Nemesis (Project Nemesis #1)(7)

A splash behind me. Pebbles rocket past, as if kicked.

He's close, and closing.

I claw up a muddy bank, then dash blindly into the forest, smashing through spiderwebs and sodden shrubs. Seconds later the ground disappears and I fly forward, tumbling down a scree-covered slope toward a raging creek. My hand shoots out and snags a tree root, arresting my fall so that I'm hanging over the drop. Looking down, I see the grinding teeth of rapids gone berserk.

I hear leaves thrashing. Look up. The black-suited man is watching me from the edge of the bluff, thick raindrops running down his cheeks. He's still wearing his sunglasses despite the near total darkness. Then, slowly, deliberately, he climbs down, stopping just a few feet above where I cling to the cliff side.

A terrified whimper escapes my lips. I'm trapped. How could this be happening again?



       
         
       
        

The man stares at me. Rainwater seeps from his soaked business suit. His face is as blank as Death himself.

"I'm sorry."

A shiny black boot smashes down on my fingers. I gasp in pain as my left hand loses its grip. I swing wildly, on the verge of plummeting to the white water below.

"Please!" I beg. "Don't!"

The foot stomps on my right hand.

Snapping bones. A rush of air. Then I'm underwater, tumbling and spinning. Liquid fills my nose. My mouth. My ears. Something slams into my side, and ropes of agony shoot down my left arm. That hand refuses to respond. I kick back to the surface, organs throbbing in distress.

Breathe.

I struggle against the current as I'm swept downstream. My lungs burn. My vision blurs. I see fiery lines and twinkling stars. A chaotic, tinny pounding fills my ears. I can't hear my own shrieks.

I feel it before I see it. Vibrations down to my bones. Then a rumbling, grinding noise, like a dragon's growl. I fight to stay afloat as the current accelerates.

Thirty yards downstream, the water is disappearing.

I don't have time to scream. I slip over the falls, dropping twenty feet to a rocky pool below. Something dark and huge appears in front of me. My heart flutters as I streak directly toward it.

Pain explodes at my temple.

I see and feel nothing more.

• • •

I'm lying on my back.

It's dark.

I'm in a clearing in the woods. The same one as before, I'm sure of it.

I lift my left arm. Examine it closely.

No scrapes, cuts, or broken bones. My clothes are dry and undamaged.

I run all the way home, stopping for nothing.

Flashing lights surround my trailer. I shout for Mom. Adults come running.

My mother crushes me in a hug, then thrusts me out to arm's length, running her hands over my body, making sure I'm okay. It's the same night. I see Spirit lying in the mud, and for some reason this is what makes me cry.

The questions begin. I tell the truth. To Mom. Officer Somebody. Sheriff Watson, having arrived late and out of uniform in his off-duty Ford pickup.

When I'm done, glances are exchanged. The atmosphere isn't the same as last time. Sheriff Watson makes a call on his cell phone, then goes to sit in his truck. Twenty minutes later a short man in a tweed jacket arrives. 

He smiles at me. Introduces himself as Dr. Lowell. Says he'd like to talk to me about my experience. Would that be okay?

I shrug, wrapped in my mother's protective embrace, as I wipe dirt from Spirit's mane and fuzzy coat. I look to Mom. She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving the stranger.

Okay, sure.

Dr. Lowell asks my mother if he and I can speak privately. Mom tenses, but then rises and smooths her skirt. Once alone, he pulls the rocker over and sits across from me. Smiles. Asks me to tell him everything, starting with what happened tonight.

I do. Cautiously at first, but soon the words pour out like a confession. Dr. Lowell smiles and nods, never interrupting. I like talking to him. He listens better than anyone. Before I know it, I'm telling him about the last time, too.

When I finish, he thanks me for being so brave. He's totally calm, which strikes me as weird, given my horrible stories. Dr. Lowell has lots of answers, but they seem almost rehearsed. I can tell he's watching me intently.

Suddenly, I like him a lot less than before.

Dr. Lowell explains what really happened to me, and why.

The things I experienced aren't real. I have something called a dissociative disorder, which makes me believe scary things happened when they really didn't.

When he's finished talking, I nod, not knowing what else to do. Mom clearly wants me to speak with this person, so I have to play along. Then Dr. Lowell reaches into his pocket and pulls out an unmarked bottle.

