Nathan Ingram woke up in slow stages. He tried to pretend he was still asleep. Kept his eyes shut, kept his breathing even, listened. Tried to get a sense of the room. The way Alicia had tried to teach him, one of the times they'd snuck away from the city down to the farm.
They'd bought it as their escape, in case things went very wrong. They'd get away and they'd meet there. They'd wait for each other. But when he'd finally escaped and made it there, Alicia had already gone. He didn't know where or why. But she had been there, and she was gone. He'd waited, for a long time.
When he'd finally decided to go look for her, Root had found him instead.
He'd never been very good at faking sleep, and the head full of sedatives and painkillers didn't help. But they thought he'd been drugged unconscious, so maybe they weren't watching too closely.
He started with personal physical inventory. Despite the drugs, he felt better. He was only a little thirsty, for the first time in a very long time. Not dying of thirst. That was huge. He wasn't hungry. He wasn't chained to a wall. He could still feel the collar around his neck, and it took great effort not to reach up and check that it was really gone. He concentrated until he was sure he felt bandages and not the collar. His legs were numb. He remembered muttering, the nurse and the doctor. Pressure at his feet, digging and poking, but no pain.
He remembered they'd used the ultrasound to locate the glass in his feet. He didn't want to think about why they had that machine here. What happened in the room every other day of the week. