The Rising (18 page)

The rest of the physical was exactly what I'd had since I turned twelve, right down to the order of the steps. Physical exam. Pap smear. Breast examination. Cheek swab. Vitamin injection. And, finally, the sour apple lollipop.

I stared at the green sucker. “Seriously?”

“We were told you liked green apple.” She opened the drawer and pulled out a bag. “We have cherry, raspberry. Even . . .” She picked up a brown one. “Root beer? Oh, yes, that'd be for Daniel.”

I stared at that brown sucker. My stomach twisted. She set it on the counter where I could see it.

“Do you know what happens when a car strikes the human body, Maya? Yes, Daniel got up and walked away. I'm sure he just felt battered and bruised. But the force of that impact must have done damage. Internal damage. He could go to sleep feeling fine and then . . . never wake up.”

I clenched my fists to keep from shaking as panic whipped through me.

They're exaggerating. You know they are. Corey will take care of him. Trust Corey and trust Daniel. Worry won't help you get out of here. You need to focus on escape.

“I don't know where he is,” I said.

“I think you do.”

“I don't. We got separated—”

“Then he'll find a place you all stayed before that and go there to wait. You need to tell us—”

“There's nothing to tell.” I hopped off the exam table, scooped up my clothes, and retreated behind the curtain to dress.

I
LEFT THE EXAMINATION
room to discover we were all on lockdown pending an investigation of my allegations against Nicole. That didn't explain why all the others would be confined. I suspect Nast was just happy for the excuse.

At least they let me keep Kenjii. Antone's orders, apparently. They'd brought in her dishes and bedding. I supposed he thought I'd be grateful. I wasn't. Or, at least, I didn't want to be.

I'd only been in my room for a few minutes when Antone himself arrived with lunch. I considered rejecting it, on principle, but if I was stuck here I needed allies, and at this point Antone seemed my most promising option.

“I want to talk to you about your brother,” he said as he pulled a chair over to where I sat cross-legged on the bed.

“I don't know where Ash—”

“I just want to talk about him.” He popped open an energy drink and took a few slugs.

“You know that stuff is all marketing,” I said. “You're better off having a Coke and some vitamins. Cheaper, too.”

He smiled. “I'll remember that.”

I squirmed, as if giving him advice was an olive branch I hadn't meant to extend.

“I'm not the enemy, Maya.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that. Funny, because I could swear it was you I saw during the forest fire, pointing a gun at me.”

“A tranquilizer gun. Because you were about to run back into a burning forest.”

I took a bite of my sandwich.

“About Ashton,” he said.

“Ash. He hates Ashton.”

“Ash.” He pondered. “All right, then. Ash.”

Again he smiled and I realized he took this as another sign I was opening up. Helping him get to know us better.

“How much has Ash told you about his life, Maya?”

I shrugged.

“In other words, he's told you some, but you aren't going to share it with me in case you'd be telling me things I don't know. I can assure you that's very unlikely, and not why I was asking. I just don't want to tell
you
anything you already know.”

Still I said nothing. He waited a moment, then nodded. “All right. From the top then. Your mother kept him when she gave you up. It seems she thought she'd call less attention to herself with him.”

I bristled. “Why? Did I cry too much? Was I causing trouble already? I was only a few months old.”

“That's not it, Maya. I'm sure you wonder what you did to make her choose him. The answer, as far as I can tell, is nothing. But your mother is only half Navajo and she doesn't look it. She can pass for Caucasian easily. You can't. Your brother?” He shrugged. “He can't pass for white, but he could clearly be her son. With you . . . ? People would have noticed. They can pretend they don't, but they do. If the St. Clouds went looking for a white woman with a Native American baby, they'd have had a lot easier time finding you. She knew that. So when she made her choice . . .”

“She kept Ash.” I turned the pop can around in my hands. “But that only made it easier for you to find me, didn't it? An abandoned Native baby.”

He nodded.

“So she basically tossed me to you and the St. Clouds so she could escape.”

Antone rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't want to malign your mother. What she did to you was wrong. But I have to admit it was for the best. At least compared to what she did to Ash.”

“She dumped him.”

He sucked in breath and seemed to be struggling to put a better slant on it. Finally, he said, “Yes, she dumped him,” and in his voice I heard all the bitterness I'd seen on Ash's face.

It took him a moment to continue. “I would like to think she did it for him. That she believed the St. Clouds were closing in and this was his best chance. The couple she gave him to were decent people. Not as good as your adoptive parents, but they did try. Then, when Ash was ten, his foster father was involved in a serious accident. He lost his job. They had three other children. They couldn't contact your mother, so . . . Ash entered the system.”

“The foster care system.”

Antone nodded. “In some cases it works well. There are wonderful, loving parents who sign up. And then there are . . . the rest. Those who do it for money. It's never easy for children of any minority. But in the area where Ash was living there wasn't a strong Native community. No Native community, really. That was hard on him. Really hard. He acted out. By thirteen—after a dozen placements—he ended up in a group home. He stayed two weeks. Then he was gone. He's been on the streets ever since.”

