S'wanee: A Paranoid Thriller (29 page)

“Pearl”—slowly ascending the stairs in her floral bathrobe, calling up. 10:49 p.m.

Stop. Stop.

The last screen was still unnamed. Under construction.

Cody crept down the hallway. Banjo’s door was ajar. It bumped against something on the floor, and a large pool of blood spread wider. Cody turned and left.

There was a black, globe-style wig at the top of the stairs. Toward the bottom, facedown/face-first, sprawled a large black woman, red stains saturating the floral patterns, still breathing sporadically. One hand clutched and unclutched the bottom rail.

“Just let it play out,” Ross told the pair of Blue Scrubs at the bottom, standing clear of the seeping blood that pumped from her neck. “Otherwise it might not count.”

“I’m sorry, Pearl,” he said tenderly, touching her short, wiry hair, but she couldn’t hear through her rasps and clutch/unclutch.

The floor creaked. Ross looked up.

“Oh,
hey
, Tiger!” He smiled brightly.

Cody turned and ran.

“Hey! It’s
okay
, buddy!”

Cody ran to his room and pulled his chest of drawers to barricade the door.

He opened his window and slid down the snow-covered overhang. He climbed down the thick, bloomless wisteria vines and dropped to the ground on all fours, in front of Ross’s black Jeep. The license plate said “US Government” across the top and “For Official Use Only” across the bottom.

“Dude, just
chill
for a sec!” Ross raced out the front door.

Cody ran.

Past the white delivery van parked out front, over the split-rail fence onto vast Abbo’s Alley, sprinting through the snow toward the dense tree line at the edge leading to the dark wilderness beyond.

Ross followed in his Jeep, high beams focused and gaining as Cody zigzagged across the field. Cody darted through the trees at the edge, and the Jeep slammed the brakes and skidded across the snow and hit a towering oak.

Cody hid in the forest, shadowy-bright in the moonlight.

“Cody, listen to me,” Ross, unharmed, called out, beaming his flashlight as he inched tree to tree. “You’re not in danger. And you’re not in trouble. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Cody stood still and silent, peering behind a broad trunk.

“No one is going to hurt you, dude,” Ross continued. “Quite the opposite, actually.” The flashlight beam scanned closer, searching.

In the snow-reflected moonlight, with the flashlight hitting his stressed-out face from below, Ross was much too old for a student. He was a researcher. A white coat. He was too old to be calling Cody “dude.”

The beam got closer, and Cody took one silent step backward and tripped over a thick fallen branch. The beam found him.

“Cody, once we explain, you’ll get it. You’ll get it all,” Ross said, moving to him. “But you can’t run away, dude. Really, there’s just nowhere to run up here.”

Cody stood up, squinting. The beam squarely in his face.

“Please make this easy on yourself, on all of us,” the beam pleaded as it got nearer and brighter. “Please come back with me now, Cody.”

Cody swung the heavy branch and shattered Ross’s skull with a crack-crunch. Ross fell silently backward, and Cody brought the branch down on him again, two-three-four crack-crunches. Ross lay still, his faceless red pulp steaming into the night air, spilling out onto the white snow.

Ecce Quam Bonum.

S’wanee security cars sped in all directions on the campus streets. Cody would have to escape through the wilderness. He turned back to the darkness and faced dozens of flashlight beams moving toward him from the black abyss.

“I see him!” one of the beams called out. The other beams followed and found him.

Cody ran.

Ross’s Jeep was smashed and useless. Security cars blocked University Avenue at the far end near Fowler Sport and Fitness Center. Men in uniform held their post.

Cody tore across the Quad, past the evergreen and Shapard Tower, toward Spencer Hall (sciences), Gailor Hall (sciences), Snowden Hall (sciences), targeting the far side of campus where he would regroup, rethink, replan. Klieg lights burst atop every building, flooding the Domain with daylight.

“Cody!” Huger yelled, running toward him from bright Manigault Park. Archer and Buzz raced from the back of McClurg. Dozens of other soldiers closed in from all sides.

“Cut him off!”

“Cody!”

Cody pivoted and sprinted toward the main security gate. He would climb it. It could electrocute him, or they could shoot him. But if he slowed down, if he stopped, if he gave up…

“Cody, STOP!”

Instinctively, Cody stopped running and turned.

