Blood and Bone(35)

"What if you can't free us both?" My lips move without thought or understanding, because it's a dream.

"Then I'll sacrifice myself so you can get away."

I shake my head, but he grins and I can see the vampire tooth through  the haze. I love his grin. It's so lopsided and odd. It's a lie, though.  It's boyish and sweet, but he's a monster.

He's my monster.

He runs his hand over my cheek. "I am so glad I found you in the dark."

I nod, not caring that a tear is slipping down my cheek. I turn, as if  purposely looking for something. There are padlocks everywhere on the  bridge. They are locked to the railings and iron fencing along the  bridge. There are so many I can't guess: one million locks?

The image fades away instantly.

I blink and realize real tears have run down my cheeks. Pulling out the  French passport and slipping it into my pocket, I hurry to the front  counter, grabbing a pastry and a coffee. My body is malnourished, but  there is something else driving me on. I'm terrified it's love.

Getting a cab is simple. Getting a plane ticket at the airport would be  even simpler, but deciding what to do with the bag of passports and cash  is not as easy. I don't know what to do with them, but I would guess  it's a poor idea to bring them on a plane.

Seeing the sign for a solution, I hurry to the car rental place across  the way and decide to do the stupidest thing I can. The navigational map  says it's a seven-hour drive. I know I can drive seven hours.

When I decide to turn my brain off and pretend the whole world isn't  falling apart, the trip is pleasant. It's refreshing and new to be in  Europe, even if, technically, it's not new to my body. My eyes are  dazzled by the old buildings, the Alps, and many other sights, while my  mind works out the story. Nothing I create with the mess of details they  have given me makes anything resembling a plausible story.

When I arrive on the outskirts of Paris, the navigational system  commands me in Italian to take an exit. I follow it through the streets  as they get busier and more crowded. I park the car when the nice  Italian male voice tells me I am three hundred meters to my destination.  Climbing from the car I stretch and wince as blood starts to circulate  through my body more efficiently. I follow the image of the map as I  recall it until I recognize the Pont de l'Archevêché. The padlock  bridge. I have been here before.

I don't know when I was here, and I am certain I won't ever know the  truth of it, but the image of thousands of padlocks lining the bridge  stuns me to a still silence. Overwhelming awe and an instant respect for  love, even the lost and not yet found, fills me. There is nothing I  have ever seen that will ever compare to this. The locks are a symbol of  hope in a world where I swear there is none. This bridge is a symbol of  all the love out there, proving there is so much more than I would have  guessed.

I stroll to the exact spot in my odd memory and sit, staring at the  Seine and the people walking on the street across from me. Seeing them  makes me wonder if they're normal people or if they have a past of  secrets, deceptions, and betrayals like me.

There is no way Derek is coming, but I have to surmise he's the one I am  expecting. But his injuries were serious. He will be in a hospital for  many weeks, if he made it at all. I don't know why but the thought of a  world without him burns inside me. I should wish him dead. I should wish  them all dead. But I find when my eyes are closed I wish they were here  with me. I wish I weren't alone and afraid and living a web of lies.         

     



 

"You came."

I turn, seeing the pale face of a very sick Derek. He is hunched and  weak, evoking pity from me instantly. I jump up, forgetting the bag and  the lies and the bullshit. "Are you okay?" I am grateful he's alive. I  can't deny it, and I won't bother pretending.

He shakes his head. "Did you find everything I left you?"

"You're alive, Derek. How is that even possible?"

"I left it all there for you, hoping it would give you some closure."  His voice shakes, and I can tell he's not better-not at all. He shuffles  his feet on the old cement and sits down next to me, overlooking the  Seine. "Did it make sense?"

I shake my head. "You left me a bag and a box that made everything more confusing."

He turns, stunned. "You didn't read the pages?"

"There were hundreds of pages. I skimmed and saw shit like JFK and  narcissism and shit I didn't understand, and I panicked. I burned it all  in the safety-deposit box, smoked out that room in the bank brutally,  and ran."

"Why didn't you use the burn box?"

I sigh. "Why does everyone think I know anything that's going on?"

"Because you do. It's just stuck in the layers, and I'm trying to help  you get it out." The water, the passersby, and the charming little  bridge make it all surreal.

"I don't trust you, and I don't trust anything I feel or see. These people could all be part of it somehow."

He scoffs, wincing a little. "Well, I'm not that good."

"You're Doctor Dash. You can do anything."

He shakes his head. "You should have read the pages, Sam." His eyes are  gray. I should have noticed it before. The green, the joy, is gone.  Maybe from us both. "I'm not Dash. He's dead. I killed him." He sighs.  "I killed him for you. It's the only way out."

"What?"

"I killed Ben-Dr. Dash. We were brothers. No one knew. He was the  brilliant doctor, and I was the-other brother." He swallows hard.  Something dawns on me, or just repairs itself in my mind.

"You were one of the patients?"

He nods. "I was." He licks his lips. "You and I were both subjects at  Area Seven." He looks down at the concrete, and I can tell he's in  terrible pain. There's a glow of sweat across his brow. "You were a  marine with a case of ADD, but you managed it so well. Taking yoga and  doing exercises to focus your brain. You had agreed to be part of the  program because it was explained to you that we would be used as  operatives and in the same situations as SEALs. You wanted that, badly.  You were fit and feisty and organized. Your brain was sharp." The  corners of his beautiful lips turn up. "The perfect candidate."

"What were you?" There is a storm brewing inside me, but I need to focus on something other than myself.

"I was a doctor, just a regular doctor in the field. I followed my  brother into medicine, but I didn't think I had the patience for  behavioral work or neurosciences. I had OCD, severe sometimes. I would  fixate, almost like an autistic, but I could be talked down. Only my  brother ever knew about it." His voice trails off, making it feel as  though we are watching his story and not hearing it. I can see  everything he says, and his tone is so calming. "They used us, highly  efficient people with coping mechanisms already in place, to create a  program. Area Seven was a start of something profound." Bitterness fills  his face. "Then it all started. Isolation, hypnotism, exercises for  inducing paranoia, detachment, and disassociation. The science behind it  was genius, but the application was cruel."

My entire body shivers as if it recalls all of those things, but I don't.

"I killed Ben and took his place." He looks at me with passion. "I just  wanted to get you out. I didn't know any other way. I didn't know how to  save you, so I pretended to be Ben and took you to Seattle and  explained that we were doing a training exercise to try to fix your  inability to detach fully. Instead, I was leading you back, doing  everything in reverse. I have been taking you through the exercises, one  by one. Creating a new persona was the hardest. You were truly a blank  slate. I programmed you to react to certain words so that pieces of  memory would find their way back to you slowly. If it went too fast it  could shut down your mind altogether. It had to be slow and steady,  piece by piece. Otherwise, you could end up stuck in this world."

I lift a hand. "My father never molested those girls?"         

     



 

He shakes his head. "You're an orphan. Your parents came to America from  England when you were seven. They were a loving couple, adored you.  They died in a fiery crash in California, and you grew up in an  orphanage. It wasn't magical or anything to be excited about, but you  were never harmed or tortured or made to be anything but a regular  girl."

A sob escapes my lips as my hands cover my eyes. Relief and sorrow fill  me. "How could you?" I rock, shaking and gripping myself. "How could you  make me think that?"

"I didn't. It was there already, in your mind and waiting for the moment they needed you. Then they could activate you."

I sob harder, clutching to my face. "I wasn't in an accident?"

"No."

"Angie?"

"A doctor to ensure you were adapting to the life you were told about.  Adapting to become the sleeper cell in whatever city they needed you to  be in."