He shakes a single blue pill into his palm. Holds it up so I can see.

This is medicine, he explains. Made for people like me. If I swallow one pill every day, the chemicals inside will help keep bad thoughts away. Will I take it?

I stare at the pill for a long moment. Even at ten, I understand what it means. Know now what the adults had been whispering. No one believes me. They think I'm a freak.

Dr. Lowell leans forward. Softly repeats his request.

Will I take the medicine?

Yes, I will.

But I'll never share what happens to me.

Not ever again.





6



I sat in Dr. Lowell's drab waiting room, thumbing through an old Us Weekly.

Tack had gone home. He'd promised to come by my trailer after the Announcement, whatever the verdict might be. I'd watched him hurry away down the sidewalk, scanning cross streets, still jittery about what we'd done to Ethan's Jeep.

I could scarcely believe it.

Slouching in one of Lowell's uncomfortable lobby chairs-sixty minutes after the fireball, my initial rage having long since burned off-I was growing more and more stunned by my actions. What had I been thinking? Blow up his freaking car? That's juvenile-prison-level madness.

What would my mother say? What would Tack's father do?

I shivered, and not from the arctic-level temperature Lowell maintained in the building. Destroying Ethan's Wrangler was the most reckless thing I'd ever done. I truly, deeply, seriously hoped Tack and I hadn't been seen. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

We TORCHED his JEEP. In the high school parking lot!

Was I as crazy as everyone thought?

A door opened, and Dr. Lowell stuck his head out. He didn't have a secretary or assistant of any kind. I guess he didn't have enough clients to justify the expense.



       
         
       
        

"Ah! Min. Right on time."

Smiling, he eased the door open and swept a hand inside. Beneath a thatch of red hair were flinty green eyes and a smooth, pale face dotted with freckles. Lowell wore his typically inoffensive, shrink-on-the-job garb-corduroy pants and a light blue sweater.

"Please come in. Would you like a soda? Water?"

"I'm fine." Same offer, same response. Every time.

Lowell nodded amicably. "Okay, then. Please sit wherever you like."

I took the same spot as always, a leather fainting couch beneath the windows overlooking the lake. As far from him as I could manage in the snug, wood-paneled office.

On script, Lowell spun a recliner to face me and sank into its depths. A notebook sat on a table to his right, untouched. He never wrote anything during our sessions, though a few times, returning soon afterward for a forgotten jacket or misplaced backpack, I'd caught him scribbling away like mad in its pages.

Lowell had seemed almost embarrassed on those occasions-quickly locating my belongings, asking if I needed anything else, then ushering me out with a hearty grin-as if I'd caught him doing something naughty. Who knows? Maybe I had.

I slumped down, eyes traveling the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, displaying various scientific tomes, objects full of psychological importance, and pictures of Lowell on his travels. He didn't seem to have a family-no shots of a loving wife or kids, not even a slobbering Doberman. Landscape art filled in the blanks, bland and forgettable, probably rated "not likely to incite violence" by the Idaho State Board of Psychiatry.

A bulky, antique-looking wooden cabinet sat in the corner-banded with bronze, lacquered to a shine, and never opened during my visits. A MacBook Air was the only thing on his desktop.

"So," Lowell began, hands folded, one foot resting on the opposite knee as he fixed me with his patented "I'm your friend" look. At first he'd tried to get me to call him Gerald, but I'd flatly refused. "How has your week been since our last visit?"

Visit. Always a visit, and never a session. My shrink didn't want me to feel forced to be there, even though I was.

I shrugged. "Fine. Principal Myers said you wanted to meet today instead of Wednesday."

"Sunday was your birthday," he supplied, his relaxed bearing not shifting an inch. Dr. Lowell had a gift for stillness, to the point it was unnerving. "We always meet the day after your birthdays, just in case you feel a need to talk. To share." 

"I'm good." Glancing out the window. "Nothing to report."

Gunshots echoed in my head. I felt the sting of white-hot slugs tearing into me.

I drew my knees up to my chest. Could feel Lowell's eyes. Observing. Assessing. Taking my measure.

A glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes to go.

He didn't miss my reluctance. "Min," he said softly, his voice heavy with compassion, "I hope I don't need to remind you that you can trust me. Anything we say in this room will never be shared outside of it. I'm here to help. If something is bothering you, talking about it in a safe environment will almost certainly make you feel better. I promise."