Quicksilver (16 page)

I stopped.

The newspapers rustled as my father got to his feet. “Look, pumpkin,” he said, “All I want is for you to be safe and happy. So you don’t have to hide anything from me.”

He had no idea how much I wished I could believe that. “I know,” I said. “It’s just … we’ve only gone out a couple of times, and I didn’t want Mom to get worked up over it.”

“Don’t worry about her,” he said, putting a burly arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. “She’ll be fine. So who’s the lucky boy?”

Hello, Dad Cliché 32. Nice to know this conversation was still on a predictable course. “Milo Hwang,” I said.

There was a fractional silence. Then Dad said, a little too heartily, “Well, good for you. That’s … um, great. Hope it works out.”

And there it was. Liberal on the outside, redneck conservative deep down. He wouldn’t forbid me to see Milo because that would be narrow-minded, but that didn’t mean he was ready to invite him over for hockey and popcorn.

“Why shouldn’t it work?” I asked. “He’s a nice guy.”

“I’m sure he is,” said Dad. “But when people from different cultures get together, it can be an adjustment—”

“He’s not from a different culture,” I interrupted. “Milo was born and raised here. He’s just as Canadian as I am.” More so, in fact, but that was the last thing I wanted to tell my parents. Because if I did, they’d react like this. “Anyway, like I said, we only just got together. It’s not like we’re planning the wedding.”

“I’ll say you aren’t,” Dad said with mock gruffness and made his Big Bad Giant face until I gave a reluctant smile. Then he continued, “All right, point taken. We’ll stay out of it and let the two of you sort things out.”

“Thanks,” I said. “And … Dad?”

He’d stooped and picked up the brush again, but he looked back over his shoulder.

“Could you and Mom keep this to yourselves? Because Milo’s mom thinks having a girlfriend is going to interfere with his studies, and he needs some time to prove to her that it won’t before he breaks the news.”

“Sure thing,” he replied and went back to painting.

Relieved, I made myself a plate of cheese and crackers and headed for the basement. I had some schematics to draw up, and a whole lot of parts and components to order.

0 1 1 1 1 0

Sebastian texted me two days later.

–How’s the transceiver coming?

–Fine so far. Though I can’t do much more until I hear from the makerspace. And I’ll need to borrow a vector network analyzer from somebody, unless you have $10K sitting around. Also, you forgot the antenna.

–I didn’t forget. It’ll be ready when you are. Just keep working.

I hesitated, fingers hovering above the keys. Then I wrote:

–How much danger am I in right now? Could the relay find me and beam me back to Mathis even without the chip? Or is there something else I should be afraid of?

But the phone was silent.

The weekend was largely uneventful, although Jon frowned when he saw me talking to Milo on Friday night, and I had a sinking suspicion he was going to ask if we were together. Not that I would have minded saying yes if I thought it would get Jon off my case, but Milo’s grandparents came through Jon’s register nearly every time they shopped, and if he said anything to them, it would be a disaster. So I kept my distance from Milo for the rest of the weekend, and for good measure—though I hated myself for doing it—I flirted with Jon a little. He perked up at once, and when he told me he was helping out at his aunt’s bakery the following Saturday and that if I came in he’d give me a free cupcake, I knew I was off the hook.

All in all, if I hadn’t been worried about what might happen if I didn’t get this transceiver built in time, I might have been tempted to believe my troubles were over. Apart from her discomfort with me seeing Milo, my mother was happier than I’d seen her in months: she’d been having so much fun redecorating the house that she’d started talking about taking some night courses and becoming an interior decorator. Meanwhile, Dad was selling farm insurance policies as fast as people could sign them, so his boss had given him and Mom a gift card for a hotel and theater getaway in Toronto. Everything seemed to be going our way—or my parents’ way, at least—and I was glad of it.

But late Sunday night, I got another message from Faraday.

–Check your e-mail. Now.

He wasn’t usually so curt, even in text form. I put down my soldering iron, pushed my safety glasses up onto my forehead, and flipped my laptop open.

There were four new messages in my inbox, including one from Milo. But it took me less than a second to find the one Sebastian wanted me to see.

From:
[email protected]
Subject: URGENT — PLEASE READ THIS

It looked like spam from the subject line, but the address told me everything I needed to know. It was from Alison.

I braced myself and opened the message.

0 1 1 1 1 1

I’m sorry if this letter doesn’t make much sense. I’m pretty shaken up right now, and my synesthesia’s more intense than it’s been for a while. But I had to write to you and tell you what’s been happening.

I’m not sure if you ever met Constable Deckard, but he was part of the police investigation when you disappeared. He drove the van that took me to Pine Hills, and he questioned me a couple of times while I was in the hospital, trying to find out if I’d killed you. Even once it was obvious that I hadn’t, he still didn’t seem satisfied. He kept giving me these ice-dagger looks, like he knew I was hiding something. So I tried to keep out of his way.

But about a month after you left, he came to the house and asked me if I’d talked to you lately. He wanted to know if I had your address or phone number or an e-mail where he could reach you. I said no, but I could tell he didn’t believe me. He told me it was a very serious thing to give false information to the police and that it was vital that he get in touch with you immediately. His voice was so vinegar-sharp it scared me, but I kept repeating that I didn’t know where you were or how to reach you, and finally he changed the subject. If I hadn’t heard from you, then what about Faraday? Had he tried to contact me since he left Sudbury? Did I have any idea where he was now?