I shook my head. “But he's been in contact with—” I snapped my mouth shut hard.

“In contact with other parents who left? Yes, I know. That's how I've gotten my information. Let's just say one of those parents isn't nearly as trustworthy as Ash believes.” He paused. “No, I shouldn't say that. I suspect Ash knows they aren't trustworthy. Otherwise, I'd have found him by now. He doesn't give away anything, even to them. But when Ash ran, he went searching online for answers and, at that time, he hadn't yet learned to be quite so careful. Someone found him. A man who used to work for the Edison Group.”

Cyril Mitchell. I didn't say that, of course. I just waited for him to go on.

“From all accounts, Mr. Mitchell was a decent man. If I could have gotten in touch with him, this would have gone much better, but my contact was playing both sides and wasn't about to do anything to jeopardize that. Mitchell tracked down Ash and tried to give him a place to stay, but Ash had had enough of that with his foster parents. Eventually Mitchell realized he had a choice—help Ash from a distance or lose him completely. He went with the former. He seems to have tried to give him money, but the only thing Ash would accept was information.”

“On the experiment.”

Antone nodded. “So your brother has been on the streets for three years. You can try to understand that, but I don't think you can, Maya. I can't, either. Like you, I was raised by a wonderful family. Not wealthy, but certainly comfortable. If I needed clothing, I got it. If I asked for name brands, my parents would talk to me about peer pressure, but if I wanted it badly enough, I got it. Outgrow my bicycle? Get a new one. Eighteenth birthday? Get a car. Not new, but still a car. College? Sure. Ivy League? If I could get in, which I did. I wasn't spoiled, but I was loved and, yes, indulged. Does that all sound familiar?”

I said nothing.

“Your brother has never had that. Never. Not with your mother. Not with the family she gave him to. Certainly not with his foster parents. But compared to what he has now? He was as pampered as a prince.” Antone leaned forward. “He has nothing, Maya. Nothing.”

“He has me.” I didn't mean to say it. I could hear Ash's voice in my ear, scoffing,
Yeah, thanks. That and five bucks will buy me lunch.
But as I said it, I meant it. When I got out of here, I'd find him. I'd be whatever he needed me to be, and it had nothing to do with hearing the story of his life.

When I said that, Antone pulled back. I thought he was offended—I'd just met my brother and I was presuming so much. But his eyes glimmered.

“I'm glad to hear that, Maya. I don't think I can tell you how much it means to me, seeing the two of you together, looking out for each other.” A deep breath. “But he has me, too. I can give him everything he needs. Everything you and I had growing up.” He met my gaze. “Don't you think that's what he'd want?”

“If he does, then he knows where to find it. He knows you're here.”

“He won't come to me.”

“Then you'll need to find him and ask him what he wants. Because I won't help you.”

A
NTONE HAD TO LEAVE
it at that, as I was soon taken away for yet another medical appointment. A psych exam. Apparently Nast was a little concerned about my mental health.

I didn't cooperate nearly as well with that one. I mean, seriously? I'd just discovered I was a skin-walker and part of a secret science experiment, then I had been chased, nearly killed in a helicopter crash, nearly drowned by a friend, chased some more, discovered my town empty, realized my parents thought I was dead, got chased some more . . . The way I saw it, I was lucky I was still psychologically functioning at all. Of course, if I pointed that out, they'd take full credit for having “made” me strong enough to withstand this.

So I was not the most cooperative subject. Unfortunately, I couldn't outright refuse, because that would only give them further proof of my “damaged” psychological state. So I answered the questions with the minimum required response until the psychologist got frustrated and gave up. I hoped to return to my room then. No such luck. When the shrink left, the boss came in, accompanied by Dr. Inglis.

Now it was time for “the talk.” I could have skipped it. I knew what Nast would say. The same message I'd heard at every encounter with the Cabals. Resistance is futile.

Yes, he admitted, things had gone wrong. Mina Lee shouldn't have come poking around, arousing our suspicions. The whole forest fire and helicopter kidnapping scheme? A bureaucratic mix-up. Yes, Nast actually blamed it on confusion at the corporate level, as if some misdirected memo had killed Mayor Tillson.

“I know you're still children—” Nast began.

Dr. Inglis cleared her throat and he amended that to “young adults.” I'm not sure which was more condescending—calling us kids or thinking we'd respond better if they humored our delusions of maturity.

“At your age, you don't have to think about your future,” Nast continued.

“Sure, we do,” I said. “I've been thinking about my future a lot. Everything I'm missing. Like my hot date with Rafe for Friday or the big beer bash we had planned for Saturday night.”

His lips tightened.

“We have plans,” I said. “I want to be a veterinarian. Daniel wants to be a lawyer. Serena wanted to swim on the Olympic team and study sports psychology. You've heard of Serena, right? My best friend? Murdered by one of your subjects gone psycho.”

“We don't know that for certain,” Nast said.

“She
admitted
it.”

Dr. Inglis inched forward. “We do agree that Nicole appears to be responsible for Serena's death, Maya. We just don't know if the experiment had anything to do with that. Mental illness can have many causes.”