It was Marcie. It was his mother.

“M
om!” he yelled, grabbing her arm. “Where’s your car?
Hurry
!”

“I don’t have a car, kiddo,” she answered. “A nice man drove me from the airport.”

“We gotta get out of here!
Now!
”

“But I just got here, Cody.”

They were standing by Cravens Hall. No one was chasing him anymore.

“Cody, what’s the matter?” She took his face in her hands. “You look terrified.”

It was quiet again.

“Why…are you here, Mom?”

“I’ve come to take you home,” she answered. “They asked me to come get you.”

She looked immaculate in her long black coat with fur collar. It was new.

“Aren’t you ready to come home, kiddo?” she added.

Proctor Bob and his men stood behind her. One held a Taser.

“Mom, they’re going to kill us,” he said quietly.

“Oh no, Cody. No no no,” she shushed him. “Oh, Cody, is that what you think? Oh, kiddo…” She grimaced and shook her head. “I should never have let you come.”

“Do you need us, ma’am?” Proctor Bob asked, stepping closer. “We’re right here. Just let us know.”

“
Get away from her!
” Cody yelled.

“Now, now, Cody.” Dean Apperson came across the frozen lawn, tweedy and calm. “Welcome, Ms. Marko. I daresay you arrived at the right time.”

“He’s terrified, Mr. Apperson,” Marcie accused. “What have you done to him?”

“He’s just shaken up,” Apperson said, smiling. “Like I warned you.

“He thinks things are happening that are not, indeed, happening at all,” he added simply.

“Mom, don’t believe him! Whatever he says,
don’t believe him
!”

“Cody, Cody, Cody,” Dean Apperson repeated hypnotically as he got closer. “There’s no trouble, Cody. There’s no trouble at all.”

Marcie stroked his hair. “There’s no trouble, Cody. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“
Now
,” Cody insisted. “We’re leaving
now
.”

“We can’t leave now, honey,” Marcie said. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Let’s go inside; why not?” Apperson said. “There’s blackberry cobbler inside. Pearl made extra.”

“I’m not going in there!”
Cody screamed.

“I don’t like this, Mr. Apperson,” Marcie scolded. “I didn’t expect this.”

“Cody, where are you going to go, this late at night?” Apperson chided gently, ignoring her. “Where are you going to go?”

Proctor Bob’s crew stood at the ready. Dean Apperson flicked his hand to wave them back.

“It’s okay, Cody,” Marcie said, rubbing his arm. “We’re okay, kiddo.”

“It’s awfully cold out here, don’t you think?” Apperson beckoned. “Cody, come in from the cold.”

•   •   •

They were going to kill them both, Cody and his mother.

The experiment was over. They were done with him. They had lured Marcie to the Mountain to “take him home.” They’d just dispose of her, but Cody’s brain had empirical value. They’d slice and press it between glass, probably next to Nesta’s. And nobody would know, nobody even knew about this place, except his grandmother, useless in Bulgaria.

S’wanee had done its homework.

It was a terminal experiment. It didn’t stop when the test subject begged and pleaded. It stayed on its own schedule.

It was 11:45 p.m.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Marcie asked.

“Not at all,” Apperson said, signaling for an ashtray. “Not so long ago, I would have joined you.”

They were sitting at the dining room table. A final, pleasant visit.

“We’ve put you in the Arcadian Suite for the night,” Apperson said. “For our most special guests. I trust you’ll find it satisfactory.”

“That’s very kind,” Marcie said. “You’ve a beautiful home.”

Marcie smiled and sipped white wine from a cut-crystal goblet. She was comfortable now, impressed by the lavish Cravens Hall. Marcie was easily impressed.

Don’t get too comfortable, Mom.

“Palo Alto is one of my favorite towns,” Apperson told her. “I’ve spent many weeks there over the years. Such a charming community.”

Why the charade? Why not just kill them outside and avoid the mess?

A white-coated servant put blackberry cobbler with vanilla ice cream in front of Cody, who stared at it. Marcie unfolded his napkin and put it in his lap. “I
did
teach him manners, you know,” she assured Apperson. Spread across the table was a white plastic cloth.

Did they think Cody had an appetite right now?

“Is Chez Zucca still open?” Apperson asked. “I’ve never had better paella.”

