Nineteen
Phantoms
Teresa didn’t bother going back inside. She put the phone on speaker, and we stood in the driveway while Simon reassured us he was alive, with only a minor concussion to show for his hospital trip.
“We felt the building shake, but no one knew what it was,” he said. All kinds of background noise filtered over from his end. “By the time security alarms went off, someone had already sneaked up and knocked me out. I didn’t get a chance to see or hear anything, and no one will let me back upstairs to read the place.”
“You have an inactive power,” Gage said. “Why would they knock you out cold first?”
“Inactive, as in I can’t use it to physically injure someone, sure. But there’s a chance they didn’t want me looking them in the eye, or even potentially recognize them.”
“How could you have? One of the reporters said the hostiles were wearing masks.”
“Well, obviously I can’t, since I didn’t see anyone.” Simon didn’t get testy often, but the stress of the day was definitely getting to him. “I know what you know. Three of them, late teens or early twenties, but all wearing face masks and exhibiting Meta-like powers.”
“Have you been able to talk to anyone in Manhattan since this happened?” Teresa asked.
“No, all communications have been cut off,” Simon replied. “But I know them, Trance. Some will believe that Freddy set up his own escape, and Thatcher will talk himself blue convincing them he didn’t. It’s going to get ugly.”
“What do you think?”
A brief pause followed, filled with sirens and people shouting in the distance. “I don’t know Freddy well, but he’s a father, too. He wouldn’t risk Andrew’s life.”
“Convincing the authorities about that won’t be easy,” I said. “They’ll want to believe the worst, and the press won’t help our case.”
“They aren’t doing us any favors. And the pardon proceedings are off the table until Freddy and Andrew are found.”
Several nasty epithets rang through my head. The timing of this attack couldn’t have been worse—or, from the perpetrator’s perspective, it couldn’t have been better.
“I’ve already been told I and my team aren’t welcome for the unforeseen future,” Teresa said.
“Sorry about that,” Simon said.
“Not your fault.”
“It feels—hold on a moment.” He must have covered his phone with his hand, because everything got muffled. “Listen, security managed to find a decent shot of one of the hostiles.”
“Send it to Ethan’s phone.”
“On it.”
The image came through fast, and I held up the phone to give us a better look. The capture showed a young man in a skintight black jumpsuit, his body angled toward the camera, looking up and past it. The black mask was just wide enough to cover both eyes and the bridge of his nose, without totally obscuring his facial features. He had golden blond hair and eyes blue enough for the color to sparkle through even from a slight distance, and some sort of mark on the right side of his neck. A mole, maybe, or a small birthmark. In the background of the shot, a prison guard lay facedown in a puddle of blood.
“Hello, suspect number one,” I said.
“Gage?” Teresa asked, and the concern in her voice made me look at the man in question.
Gage’s entire body had gone rigid, his face a horrible pasty white. He looked stuck between throwing up and bursting into tears, and I didn’t know which was worse. “Send that picture to the computer downstairs,” he said in a funny voice, and then took off toward the house.
“What’s going on?” Simon asked.
“I’ll call you back,” Teresa said.
I sent the photo while we chased Gage inside, straight to the computers in the War Room. Teresa and I hung back while he worked. Something in that photo had spooked him, and asking a thousand questions wasn’t going to help him find the answer he was looking for. He scrolled through an archive of Ranger Corps photos—looking for someone familiar.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Renee asked. She stopped when she saw our faces, then glanced past us to Gage.
“We have a photo of one of the hostiles,” Teresa said.
“Okay. And?”
“I’m not sure.” She stepped up behind Gage and put her hands on his shoulders. He leaned into her touch a little, but didn’t stop searching.
My personal computer skills were a bit lackluster, so I gave Renee a brief rundown of our conversation with Simon. By the time I finished, Marco had joined us, and she repeated it all to him. Teresa was crowded over the computer, whispering something to Gage and blocking the monitor.
“So?” I said. “What did you find?”
Teresa stepped aside and Gage slumped back into his chair. Both of their expressions showed complete befuddlement. On the computer monitor were two side-by-side pictures. One was a sharper version of the security image and our suspect. The second was a younger blond teen, with similar blue eyes and facial features, and the same damned birthmark on his neck. The teen wore a solid blue jumpsuit—the kind that all Ranger trainees wore until they were officially part of a Corps Unit.
