The Progeny (7 page)

Harvest.
Such a clinical word for the rape of a memory. And though I understood, it hurt. How many years had I been allowed to believe I was simply unwanted?

After a stretch of silence, I finally asked: “How was she killed?”

He raised a brow at that. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes,” I said quietly, not sure at all. And then: “I want to know.”

“Her body was found in the Danube near Csepel Island, south of Budapest. It was ruled an accidental drowning.”

“It wasn’t accidental.”

His sidelong look was his only answer.

I watched mile markers glide by through a blur of unshed tears. Sometime later, I said, “My father?”

Rolan hesitated as though choosing his words carefully. “Your mother . . . was rumored to have several lovers.”

“You don’t know who he is.” I wondered if she did.

“No. But it’s possible you have siblings. And that you even found one of them.”

I had feigned sleep for most of the drive from Ohio to Indiana, just for the privacy of the dark behind my eyelids. I hoped my mother hadn’t suffered. But of course she had; she died. I wondered if I had found a sibling in Europe. If it was for him or her, along with my parents, that I laid down my memory. I was pretty sure I never had siblings growing up; I faintly remembered creating an imaginary big sister for myself when I was four or five. A strange concept, choosing to forget the one person in life you’ve always wanted there. And now, for all I knew, my actions had exposed her. Him. How long would it be before I learned that person had washed up on the shores of the Danube or died in some freak accident God knows where?

In Indianapolis we got caught in rush-hour traffic before we could skirt the city.

“Look out the window,” Rolan commanded.

I didn’t want to. The last thing I needed was to be seen by anyone packed into the lanes around us. But I did, afraid the entire time I’d find a homicidal Luka gazing back. What I saw was almost worse: the eyes of men, women, children glued in my direction as we inched past.

“I don’t get it,” I said, sinking lower in my seat and wishing for the sunglasses I had bought last week. What could they possibly be staring at?

“You probably began to notice it a few years ago. It happens around eighteen. One day you’re invisible. The next, a few people notice you. And then a few more. Some Progeny thrive on it. Others go into hiding. A few go crazy.”

The minute he said it, I had a flash recollection of two memories. Of a kid I’d crushed on all through junior high asking me to prom out of nowhere. Telling me, weirdly, when I got mono and couldn’t go, that he loved me. Of studying a year later in a college library—a soaring, vaulted cathedral to the gods of higher learning. Not at one of the many long tables in the open reading room, but in a cubicle in some obscure wing. Of crossing campus early before class or hours after dark, eating sandwiches covertly behind the stacks. I assumed, when the image had come to me in the weeks since my procedure, that I was a loner by choice, an introvert by wiring.

I realized now I was hiding.

“What they’re seeing isn’t me,” I murmured.

“It
is
you, reflecting whatever it is that enthralls them most. Beauty. Power. Mystery. Seduction. Intelligence.”

I flipped down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. The same face that met me every morning as I brushed my teeth stared back, bags under her eyes.

“You can’t see it,” he said. “But it’s there.” I didn’t ask him what he saw. I didn’t really want to know.

At least there had been no sign of Luka. Since we’d left Maine my pulse had quickened every time I saw anything resembling a Jeep Cherokee. But wherever he was, we had left him long behind. And for that, at least, I could be grateful.

*  *  *

I
accelerate as we leave Lebanon. For two days we’ve consciously driven the speed limit in order to avoid notice, but now I’m antsy, ready to get on with this. Scared to death, too. And I only know one thing to do when I’m close to petrified: keep moving.

When I exit I-65 into Lafayette, I feel as though I’ve both come home and returned to some alien way station. The small houses, strip malls, and red-brick buildings of the university are familiar and aberrant. The kind of place that should not have progressive science nestled within its small-town Americana, weekend pep rallies, and burger joints.

“Rolan,” I say, my heart accelerating as I slow to a pained thirty-five miles per hour. He jerks instantly awake.

