle barn are wide open. Usually there are three solar coaches and two solar cycles stored inside, but now there are several more coaches.

When I glance around the meeting room, something else bothers me. The chairs are at odd angles instead of tucked under the table, and there's a tea cup where Leader Cross usually sits. When I touch the cup, it's warm.

The voices rumble again.

Slowly, I turn in place, searching for the sound. Could it be coming from the cabinet? The huge wooden cabinet has double doors folded together like closed wings. When I hook my finger into the door handle, it opens into a dark tunnel.

A hidden passage.

Stairs plunge down, disappearing into darkness. I hesitate, then step onto the staircase. The voices grow louder.

Curiosity draws me down, down, down. I've gone five steps and can barely see my hand gripping a metal rail. Halfway between safety and danger, I pause. I shouldn't be here. Yet how can I retreat now? My thoughts travel back to when I first discovered my cave, thrilled to explore the unknown. There's no thrill now, only foreboding.

Blackness lightens, and my eyes adjust. Golden light glimmers from the bottom of the stairs. My foot creaks on the next step. I stiffen and hold my breath. I count sixty seconds. When I breathe again, I continue downward, cautiously. My nose itches from musty smells, and I fight the urge to sneeze. Near the bottom, the dim shapes of shelves hug basement walls. No one is around. Only boxes and rows of canning jars fill the room.

I follow a slant of light to the back of the room. A lamp glows over a door.

Voices rise in anger—a man, then a woman—although I can't understand their words. Why would anyone meet in such a dismal place? A night-time meeting seems dishonest. Whoever is beyond the door doesn't want to be discovered.

And neither do I.

Chilled air shivers up my bare arms as I reach for the
door. At my touch, it swings open a crack. I jump back, ready to run. But nothing happens, and I sniff an acrid odor coming from inside the room. Leaning close to the crack, I hear a woman say, “Must do something about him.”

I know the warbling voice: Grandmother Ida May. How did that feeble woman make it down the steep stairs?

“Have faith.” Leader Cross's voice is distinctive. “It's for the best.”

Another voice rumbles, but I can't tell whether it's a man or woman. As the voices continue, low and urgent, the frustration of not knowing what's being said is a rash I need to scratch.

I angle my face against the opening, and I stare at a strange room. The walls are covered in gold-framed paintings of bleak deserts, stormy seas, and winged people battling with swords. Beside a tray of biscuits, smoky tendrils swirl from candles in ornate bronze holders on a marble table. More candles glow on a raised dais painted with images of moons and stars. Perched on the stand are marble statues of figures in robes, some with wings, and a few kneeling with pressed hands, reminding me of the way Rosemarie knelt by her bed, her hands folded together.

At the heart of the room, chairs form a circle, and I recognize Leader Cross, Arthur, and Daisy, who sits close to Grandmother. I strain to see the others but can only see a few, each of them wearing gold chains with four-point stars—like the necklace I found in Milly's jewelry box.

“Why at Sunday Fair?” asks a stocky man who looks a decade older than twenty-five. His thick eyebrows blend together like a mustache in the wrong place. This would make me smile if I wasn't so tense.

“We never choose the time or place and must be grateful for the gifts we receive.” Leader Cross sips tea then adds, “It's the will of our higher power.”

“With a little help,” Daisy adds, her eyes flaring like flames. When Grandmother frowns at her, she looks away.

“The timing was unfortunate,” Leader Cross says in a superior tone I've noticed him use when speaking to women. “We can only pray for his spirit to find peace.”

“He was a good man,” Arthur adds soberly. Around the somber circle, heads bow in agreement. “He will be missed.”

Grand Sarwald, that's who they're speaking of. Is this some sort of gathering to mourn his passing? But then why are so few people here? I only recognize one man from the Sarwald Family.

A tall man wearing a small round hat touches his heart. “We have comfort in knowing he's gone to a better place.”

Better place? But nowhere is better than ShareHaven. Savages and beasts roam outside the Fence, and civilizations beyond our island were devastated by the mind-plague. What's going on here? Leader Cross makes the rules for our Family, so why gather with such secrecy with people from other Families? I bite my lip, wanting to hear more, yet afraid of being caught. If I back up quietly, I can leave without anyone knowing.

“What about the boy?”

This question is asked by Arthur—it's hard to think of him as my husband—and it startles me. Who are they talking about?

“He's no threat,” Leader Cross insists.

“I must disagree, Ryan,” Arthur says, frowning. “Many will wonder how he got through the Fence.”

Daisy nods. “He'll be questioned.”

“If he talks, my Family will never forgive me.” A woman with tawny brown skin and high cheekbones twists her gold chain. “I'll be dishonored!”

“Nilene, calm down.” Leader Cross reaches out to reassure her. “He won't expose us. He has sub-intelligence and gives no value to life—not his own or anyone else's.”

“He could break under torture,” warns a man in the back whom I can't see.

“Leading the Uniforms to our tunnel.” Arthur drums his fingers on the chair, the intense depth in his gaze reminding me that my mere fifteen years is nothing compared to his centuries of experiences.

“The boy won't get a chance to talk.” Leader Cross sweeps a commanding gaze around the circle, as if each person in the room is a piece on his chessboard and he's going for checkmate. “Execution will silence his tongue.”

Execution! I jerk back, bumping my elbow against the wall. I suck in a breath, sure someone heard me. But the conversation continues, and I exhale. Although I'm sick inside, now I'm sure they're talking about Nate.

“Wouldn't it be more sensical to help him escape?”

This question comes from a woman sitting behind Arthur. When she stands, I'm stunned. I stare, not wanting to believe my eyes. Yet candlelight flickers across a face I know … and love.

Instructor Penny.

How can she be part of this conspiracy? While other Instructors only saw my mistakes, Instructor Penny saw my heart. I never window-gazed during her lessons because I didn't want to disappoint her.