“Holy f*ck,” Renee said.
I figured it out a split second later. The Ranger trainee with the striking resemblance to our slightly older suspect was Jasper McAllister. Gage’s dead brother.
“How is this possible?” Marco asked.
“It’s not,” Gage said in a tone sharp enough to draw blood. “Someone’s f*cking with me. I saw his body.”
“It can’t be Jasper,” Teresa said. “He’d be in his thirties by now, and the boy in that security photo is barely pushing twenty.”
“Could it be a Changeling?” Renee asked.
“Possibly.”
“I thought Changelings had to actually touch the person they’re duplicating,” I said.
Renee shrugged. “Different lab, different Changelings.”
“But why age him? Jasper was sixteen when he died.”
“Bring Dr. Kinsey in here,” Gage said.
Marco left the room. While we waited, I studied the two images. Even with the small black mask on the suspect, the resemblance between the two boys was uncanny and unmistakable. The hair, the eyes, even the birthmark. No one spoke while we waited for Marco and Dr. Kinsey to appear, and when they did, Marco shut the War Room door behind them.
“This is my brother Jasper,” Gage said, pointing to the trainee image. “He died about a year before the War ended. He was sixteen.” He pointed to the suspect. “This was taken from security footage of today’s hospital attack.”
Dr. Kinsey leaned forward a bit to study the photos. “The resemblance is uncanny,” he said. “Your suspect is obviously older.”
“Yeah, we got that, too. Is it possible for a Changeling to take on the appearance of a person they’ve never touched?”
“In my experience, no. However, my experience is limited to the hybrid-Changelings, and they are only one small part of the larger Recombinant project. It is theoretically possible that another Recombinant may possess such an ability.”
“What about powers, though?” I asked, thinking of Noah and Aaron. “Changelings can only duplicate a visual image, not the powers.”
Dr. Kinsey nodded. “You’re correct. Unless, of course, the Changeling has joined with the person whose powers they are exhibiting”—in the back of the room, Marco grunted—“but that can’t possibly be the case here.”
“We don’t even know what powers this doppelganger was using,” Teresa said, pointing to the suspect. “That information is being kept extremely guarded, even from us.”
“Jasper’s power was superspeed,” Gage said. “They reported a Meta using superspeed at the hospital. Damn it.”
Kinsey stood up straighter and scratched his chin, a gesture I’d seen him use more than once while pondering something. His eyes went a little distant, unfocused, until I lost patience with his mental meanderings.
“Want to share what you’re thinking, Doc?” I asked.
He gave me a startled look, then frowned. “Those of us in charge of Recombinant projects were handled autonomously by a single person, to whom we reported. We were not supposed to know who the other directors were, or to have any sort of contact with one another unless given specific permission to do so.”
“Plausible deniability?” Teresa said.
“Exactly.”
“But?”
“We didn’t always follow the rules. I met a man once about twenty-five years ago, quite by accident, while visiting my now-ex-wife’s family in Oklahoma City.”
Kinsey had an ex-wife? That was news to me.
“We randomly met at a coffee shop near my hotel and engaged in conversation about our work in genetics. His name was Neal Arroway, and we kept in contact for several years after. Once I took over the hybrid-Changeling project, and he took the lead in a new project in Oklahoma City, we realized we worked for the same people. After that, we ceased all professional and social contact.”
“What was Arroway working on?” Teresa asked.
“Cloning.”
Gage made a sharp, strangled noise. His eyes burned with fury. “Cloning what?” he asked.
“Neal occasionally talked about cloning chimps and gorillas. During our last conversation, roughly twenty years ago, he mentioned that human cloning would soon be a possibility.”
“But why would anyone clone my brother? How would they even get access to his DNA? All of the fallen Rangers were brought back to HQ and cremated.” Gage’s face went slack. “Shit.”
“What?” I asked.
“Someone at MHC must have done it. They’re the only ones who had access.”
“That’s assuming this person is a clone of your brother,” Teresa said. She tapped the suspect’s image. “There could be another, more reasonable, explanation.”
