But then she realizes what he doesn’t seem to know. Like the fact that she and Luke are headed for a library in Paso Robles. Or what they talked about with Bailey before they left. Or who Luke even is. Or maybe he does and he’s holding it back to see how much she’ll tell him. Or worse, he’ll learn those things in time now that he’s caught up to her.
“Trust is one of those words that’s lost its meaning—don’t you think?” he says. “It used to mean the ability to keep a secret when someone asked you to. Now it’s an unreasonable request we make of people we’re trying to control, a demand that they buy into our illusions of who we are. That they never question our fantasies. That they never introduce anything into our world that upsets us, changes us. Educates us.”
“You’re a sociopath.”
“Maybe. But I get a lot done.”
“Who are you?”
“You can tell Kayla to stop digging in to my past. She won’t find much. Not the juicy stuff anyway. And as I’m sure you know, the best cover stories are as close to the truth as you can make them. I only told you one real lie, Charley. My last name. The rest? Well, they were sins of omission mostly. And let’s just say none of the work I did on behalf of Uncle Sam is sitting on a server waiting for a diligent lawyer to find it.”
“Is that who helped you track me to the middle of an empty field? The military?”
His laughter is gentle. “Oh, no. I’ve traded up from the military. Way up.”
“But you’re still afraid to confront me face-to-face. And so are they, apparently, whoever the hell they are. What with my ability to break their arms and all.”
“I see. So you’ve taken it again, have you? Is that what you did last night? Break some arms? Did they deserve it at least?”
“Wouldn’t you know if I had?”
Silence. She just scored a point without meaning to.
He doesn’t know. So whatever the net of surveillance he’s thrown around her, and Kayla and Luke and Marty, it’s got gaps. Limits. Or maybe there was a delay. Maybe he didn’t pick her up until she reached Altamira.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Dylan says.
“I’ve given you more of my thoughts than you had any right to.”
“We’re not out to hurt you, Charley. Not me. Not the people I’m working with.”
“Safe to say you and I have very different definitions of the word hurt. And maybe every other word in the dictionary.”
“Perhaps, but you’re too valuable to us now. Jason Briffel, on the other hand, he was out to hurt you, and I took care of him. As promised.”
“I never made you promise to kill him. I never even wanted to lay eyes on him again.”
“I know,” he says quietly, “but I killed him anyway. Don’t worry. I didn’t leave a mess. Nice work on his shoulder, by the way.”
And there it is, she thinks, the breath going out of her as if she’s being gradually squeezed by a giant hand. She figured he’d kept his word, but she’d done everything she could not to linger on the possible details of how.
Shouldn’t she be flooded with relief to hear that Jason’s corpse isn’t still lying on her kitchen floor? Well, she isn’t. If anything, this seems to have joined her fate to Dylan’s.
“And now you’ve replaced him,” she says.
“That’s nonsense. You’re still in shock.”
“He said my house was a prison, and he was going to set me free. He thought I was valuable, too.”
“Interesting. I wouldn’t have called it a prison. I’d say it was a cocoon, and you were ready to hatch. Where Jason and I disagreed was on what you should become once you were hatched, and whether or not he should live to see it.”
“So has Abigail Banning handpicked you to fill his shoes?” she asks.
She assumes his long silence means he’s simply lost patience for their back-and-forth, but when he speaks again, his voice sounds reedy, weak, as if, for the first time, she’s managed to knock the wind out of him, and not the other way around. “You are better than this,” he growls.
“Better than what? You?”
“Better than these . . . base insults. I am not . . .” His attempt to clear his throat actually forces him to cough. “I am not a serial killer,” he finally whispers.
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Tell me who you really are.”
“I’m a scientist and a soldier, and perhaps a bit of a crusader. A revolutionary, even. And, yes, you are my test subject, and, yes, I have very high hopes for you.”
He’s off balance and his tongue’s gone loose. Was it comparing him to a serial killer that did it? Or just the Bannings? He seems to have no real compunction about murder, and Abigail Banning is about as far from being a Harvard graduate as you can get. Maybe the real Dylan Whoever is a classist asshole above all else, and she’s just discovered his sore point.
“So you’re a scientist who just happens to have an army of drones or spy satellites or hackers at his disposal, or are you working with someone who does? Are they scientists, too?”
“They’re one of the wealthiest corporations on the planet. When they put their eyes on you, they cannot be outrun. So don’t even try.”
“And why does this powerful company have its eye on me, Dylan?”
“Would you like to know my final diagnosis of your situation, Charley?”
“I’d like to know what you’ve signed me up for. Again. Without my knowledge.”
“You were waiting. That’s what you were doing in that house, with a gun in every room. You were waiting for someone to come after you. That house wasn’t a fortress. It was a trap. For them. For whoever came first. That’s what was truly plaguing you out there in the desert. Not terror. Not dread. Not nightmares of your past. But your desire for revenge.”
Maybe, she thinks. Maybe she went down to that arroyo every evening not just to fine-tune her defensive skills but to practice for an eventual, gratifying kill. People spend their whole lives, their whole professional careers, trying to put a thumbtack through the precise moment fear turns into aggression. No way in hell can she let Dylan distract her with such a vain pursuit now.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude.”
He laughs.
“Why did you call me, Dylan?”
“Because it’s time for you to get to work. Enough with the hometown reunion. I didn’t give you those pills to watch you dawdle in Altamira, trying to make an army out of your uncle Marty’s former drunks. And . . .” She hears papers shuffling, the creak of a desk chair. He’s either been handed something or is reading something. “Really?” he says. “Luke Prescott? The asshole from high school? I thought you hated him. He’s grown up to be quite a looker; I’ll say that much.”
Why does this get to her worse than all the other things he’s said? This suggestion that his surveillance of her, of them, is being updated and expanded even as they speak. Are they all being watched 24-7 now? Kayla, Marty, Luke, and maybe his brother, too, if they continue their road trip south. What good will come of having Bailey look into Dylan when the guy seems to be five steps ahead of them and armed with the same tools as the NSA? That could only get Bailey and Luke in more trouble than they already are.
Focus, she tells herself. Focus and remember who you’re dealing with—a liar and a murderer.
“What do you mean,” she finally says, “get to work? What is work?”
“The world is full of bad men, Charlotte. Go find some. Show them what you can do.”
“Show you what I can do,” she says. “You and whoever you’re working for.”
“With. Working with. Try not to kill anyone. Although if you do, don’t worry. We’ll clean it up. Just make sure they’re worth killing.”
“I’ve only got three pills left.” She says these words without thinking, and he laughs gently. Laughs, she figures, because he thinks he hears a craving for more Zypraxon in her voice. Really she’s just trying to throw up a last-minute hurdle, grasping for any complication she could find. Or maybe not. Maybe it is a craving.
Or maybe Dylan’s in my head and I need him to get the fuck out right now.
“I’ll fix that soon enough,” he says. “And I’ll be in touch when we need you to come in.”
“Come in where?”
“You’ll see.”