That was when I couldn’t take any more. I told him to leave me alone and shut the door in his face. Then I went to my room and cried until I felt grey all over. I knew Deckard would never find Faraday no matter what I told him, and I doubted he’d find you either. But he’d made me feel like a criminal for not helping him, and I was afraid he’d find an excuse to charge me for it.

I clenched my jaw and flexed my fingers against my knee, wishing I could strangle Deckard. Yet this was only the beginning of the story. There was more, and probably worse, to come.

For weeks after that, I felt sick and shaky every time I saw a police cruiser. But it was never Deckard behind the wheel. And once I’d got through the whole winter without seeing or hearing from him, I convinced myself he’d given up. So when a car pulled into our driveway yesterday and a man got out, I didn’t think twice about answering the door. I figured it was one of my mom’s real estate clients come to drop off some paperwork.

It wasn’t, though. It was Deckard.

He was out of uniform this time, but the way he carried himself was as intimidating as ever. He told me he was working on a special investigation and had some questions to ask me. I started to tell him no, but he said I’d be welcome to ask one of my parents to join us if it made me feel more comfortable. So, stupidly, I let him in.

Deckard asked me if anything had changed since the last time we’d talked and whether I’d found any way to contact you. I thought about the e-mail you’d sent me, and I tried not to hesitate or grimace at the taste when I said no. He gave me one of his steely looks, and I was afraid he’d threaten me again, but then he got very quiet and sober. He said that what he was about to tell me was confidential, but it was important for me to know. Then he told me that your doctor was trying to contact you with the results of some medical tests you’d done before you left. He said you’d been diagnosed with a very serious condition, and if you didn’t get it treated right away, you could die.

“Oh, crap,” I whispered, staring at the screen. “Crap, crap,
crap.”

I should have seen it coming, even before I left Sudbury. Deckard’s single-minded obsession with my case had been suspicious enough, but his parting shot about summoning me back from Vancouver if I didn’t return Dr. Gervais’s call had practically clinched it. Then to show up at Alison’s house wearing plain clothes and driving an unmarked car and using the same line on her that Dr. Gervais had tried to use on me … there was only one explanation that fit the facts.

Deckard had left the police force and become a private investigator. And GeneSystem was paying him to hunt me down.

He held my gaze steadily as he spoke those words, and his voice didn’t waver. But his words tasted funny, so I knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth. I stammered something about being sorry and wishing I could help, but I really didn’t know where to find you. He nodded and turned to leave, and I thought the interrogation was over. But halfway down the steps he turned back, and said he had one more question.

I knew he was going to ask me about Faraday, and I thought I was prepared. But when he asked which one of us had broken off our relationship, I was so flabbergasted I didn’t know what to say. I’d never told anyone how close I was to Faraday, not even Dr. Minta. How did Deckard know?

But then I remembered that Faraday had taken me back to Champlain Secondary one night, so I could show him the spot where you’d disappeared. We’d hugged, we’d nearly kissed—in full view of the school’s security cameras. And of course Deckard would have seen the tape. So I resisted the temptation to tell him it was none of his business, and I said, “He ended it.”

For the first time, I saw pity in Deckard’s eyes. He thanked me for my time and turned to leave. And I should have let him go, but I couldn’t stop myself. I called out to him and asked why he’d wanted to know. That was when he told me that Sebastian Faraday had been spotted in southern Ontario ten days ago, accessing one of his old bank accounts from an ATM.

He wasn’t lying, either. What he was saying made no sense to me, but there was no flavor of deception to his words at all.

Deckard must have realized my shock was genuine, because he gave me that pitying look again, and then he took out his phone and showed me the security tape. He hadn’t been mistaken. It was Faraday, looking exactly as I’d last seen him. The hair, the way he moved, even the clothes he was wearing—he hadn’t changed at all.

Things got a little fuzzy at that point, but Deckard said something about Faraday still being wanted for questioning and for several outstanding charges, and how if he tried to contact me again I should call him—Deckard, I mean—immediately. Then he handed me his card and drove away.

Once I calmed down, I tried to tell myself I should be happy. After all, hadn’t I been waiting for Faraday to come back? Hadn’t part of me always believed that he would? Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face so clearly. I could feel the warmth of his eyes on me and taste the last words I’d heard him say, “I don’t love you.”

I’d laughed through my tears then, because I’d known he was lying. But now that I’d found out he’d been back for days—maybe even weeks—and hadn’t tried to contact me, I wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.

Then I realized I hadn’t checked my e-mail in a couple of days. Maybe Faraday had written to me, and I just hadn’t seen it yet. So I logged on and found a message waiting, but it wasn’t from him. It was from Sanjay, a boy I’d met at Pine Hills. He’d sent me a link to an article about a top secret experimental laboratory called Meridian…

I broke off, sick at heart, and pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Oh, Alison, I thought. I’m sorry. So sorry.

I’m shaking as I type now, irrationally terrified that writing down the way I feel will make it true. But if I know the fear is irrational, that means I can’t be too far gone yet, right? So I’m just going to say it. Okay. Here it is.

I think I’m losing my mind.

No, worse than that. I’m afraid I lost it a long time ago.