Mindwalker (17 page)

His eyes narrow to a hard line. “Is that the only reason you've been helping me? Because you thought I'd kill myself otherwise? Couldn't take the guilt?”

I tense. “That's not what it's like.”

“Never mind.” His voice softens. He sounds almost sad. “It doesn't matter now.”

“Please. Just listen—”

He walks out, shutting the door.

I think about running after him, but I suspect that would just make things worse. What could I do, anyway? If he doesn't want to go to IFEN, I can't force him. For a few minutes, I stand motionless, feeling lost. I don't know what to think. I feel like I've been cut loose to drift in the sea, and I can't find anything to hold on to.

I've hurt him; I know that much. He sees this as a betrayal. As abandonment. I wonder if I've made a terrible mistake.

Because I don't know what else to do, I drive to Steven's apartment. The neighborhood is gray and gloomy. Somehow, it's even more depressing in the daytime. No sign of green anywhere. The cameras are out in plain sight, and they're on every street corner. I park next to his building and approach the entrance. There's a small touch screen on the door, smudged with grease and dirt. I tap it, and a list of names flashes across the screen. I scroll down, searching for Steven's. He's on the tenth floor, room 1012.

I buzz him. “Steven? It's Lain.”

Static crackles. No response.

I don't know if he's even there. But I keep talking. “I know you're angry at me. But please believe me, I'm only trying to help you.”

More static. For a moment, I think I hear breathing. But I can't be sure.

“Say
something.
Say just one word. Tell me to go to hell, if you want. Just let me know you're there.”

Still no answer.

I bang my fist against the door. But I realize, with a sinking feeling, that there's nothing I can do. There's no way I can reach him if he won't let me in. In a burst of frustration, I kick the
wall, then turn and walk toward my car. My mind is a white haze. Wherever I step, the ground seems to tilt and crumble beneath my feet. I get into my car, but I don't start the engine.

What now? Should I go to Dr. Swan directly and tell him what I discovered? But then I'd have to admit the truth—that I tried to perform an unsupervised memory modification on an unapproved client. Maybe that would be best. Maybe I should confess now, get it over with. If I agree to immediate therapy, he might even forgive me. My actions will be seen as a sign of temporary illness. If I withhold the truth, it will eventually come out on its own—in a world of neural scans, it's impossible to hide anything indefinitely—and then I'll lose everything.

But what about Steven? What will happen to him?

I wait outside the apartment building for a while longer. I try calling his cell phone twice. No answer. Finally, I drive home. In my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall.
Go to IFEN,
my mind urges me.
Tell them the truth. There's nothing you can do on your own.

Still, something stops me.

Is this what it feels like to be a Type Two? This indecision, this mental fog, this sense that I can't trust anyone? Is this why so many of them don't seek therapy?

I curl up in bed. Nutter topples off my pillow. I pick him up and tuck him under my arm. Then I open the drawer of my nightstand and take out a small porcelain box. Inside is a square of paper. I scan the lines. I've read them hundreds of times.

A drop of moisture falls onto the paper. My hand drifts to the silver bracelet on my wrist—his last gift to me, on my thirteenth birthday, just a few weeks before his death.

Why didn't I do something? Why didn't I tell anyone that he was suffering?

I blink away tears and read over the article again.

Dr. Swan's wording has always struck me as odd. Not
I don't know why,
but
I cannot say.
I know I'm reading too much into it, scraping for hidden meaning where there is none. Like a child covering her eyes, running from the truth, I keep looking for reasons to believe that this isn't what it seems—that Father didn't really abandon me.

***

I'm asleep when my cell phone rings. Drowsy, I pick it up and squint at the tiny, glowing screen. Instantly, I'm wide awake.

It's Steven's number.

I sit up, throwing the covers aside, and turn on the lights, the phone pressed to my ear. “Steven?”

“Hey, Doc.” His voice is a croak.

I release a soft sigh and place a hand over my racing heart. “Are you all right?”

“Not really.” A long pause. I wait, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe. Dread creeps through my stomach and chest. “I shouldn't be talking to you,” he whispers. “I've got no right. But I'm too scared to handle this alone. I needed a voice. And who the hell else am I going to call?” He chuckles, a raw, painful sound, like blisters breaking open. “You're the only friend I've got.”

The icy dread spreads through my limbs, down to my fingertips and toes. “Wait. Handle
what
alone?”

Silence.

“Steven, I'm going to come over to your apartment. I think we should talk in person.”

“It's too late.”

And all at once, I know. I know what he's done.

I grab my coat. “Listen to me. Steven? It's not too late. I'll be there in a few minutes. Just hold on.”

“Don't worry about me.” His voice has changed, grown slurred and thick, like he's drunk. “I'm okay now. It doesn't hurt anymore. And I'm happy. Because I got to meet you.” A small sigh. “I get it now. This will fix everything. You'll be happier, too.”

