Dylan(74)

Is this cult dangerous? Doesn’t look like it.

Checking a bit more wouldn’t hurt, I decide, so I search by keywords, trying to find any connection to terrorist attacks, mass suicides—anything bad.

Nada. No results. Then again, it seems to be a relatively new cult. Couple of years old, tops, if the creation date of the website is anything to go by.

Well, then. Looks like the web search is a bust. What to do now?

There is one person I know who might have information on this church. One friend who has ears everywhere, in underground movements and organizations, or so Zane claims.

Rafe.

Is it worth bothering him about this? I hesitate, the cell in my hand. Rafe is a good friend, but I haven’t seen him around in a while. Zane, who’s his best buddy, seems worried about him.

And this is all the more reason to call Rafe, see how he is. I scroll down my contacts and call him before I let myself think about it too much.

The phone rings and rings, and then his familiar deep voice answers. “Yeah?”

“Rafe, it’s me. Tessa.”

“Tessa. Is everything okay?”

I frown at the question. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to check on you.”

“Right. Okay.” He sounds out of breath, and I wonder what he’s doing. “Look, I can’t talk now.”

“Rafe, wait.” I check the time on my computer screen. “Are you going to the gym later on?” He trains the Brotherhood as well as the Damage Boyz from the tattoo shop on Tuesdays and Fridays. I’ve watched see them train a couple of times, and the gym isn’t far from the office.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” He sounds wary. “You sure everything’s okay?”

“I could ask you the same.”

He lets out a soft snort that’s almost like laughter. “All right. You gonna come to the gym just to ask if I’m okay again?”

“No, I…” I frown at the website of Sky Gate. “I want to ask you for some information.”

“Is it important?”

“It could be.”

“Okay.” He sounds resigned, and it makes me feel bad. “Really hafta go now. See you later.”

And he hangs up before I change my mind and leave him in peace to do whatever it is he’s doing.

Just as well. I work on my tasks, arranging meetings with the sponsors and sneaking peeks into the archaeological expedition’s folders. One day I’ll be there, with the mosquitoes buzzing around me, up to my armpits in muck, unearthing the past. I think of what Mom said, that I should do what I like. I need to talk to the college administration, see how I could switch my classes.

Not now, though. Taking a year off still seems like a good idea. Need to sort lots of things out—and Dylan. I need time to figure out what’s going on between us, because…

Because something is going on, and it’s impossible to ignore it anymore. Dylan has opened up to me. He’s told me things I’ve been longing to hear, has held me as I wanted him to.

I said I’d fight for Dylan if I had even a glimmer of hope. Well, now hope is a bright sun filling my thoughts. Time to do something about it.

***

Getting ready to leave work, I’m closing windows on my computer screen and striking items off my To Do list, making sure I’ve done all that was urgent as tomorrow is Saturday, and the office will be closed. Mr. Walker’s rules. Saves on costs.

I’m taking work with me to do at home, and I guess everyone here does the same. This isn’t so much about the salary as about a passion, and it’s such a different mentality from my dad’s. It’s fantastic.

As I’m preparing to turn off the computer, it occurs to me to type Dylan’s symptoms into the search engine. I bite my lower lip as I try to remember things he’s told me. Joint aches. Fatigue. Maybe fever, too, judging from the way he gets dizzy and shivers.

Worry gnaws at me as I hit enter and wait for the results to appear. The search engine spits out the results, and I scan the links suggesting what’s ailing Dylan.

Rheumatoid arthritis. Medication reaction or side effect. Lyme disease. Acute sinusitis.

Lyme disease. That rings a bell.

I sit back in my chair. Isn’t that what Teo had? Caused by tick bites. From their garden. Could Dylan have gotten it too? He’s so strong physically he wouldn’t suffer as much, at least not at first—and knowing him, he’d probably attribute the symptoms to stress.

Of course, I saw no rash on his skin. Another check of the symptoms, though, tells me that there’s a pretty significant percentage of cases where patients do not display characteristic rashes.

Right.

And what—now you’re a secret agent and a doctor? Get a grip, Tessa.