Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(16)

He shook his head with a wince. "Never got that far. My dad intercepted the tools in the mail and tossed them. Tanned my hide, too." He plastered on a smile. "I'm pretty skilled at smashing things with a hammer, though. We could bust these suckers open. Make it look like a robbery?"

Tempting, but I had another thought. I swiveled, located a porcelain dish on the shelf behind Lowell's chair. Found a small brass key ring inside. "How about we use these?"

Tack gave me a slow clap. "Oh, well done!"

"Lowell's always fiddling with that dish. Had to be keys or candy."

"Still, this quack is making it easy." Tack frowned, as if he didn't trust anything that came without a fight. "Not exactly Homeland Security, is he?"




       
         
       
        
"Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." I knelt before the right-hand drawers and started trying keys. There were three on the ring-two similar, the last of vastly different make.

"Why not?" Tack asked abruptly.

"Huh?" The first key didn't fit, and the second failed to turn.

"Why can't I look at its mouth?" Tack was squinting down at me. "Do people hide things in the jaws of free horses? Like a Trojan horse? Because I don't get it. Before hearing that phrase, I can't think of a single reason why I'd have checked my sweet new horse's mouth, but now I definitely would. Like, first thing."

I paused. "It's about the teeth. They might be bad. I think."

He stared back blankly.

I rolled my eyes, slotting the last key. "The point is that the horse you're getting is free, so it doesn't matter if its teeth are bad because you didn't pay anything. So you should just take your bonus horse and be happy. Don't be a jerk and look for flaws."

Tack nodded sharply. "These keys are like bad horse teeth. We shouldn't look at them."

"No, that's not at all what-"

I broke off. The lock had turned, and the top drawer slid open.

Tack pressed close behind me as I rifled its contents. Pens. Post-its. A stapler. A ruler. With a huff, I closed the drawer and tugged the larger one underneath. It opened smoothly, apparently connected to the same locking system. It was nearly empty, just a few hanging folders pushed to one side. I began thumbing through them as Tack moved to the opposite end of the desk. Those drawers were locked as well, so I tossed him the ring. The second key worked, and he began rooting inside.

"Anything?" he asked, not looking up.

I shook my head. "Nothing of interest."

The folders had printed tabs, and were the definition of boring. Journal articles. Tax returns. Restaurant takeout menus. I was about to move on when the last file caught my eye.

"Wait."

Two letters were scrawled on its tab: P.N.

I removed the folder. Thin and light, it held no more than a dozen pages. I scanned the top sheet inside. My blood ran cold.

I was holding a detailed list of expenses. Pencils. Paper. Toner. Data storage. Innocuous professional items, their tally running half the page. The form appeared to have been compiled by Dr. Lowell and submitted to something called "DoD-DARPA. Advance Research Group P.N." Someone named "LTG William P. Garfield" had signed the bottom and stamped APPROVED in bold black letters. 

Bland as bland could be. Two days ago, I wouldn't have given this unexceptional bit of paperwork a second glance. Had no interest in how Dr. Lowell underwrote his highlighter costs.

But my eyes were riveted to the top of the form.

The expenses had been submitted under a specific heading.

Project: NEMESIS. Status: CLASSIFIED-TOP SECRET.

The folder almost slipped from my fingers.

"Min?" Tack had paused his search on the other side of the desk. "You okay?"

I didn't answer. Setting aside the first sheet, I examined the next. Identical, except dated a month later. I pawed through the stack. Eight expense forms altogether, one for each month of the current year. Their contents barely varied. All were labeled Project Nemesis and approved by the same William Garfield. All were rated top secret.

Tack reached over and took one from the folder, his eyes rounding in surprise. "Why are these marked classified? And what's Project Nemesis?"

I ran a hand across my slick forehead. "I don't know."

"You know something." He was studying me, and it wasn't a question.

I looked at Tack. Could tell he wasn't going to let the matter drop. "The name," I said carefully, placing the documents on the desktop. "Project Nemesis. I've seen it before."