Five minutes later I turn off Creasy Lane into the parking lot of a small, nondescript medical building well away from the St. Elizabeth campus.

I come to a stop, turn off the engine. And find myself staring at the glass doors of the St. Francis Center for Memory Research.

For several seconds, I can’t move.

The last time I saw this building, I was leaving it in a wheelchair under a name that is not mine—mere hours after having known exactly who I was and everything I was running from or trying to hide.

Now here I am with a stranger who’s rescued me from an enemy I don’t remember. But he cannot save the people I’ve forgotten.

Only I can do that.

My name is Audra Ellison. I am twenty-one years old. And I am prepared, once again, to protect those I love . . .

Whoever they are.

8

T
he reception area is modern and clinically white, lit by a giant fluorescent disk on the ceiling. A man in a navy suit sits behind the high desk. He’s broad-shouldered and his beard is meticulously trimmed, and though he smiles politely when I approach, I can’t help but feel he is more security guard than medical center staff. The entrance to the rest of the clinic is armed with a security pad behind him. I assume the waiting area is past that metal door. And somewhere beyond even that is the room where I left the details of my life.

The man does not wear a name tag, nor does he ask if he can help me. I hesitate before speaking, wondering if he recognizes me. An awkward moment ensues as we look at one another expectantly, but the only thing in his eyes is polite forbearance. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry, our trial is closed.”

“I was just here a month ago. As a patient,” I say, fingertips resting on the edge of the desk. “I’m here for a copy of my medical records. Is there some form I need to fill out?”

The man doesn’t move. “We require twenty-four hours’ notice and a written request from your power of attorney,” he says, and though I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t just hand my records over, a small surge of alarm turns my stomach.

“I—I don’t know who that is.”

“It should have been in your packet.”

But the only items in the packet I received were my driver’s license, meds, and a stack of cash.

“It wasn’t. There isn’t . . . anyone.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you without it.”

“Look. I just drove a thousand miles to get here. This is an emergency.” I grab at the only thing that comes to mind, because it also happens to be true. “I’ve been experiencing blackouts. I lose time. I do things I don’t remember doing. My caretaker told me to contact the Center in case of any complications. So I’m here. Please help me.”

He glances away, and I think it’s toward the door behind him until I notice the camera in the corner. “The name of your referring physician?” he says, pulling a keyboard toward him.

“I don’t know. My procedure was . . . extensive.” I look around me, but I’m back in Maine, mental gaze scanning the coffee table, and then the pill bottle on top of it.

“Peterson. Dr. Julie Peterson.”

He types into the keyboard.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record with a referring physician of that name. Do you have ID?”

I dig in my pocket, find my driver’s license, and slide it across the desk. He glances at it and taps at the keyboard for far longer than it takes to enter my name and driver’s license number—or to type a small thesis.

When he finally looks up, he gestures to the screen in front of him. “I’m sorry, but there’s no record of you having been a patient at this clinic.”

What?

“It might not be under that name. It probably isn’t. I changed my name during my procedure.”

“And your former name?”

I glance up at the camera and lean forward on my elbow as though studying something on his desk with confusion, fingers curling over my mouth. “Audra Ellison.”

“Do you have ID under that name?”

“No. Only the new one. They should be linked.”

His fingers return to the keyboard, but a moment later he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record of that name.”

“It has to be under one or the other,” I say, hearing the panic in my own voice. “Please look again. Emily Porter. P-O-R-T-E-R. Audra Ellison.” I spell it out as well, not caring about the camera anymore.

A few seconds later, he shakes his head. “There’s no record of anyone by either name ever having visited this Center.”

“I didn’t visit. I was a patient!”

He lifts his gaze to me. “There is no record of you entering the clinic in
any
capacity.”

I look at the lettering on the wall behind him. St. Francis Center for Memory Research. This has to be it. This
is
it. In fact, I finally figured out why Clare wore a Franciscan tao cross. But how do you convince the watchdog at the front desk that you know—remember, even—that this is the place you had your memory selectively erased?