“Oh no. Oh no.
Don't you dare.
” I shove my feet into my shoes. I'm still in my pajamas, and it's cold out, but I don't care. Shrugging into my coat, I run down the stairs, the phone still glued to my ear. “You will not die.” I speak the words like a magic spell, as if just saying them can make them true. “Do you hear me?
You will not die.
”

Soft, labored breathing fills my ear. “It's okay, Lain.” His voice is so weak. Like he's fading. “Please don't be sad. I don't want that.”

“Then hold on. Wait for me. I'm coming. Do you understand me, Steven?” No response.
“Steven!”

There's only silence.

I pound a fist on the dashboard. “Come on! Hurry up!”

“The speed limit is forty-five miles per hour.”

My molars scrape together. “My friend is dying! Who cares about the speed limit?”

“I'm sorry. I can't process that request. Please rephrase.”

“You stupid talking tin can! If I'm too late, it will be your fault!”

“I'm sorry. I can't process that request—”

My fist slams against the dashboard one more time, but of course, it does no good. God, I'm such an idiot. Why did I let him walk out? Why did I believe his claim that he didn't have a Somnazol?

I check my cell phone clock. Ten minutes have passed since I left my apartment. I should be at Steven's place in another five. If only I could call a hospital. But they won't help him. What he's doing is perfectly legal. What
I'm
doing—trying to stop him—is not.

I fight down my panic and force myself to think. A Somnazol pill has three layers, designed to dissolve slowly, in sequence. The first is a sedative, tailored to induce a state of calm euphoria. The second renders the person unconscious. The third stops his heart. The entire thing takes about an hour to dissolve. I don't know when Steven took his, how much time passed between the moment he swallowed the pill and the moment he called me. I might have another half hour, or it might already be too late.

Outside the door to his apartment building, I buzz his room. “Steven?”

There's a hiss of static.

My heartbeat quickens. “Let me in.” When nothing happens, I hammer a fist against the door. “Steven! If you don't let me in, I'll—I'll break down the door!”

More crackling static. I hear his breathing, weak and unsteady. Then a buzz. The door slides open.

Thank God. If he's still conscious, I have time.

I take the elevator to the tenth floor. The lights sputter fitfully as I race down the narrow, tiled hall. He must want to be saved, I tell myself. He must have changed his mind at the last minute; he wouldn't have let me in otherwise. I cling to that thought as I hunt for room 1012, find the door, and try the knob. It's unlocked.

I fling open the door, heart thundering. The lights are off. The TV is on but muted, tuned to some old black-and-white horror film. On the screen, a vampire emerges from his coffin, cape drawn over his face. The silent, flickering gray glow is the only illumination in the apartment. “Steven!”

I hear breathing, very faint. Where is he?

I rush into the apartment and nearly trip over something. At first, I think it's a pile of dirty laundry. Then I look more closely. It's him, curled up on the floor. A cold wire cinches tight around my gut. He's so pale, so still.

I crouch and press two fingers to his neck, feeling his pulse. It's slow but still strong.

A groan escapes his lips. I pull him upright, and his eyes open a crack. Then they slip shut, and his head starts to droop.

“Open your mouth,” I say.

He does, too dazed to do anything but obey.

I thrust a finger into his mouth and press it against the back of his throat. His throat convulses, and I pull my finger out just as he starts to heave. Bile splatters onto the carpet. The pill comes out, too, a tiny white circle, the outer pink layer worn away. He doubles over, gasping and coughing. Slowly, he raises his head and looks at me through a curtain of shaggy bangs. “Lain,” he whispers hoarsely. “You shouldn't have come.”

“Shut up.” I'm trembling, tears overflowing my eyes. “Just shut up.” I don't know if I want to hit him or shake him until his teeth rattle or hold him and never let go.

It takes me only a few seconds to make up my mind. I pull him close and hug him tightly, fiercely. He tenses—then slowly, slowly, his arms slip around my waist. He feels brittle, breakable, all sharp angles, with ribs and hip bones that stick out more than they should. His heart beats hard and fast, like a panicked bird hurling itself against the bars of a cage. I wonder when anyone last held him.

I rest my cheek against his sweat-damp forehead. “Promise me you won't try anything like that again,” I whisper.

His breathing rasps in my ear. “If I stick around, you'll just
get hurt. You'll lose everything. I don't want to be the one you throw it all away for. I'm not worth it. It would be better if I just disappeared.”

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.” I hold him tighter. “Nothing would hurt more than losing you.”

His breath hitches.

The TV is still on, muted, glowing dimly in the darkness. I stroke Steven's hair, and a tremor ripples through him. His unsteady breathing flutters against my neck. “You'll stay?”

“I'll stay. So promise me—” My voice cracks. “Promise you'll stay, too.”

He nods once, his face hidden against my shoulder.

We remain on the floor, holding each other, until the light of dawn creeps in through the window and across the floor.