Tack nodded. "From Dr. Lowell?"

I shook my head. "On some paperwork I saw years ago, at school. The day we got those shots because of the chemical leak."

"Oh." Tack relaxed. "So Lowell's still charging the military expenses for a decade-old cleanup? Slick. I wouldn't have given him that much credit."

"No. That's not-" I paused, gathering my thoughts. Deciding how much I'd reveal. "I heard that name again this morning, in the hall outside Principal Myers's office. He mentioned Project Nemesis to someone on the phone."

Tack bumped a fist against his chin, considering. "That's weird. After all these years, the pesticide spill is still a thing? And why call an inoculation program Project Nemesis? That seems a bit, I don't know . . . dark."

I wasn't going to reply, but then something he'd said jumped out at me. "Why'd you say Lowell is dealing with the military?"

He tapped the top of the form. "DARPA. That stands for 'Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency.' It's responsible for developing new technology for the Department of Defense. Conspiracy nuts are always going on about it. That's who this Garfield guy must work for. 'LTG' means 'Lieutenant General,' FYI, so he's no slouch. That's three stars. Seems weird for an environmental disaster, but that must be why the project is classified. Everything they do is."

I barely heard his last words. My mind was racing.

A general. The Department of Defense.

Project Nemesis was a secret government program.

Principal Myers had been involved in Nemesis for years, as far back as the shots when we were six. Had Dr. Lowell been with the project that long as well?

Glancing down at the folder, I finally noticed the last two pages inside it. They'd been stapled directly to the back of the file.



       
         
       
        

"What are those?" Tack asked.

"Consent forms, it looks like. They don't have the same header as the expenses, but-"

I gasped. A hand flew to my mouth.

"Min? What's the matter?" Tack waited a beat, then snatched the folder and read silently. He shot me a startled glance. "Your mother? She signed this, Min! Right here, at the bottom. It's dated ten years ago!"

As if I hadn't seen.

Ten years. A decade. I was six.

"What's it for?" Tack flipped the page up. The back was blank-as documents went, this one was short and boring. He started reading the form stapled behind mine, but I held out a hand.

When he hesitated, I snapped my fingers impatiently. Tack flinched, then handed me the file. Heart hammering, I examined the document my mother had signed, line by line.

The language was largely boilerplate. I was listed as the patient. Dr. Lowell as my treating physician. My mother was agreeing to "various procedures, as discussed during the inperson consultation." The middle three sections were blacked out. Legal mumbo-jumbo made up the last paragraph, but nothing that seemed particularly sinister. If a stranger found this on the street, it wouldn't provoke the slightest interest.

But to me, it was a series of land mines.

What "consultation" had my mother had with Dr. Lowell when I was six? What "procedures" had they discussed? Why was this form stapled into a Project Nemesis folder?

Then the date beside my mother's signature registered.

September 18, 2007. The day after my sixth birthday.

The day of the inoculations. The day I was taken somewhere by Dr. Harris, and can't remember what happened next.

Mom knew.

She'd consented, that afternoon, to some sort of relationship with Dr. Lowell. It must've happened after she stormed out to confront Myers and left me alone.

But what had she agreed to about me?

Therapy? Medication? I didn't know. Then I experienced another electric shock.

Lowell didn't start treating me when I was six.

We met on my tenth birthday, the night of my second murder. Yet I was holding proof that Mom and Lowell had decided something four years before I was ever introduced to him.

And they never told me. Neither one. Not ever.

The room spun. I sat heavily in Lowell's chair, unable to breathe. 

"Min?" Tack's hand found my shoulder. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Lowell. Myers. The Department of Defense.

What had Mom given these people permission to do?

My vision blurred. Suddenly, I was back in our trailer, lying on my floor, blood gushing from a burning hole in my chest. The black-suited man stood over me. For a terrifying moment, he wore Dr. Lowell's face. Then Principal Myers's. Then my mother's.

It was all I could do not to scream.





13



Nemesis.

I considered the word.

The inescapable agent of someone's downfall.