Marcie shrugged and giggled and leaned closer to Apperson as he talked.

“I killed them,” Cody said.

And he had. A double-blind research experiment, to eliminate bias. He was the treatment, they were the control, in a carefully crafted “down-low” environment. In his arm lived the microchip “vaccine,” to track and isolate him. To tap into him.

His “classmates,” these hand-picked military recruits, followed orders blindly, per their training. But their “Need to Know” was a fraction of everything Cody now knew.

They knew their false identities. They knew Cody was the Outsider. But their narrow mission didn’t include the testing, the experiments, the hijacking. They didn’t know twelve of them were doomed.

The Fallen Flock.

He had killed his friends, his “family,” his hall mates.

His study partner and his housemother.

He had killed the only girl he’d ever love. But she hadn’t loved him, had she? Not enough, at least. She’d dabbled and stepped out of bounds with him, maybe love, maybe curiosity, but she hadn’t broken the rules and told him the truth. She’d protected her cover.

He’d killed twelve—against his will, without his knowledge. He remembered none.

But Ross wasn’t part of the experiment. Ross was an aberration, a bonus. Cody did that purposefully, with a clear head. That was his favorite. But it didn’t count.

Cody recounted and came up with eleven.

“I killed all of them,” Cody repeated and started to list them.

“
No
, Cody,” Apperson said firmly, and then said to Marcie, “See, this is what I was talking about…”

Nice try, dude. We’re way past that now.

“Cody, please stop saying that,” Marcie said, and then turned to Apperson. “Is there a way to make him stop?”

Dean Apperson rang his little bell.

“Ask Ross to bring Pearl and Banjo over, would you?” he told the servant.

“And what’s the girl’s name?” Apperson added. “The girl you like?”

“Beth,” Cody said.

“Tell Ross to bring Beth, as well,” Apperson told the servant.

“I killed Ross,” Cody said.

“Kiddo, kiddo,” Marcie
tsk
ed, shaking her head.

“You did?” Apperson asked, slightly alarmed. “When?”

“Just now,” Cody said.

Apperson thought for a moment and then said, “Have someone else bring them, please.” The servant went to the door.

“I’ll speak to Rutgers,” Apperson said to Marcie. “I’m sure they’ll welcome him back in the fall.

“I can also recommend specialists in New Jersey, the best in their field, to put him back on an even keel between now and then,” he continued. “We’ll cover the cost, of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Apperson.” Marcie exhaled. “I knew you were a man of your word.”

What were they talking about? Apperson wouldn’t let him go back to Jersey. Cody knew too much. He could expose their crimes.

But they could expose his, too, couldn’t they? After all, he was the killer. But S’wanee
made
him do it. They experimented on him without his consent.

Except he gave consent. At the Signing Ceremony. The long, rambling contract they’d whisked away for safekeeping until he turned eighteen.

S’wanee had done its homework.

“Marcie, let me refill your glass,” Apperson said, pulling the bottle from the ice bucket.

“This is an
exceptional
wine,” Marcie cooed. “Where did you find it?”

But when they started the experiment, Cody was a minor. He
couldn’t
give consent.

Apperson said something witty, and Marcie giggled and reached over to touch his hand. She patted his hand.

“It’s so nice to put a face with the voice,” she said.

Marcie
gave consent.

His mother had sold him.

The new house. BMW. Vegas trips. The money she sent him, out of guilt.

S’wanee had recruited, and then rejected him, because Marcie was a fierce negotiator and set the price too high. They’d called her bluff, and she’d backed down and struck a deal.

She marked him down.

His own mother had signed a contract and enrolled him in a scientific experiment. She’d had doubts and second thoughts; she’d been conflicted at times, but she’d signed him up and let them toy with his brain, control his behavior, kill his friends and loved ones. She lied to him day after day after day.

His mother who hadn’t called her son on his eighteenth birthday.

Even if S’wanee hadn’t told her the whole truth, the horrific extent of the experiment, she’d still farmed him out. She’d handed him over to strangers for money.

No wonder she could barely look at him now. At least she had an ounce of shame in her sick, sinister mind. Or maybe she was too busy flirting with Apperson, impressed with Cravens Hall.

His mother was a whore.

Around her neck lay a new gold necklace. Paid for by the selling of her son.