He looked up at her, and they shared something I couldn’t even begin to describe. “What if there isn’t? What if that’s an actual clone of Jasper? Then who were the other hostiles with him?”
My stomach flipped. We had a lot of guesses and circumstantial evidence, and not a single bit of proof that any clones even existed. But if they did—the potential impact was huge and seriously nausea-inducing.
She squeezed his shoulder, and he reached up to clasp her hand. “We don’t know anything yet, Gage, but we’re going to get some answers. I promise.” To Kinsey, she asked, “Do you think Arroway still works in Oklahoma City?”
“It’s possible. As I said—”
“No contact, right.” She turned to face the rest of us, her face set and determined. “Well, maybe we can’t go to New York, but Oklahoma hasn’t banned us yet.”
“Trip?” I asked.
“Trip.”
• • •
One of the benefits of having a private jet is the ability to leave the state at a moment’s notice. In a matter of minutes, Teresa, Gage, and I were on our way. Everyone else was staying behind to hold down the fort, and Renee agreed to call Simon in New York and fill him in on our latest discoveries.
We didn’t talk much on the trip. Gage didn’t get mad like most people, with yelling and big gestures and ugly faces. He was a quiet angry person. The quieter he got, the worse it was, so I gave him room and let Teresa handle his simmering temper.
No more information had come out of New York by the time we landed in Oklahoma City, but we had gotten a little more intel on Dr. Neal Arroway. Like the fact that he’d died three months ago of a sudden cardiac arrest, and that the company he worked for was named Springwell Laboratories.
The car rental clerk couldn’t get rid of us fast enough, and then we were on our way into the city. Oklahoma City was one of the few major Southern cities to have seen an actual increase in jobs and standard of living in the fifteen years since the end of the Meta War. The majority of the damage done during the War was in the north, especially in the Midwest and Northeast, which drove a lot of people south (unless they went to Canada, like the L.A. film industry). Large corporations relocated to places like Oklahoma City, Dallas–Fort Worth, and Tallahassee, and workers went with them. It didn’t surprise me that a place like Springwell Laboratories had thrived there.
Its home was on the Meridian West End Corridor, just north of the airport we landed at, situated with dozens of other sprawling corporate headquarters and manufacturing campuses. The building itself was pretty boring—a gray stone exterior with the occasional blacked-out window. It didn’t seem to have the same intense security measures we’d seen at Weatherfield Research and Development (Dr. Kinsey’s former employer), just a guard hut and steel rail across the road into the parking lot.
Teresa leaned out the window so the guard could get a good look at her, then said, “Nice evening, isn’t it?”
The guard gaped at her a moment before replying, “Um, yeah. What can I help you with, Miss? Uh, it’s Trance, right?”
“It is, and I hope you can help me. I’d like to speak with someone who could possibly answer some brief questions about a former employee.”
“I could, um, give you the phone number of our Human Resources Department.”
“An in-person interview would be much more informative. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“I . . .” The poor guard couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He’d gotten the Saturday-afternoon shift, when the majority of employees weren’t even around. Our chances of speaking to someone important this late in the day, on a weekend, were slim, but this was the only lead we had.
He held up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture, then picked up a phone. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I’m sure Gage was listening in from the passenger seat. The guard came back a bit later. “Okay,” he said, “go inside and park to the left. Someone will meet you in the main entrance. It’s the blue glass revolving doors.”
“Thank you very much,” Teresa said.
Someone did indeed meet us just inside the Springwell lobby—a tall, hefty man with thinning hair and saggy jowls who looked about as happy to see us as a we were to be there.
“Tobias Schillinger,” he said. “Director of Operations.”
“Mr. Schillinger, pleasure,” Teresa said. “I’m—”
“I know who all of you are, and please forgive my rudeness, but we run on a very tight schedule here, and I have an appointment in less than ten minutes. What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about a former employee of yours, a man named Neal Arroway.”
Schillinger’s face went perfectly neutral, and I didn’t need Gage’s finely tuned senses to know we’d struck a nerve with the topic. “Dr. Arroway passed away several months ago. Heart attack.”
Teresa nodded. “Yes, I read that. I’m not interested in his death so much as his life’s work.”
“All of the work he did for us is confidential. We deal with very time-sensitive topics, and there are many competitors who would like to steal our research.”
