“Neurobiologist? biopsychologist?” I repeated. “You say that like I know what it means.”
He smiled without feeling at his recycled words. “Let’s just hope you never find out.”
So Pete had been trying to help me. From the very beginning. I thought of all he had done for me, and just like that, the love feeling was back on— only times the power of ten.
“Think back, Kate,” Pete interrupted my thoughts. “Did your mother have a scar on the back of her neck?”
I sifted back to the exact day I laid eyes on it, the visceral memory still fresh as a newly dug grave. I was still just a spindly girl with dirty knees, Andrew a wobbly toddler. We were out in the pasture on a hot summer day, the kind that melts technology left on dashboards. I remembered watching my mother lift her dark hair to allow for a breeze. She had hidden beneath that velvet curtain, a jagged, ugly scar running the length of her neck that was so incompatible with her smooth skin it made me want to cry.
“Mama!” I’d screamed, running over almost hysterical at once. “There’s something real bad on the back of your neck!” I’d had an immediate visceral feeling about it that squeezed my throat and made me sick to my stomach . . . the same immediate feeling I’d gotten about The Academy.
Mama turned around to look at me, in that funny way she did when I got sudden, strong feelings about things. “This old thing? It’s just a childhood battle scar, Katie-Kat, same as the one on your left knee when you fell off that swing in kindergarten.”
She’d lied to me that day, but I let it go because Daddy was nearby, and I knew instinctively this wasn’t a discussion to have with him around. So I waited until that night when she was tucking me into bed. She said sometimes an ugly truth is best covered up with a pretty lie . . . I would just have to trust her on that.
I looked up at Pete in awe. So many pieces of the jigsaw puzzle of my life he’d been carrying around in his pocket, only to hand over to me tonight. I thought of the brother who shared my genetic mutation, and the one who didn’t. Now that I knew more of what the final picture of my life looked like, I wasn’t sure I wanted to fully complete it.
“Holy shit…ake mushrooms!” I cried.
“You took the words right outta my mouth,” he said, like I’d finally given him the reaction he was looking for.
“So-so she escaped, cut out her microchip,” I crunched on those words like they were icy pebbles, “married my father, and moved all the way out here just so she wouldn’t have to be in your academy anymore! Is it that evil? What do they do to you?”
He leveled me with another look and recycled his words: “Whatever they want.”
“Why don’tja just quit?”
Pete took in another breath, cradling the side of his head in his hand. “You can’t . . . so I’ve been trying to get kicked out for years.”
“How’s that workin’ out?”
“Not so good,” he said. “My parents keep saving my sorry ass.” He grunted, shifting into a more comfortable position; it looked like he was having a hard time even sitting up now. “I think botching this mission— which I must say I’ve done an admiral job of—would’ve finally done the trick.” He mangled a smile.
I was still in data processing mode when Pete slumped, finally rousing me from my self-absorption. Looking closely at him now, I saw that he looked truly terrible. His head had stopped bleeding, but clumps of blood matted his hair, his face was ashen, and shadows that had nothing to do with the darkness hollowed his eyes. He looked like he was in dire need of that shot he’d given me a few weeks ago. So preoccupied with the onslaught of mind-bending information, I’d totally overlooked the fact that Pete was in the midst of his own crisis.
“Pete! God! Sorry! I forgot you’re still hurt and . . . messed up,” I said for lack of a better word. But it was more than a little apt, and I felt terrible f or adding to his pain. I just realized all he was giving up: his parents, security, the whole of his life as he knew it. I’d seen the fear on his face when he appeared on my doorstep. I thought of all the stress he was under now because of the risk he took to warn me and was beyond grateful for his help. And it was beyond time for me to start helping him back. A strong, compulsive urge to hug him overcame me, so I did.
“We can talk about this later. Right now, let’s get you inside and fixed up.” Stiff-jointed, I struggled to my feet first, then helped Pete do the same.
“Told you,” he said, swaying a bit. “We can’t talk in there.”
“Yeah, but it’s a much better place to perform surgery than the cold, hard ground . . . with a dirty knife.”
“That’s what the alcohol was for.”
“Well I hate to tell you,” I said, “but I just drank the last bit of sanitizer.” Pete leaned pretty heavily on me now, a sacked quarterback. “Come on.” I urged him on, and he objected, but in a pro forma way that led me to believe he was very nearly on the verge of collapse.
Together we trudged back to the house, the glowing lights from our tatty trailer a welcoming beacon from the cold darkness and grim news.
39
HACKJOB
“We can do the deed in the bathroom and then you can sleep in my bed,” I declared, helping him up the porch. My thoughts—and my body—immediately warmed at this idea. “Daddy’s always the last one up in the morning, so I can sneak you out early.” I craned my neck around. “Where’s the Hummer?”
“I came on a motorcycle; it’s parked in the shed,” Pete answered, then hesitated in the doorway. “Listen, Kate . . . there may be more bugs in the house than I know of. We’ll have to be extremely careful in case they’re listening in.”
After I nodded my understanding, we stumbled our way into my bedroom, where Pete immediately face-planted across my wagon-wheel bed. Relieved of my load, I stepped back and took a moment to soak him in. He was in pretty bad shape, like one button-snap away from coming undone. My own nerves were jangling wildly about. Gah! I hit him pretty good and hoped he didn’t have a concussion. Maybe he just had too much to drink? I tried to convince myself.
I leaned over his inert form. “Wait here while I get some supplies,” I said unnecessarily, because he wasn’t likely going anywhere anytime soon. He half groaned an acknowledgement.
I pushed back everything I’d learned tonight to the back of my brain so I could concentrate. I was good in an emergency—steady. The kind of person you’d want in your foxhole . . . or so I’d always prided myself on. He deserved me at my best after all he’d done for me. I’d only repaid him with anger, violence, and a hard time. I wouldn’t let him down now. In his hour of need. He was obviously falling apart on me. It wasn’t like him to be so unprepared and unsure of himself. I thought of him pouring alcohol, from a flask he was guzzling from, over a paring knife, confiscated from my kitchen. For me to cut his—I mentally cringed—microchip out. Sloppy and haphazard: two words I’d never associated with Pete Davenport.
I scurried to the medicine cabinet and wrenched it open. Doh! We were running low on bandages and didn’t have near the size we needed. Growling, I grabbed alcohol and the last web of gauze before adding tweezers, surgical tape, and clean washcloths from the linen closet to my stockpile. I set them all out on the bathroom counter, then stood, tapping my fingers. Oh yeah. Digging back into the medicine cabinet, I came away with a sticky tube of antibiotic cream and my bottle of “happy pills,” just in case. Then I hustled to the kitchen and rummaged around some more for our handy-dandy role of duct tape and a Sharpie before heading off to Daddy’s bathroom to nab a razorblade from under his sink. While slipping it out of the cartridge, I noticed, on a side note, that his scotch stash was almost depleted.