“Clare Thomas,” I say swiftly. “My caretaker was Clare Thomas. Look it up under her name. She left here with me the day of my procedure, traveled and stayed with me for four weeks.”

He types again, but he’s already shaking his head.

“We have no log of a Clare Thomas visiting the Center.”

“She wasn’t a visitor! She was my caretaker, on staff here! If you would just page her—”

“That isn’t possible.”

“Yes, it is. She finished her term with me a week ago, so she’s back.”

“You don’t understand.” He levels his gaze at me. “There
is
no Clare Thomas on staff at this Center.”

The white-tiled floor tilts beneath my feet.

“Could you just . . . try one more thing,” I say. “Could you look it up by record number? Please.”

“I can try,” he says.

“Three . . . eight . . . five . . .” I give him the number from Clare’s cross.

I stare at him for a suspended moment, willing him to find it.

“I’m sorry. There’s no record with that number.”

I clasp my hands together on the desk to hide my agitation. “Do you have a supervisor, someone I could speak with? Please. It’s important.”

“Not at this hour. You’re welcome to come by again tomorrow morning.”

But whoever I’m protecting may not have that long to wait. I glance past him to the metal door, wonder how hard it would be to get this man’s access card and a log-in to the patient system.

He slides back slightly in his chair. Just enough for me to see the gun at his hip.

After a moment’s silent standoff, I turn and push my way out the door, brain firing, grasping for straws.

9

R
olan’s on his phone when I emerge from the Center. Seeing me, he abruptly ends his call and gets out of the car—then stops, staring at my empty hands.

“Something isn’t right. They have no record of me. Under any name. Told me I could come back tomorrow,” I say, walking past him to the passenger side. I try to breathe, but once I’m in the car I’m this close to what I imagine a panic attack must feel like. I remotely register Rolan getting in, shutting the door.

He rubs his face, fingers audibly scraping over two days’ worth of stubble. “You sure this is the place? We passed a hospital campus a few blocks back.”

“Yes.”

He stares intently at the Center, and for a moment I actually wonder if he’s thinking of going inside. And then I follow his line of vision to the camera at the corner of the building.

He’s
casing
the place.

My eyes narrow. “Why are you helping me do this?” I say. “Why search for them? You said your only priority is me.”

“It is,” he says. “Which is why the last thing we can afford is you flying off the handle and doing something equally insane again. When you said we should come here, look up the emergency contact and address in your file, I thought, fine. We’d get your family to a safe house. Because I know you’re not going to let it rest. You may not know me, but I’ve spent months watching you, Audra.”

“I’ll try to make sure I don’t die and lose you your Christmas bonus,” I say sarcastically.

My mind runs ahead, to tomorrow. But I may not have until tomorrow. Tonight, then. I don’t need to look to remember the cant of the security camera over the entrance. The glass doors.

“Whatever we do, we can’t stay here,” he says, starting the car.

Rolan checks us in to a hotel off the highway, one of those inns with suites, complete with fireplace and kitchen. I note that his credit card has a different name on it.

As soon as I’m staring blankly out the window of the room, he leaves to park the Pathfinder around back, pick up a few things from the mini-mart downstairs.

By the time he returns with sodas, sandwiches, and bottled water, I’ve already called the four hospitals listed in the hotel’s guest services binder. None of them has a Clare Thomas on staff.

“You followed me for nearly a year,” I say, the tuna sandwich untouched where it sits on a plate beside the hotel binder. “There has to be a hostel or hotel or someplace you remember me staying. Someplace I can call, say I need a copy of my bill—anything that might have the address from my old passport, a credit card . . .”

He shakes his head. “You stayed with people you knew. I never once saw you check in to a hotel.”

“Then give me an address! A street name. Anything.” While he appears to have recovered his cool, my adrenaline level has ratcheted so far up that nothing short of a five-mile run is going to calm me down.

“If they were Progeny, they’ve moved since the news of your death, if not before.”