“I promise I’m not looking to usurp your lead in genetic cloning.”
His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed just a bit. “What is your interest in Dr. Arroway’s work?”
“Purely professional. I’m sure you’ve heard about today’s attack at a New Jersey hospital.”
“Yes, some of your people, wasn’t it?”
Teresa didn’t even flinch. “That’s yet to be determined, but yes, the aggressors did exhibit Meta-like abilities. The problem is that it’s come to my attention that Metas aren’t the only people out there who possess unusual abilities.”
“Why has that information brought you to Springwell?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t reveal my sources, Mr. Schillinger.”
“Doctor Schillinger.”
“My apologies.”
“You’ll have to accept mine, as well. I cannot divulge any information about Dr. Arroway’s professional work here at Springwell. Everyone who is employed here signs a confidentiality agreement, and it doesn’t end postmortem.”
That put a whole new spin on taking secrets to the grave.
“So you deny that Arroway was part of any human cloning experiments?” Teresa asked.
Schillinger gave her a nasty look. “I deny nothing. I also confirm nothing. I’m sorry you three wasted a trip down here when a simple phone call could have answered these questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think you know the way out.”
He turned and stalked back down a stark white corridor, before making a left and disappearing.
“Testy,” I said.
“Not a wasted trip, either,” Gage said. “Nice setup, Teresa. His pulse went through the roof both times you mentioned human cloning.”
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“So he’s definitely hiding something,” I said.
“Yes, he is, and it may be exactly what we suspect,” Teresa replied. “Unfortunately, we still don’t have any hard evidence.”
The revolving doors behind us began to pivot, pushing a soft breeze into the cavernous lobby. We turned around as a group. A young woman stepped out of the blue glass doors and stopped short when she saw us. She had short brown hair and brown eyes, a slightly rounded face, and she wore a very simple skirt and blouse combo. A bizarre kind of familiarity slapped me in the face.
Impossible.
“Wow, Rangers,” she said in a breathy, accent-heavy voice. Like she was trying too hard to sound local. Different. “I never dreamed I’d meet any of y’all in person.”
I knew her voice. I mentally aged her, adding a decade or two to the youthful appearance, and the picture in my head sent a jolt of cold terror down my spine. Gage gave me a sharp look, which got Teresa’s attention. I stared blankly at the woman, willing myself to be wrong and not to have conjured up what was now racing like a speeding bullet through my brain.
She looked and sounded just like my mother.
“Hey, you okay?” not-my-mother asked, and it took a second to realize she was asking me.
I tried to swallow, but all my spit was gone. “I, uh, have we met before?”
She smiled patiently, and I saw it. Saw the way my mother smiled at me when I asked too many annoying questions and she was about out of patience. “I don’t think so, I’m sure I’d remember you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Next to me, Gage and Teresa looked equal parts worried and confused.
“Well, you know what they say. Memory is as treacherous as black ice. Can I help y’all with something?”
“Maybe,” Teresa said. “Do you work here, miss?”
“Tricia Rice, and yes, I do work here. I’m just an intern, though, I don’t get to do anything real exciting.”
“Did you know Dr. Arroway?”
She started to say something, then her eyebrows shot up. “Oh my gosh, I can’t. I’m so sorry, I’m not allowed to talk about work stuff with anyone.”
“I understand.”
“I really should go, but it was nice meeting you three.”
Before any of us could respond, she strolled off in the same direction that Schillinger had gone. I shoved through the revolving glass doors, desperate for some fresh air before I totally lost my shit in front of my friends and anyone else spying from their security cameras. I stopped on the sidewalk and turned my face to the setting sun, breathing in large gulps of air. I was trembling head to toe and couldn’t stop.
Teresa appeared in my peripheral vision. She gently cupped my cheeks and tilted my head back down, so I was looking her in the eye. I focused on the warmth of her hands, the intense lavender blaze of her eyes. The strength she was trying to feed into me. “Talk to me,” she said.
I didn’t want to talk to her. I wanted to talk to Aaron, but he wasn’t here, and I had to say this. Had to add one more layer of crazy to this slowly building shit storm circling around us. “My mother,” I said in a toneless voice. “Tricia Rice looks just like my mother.”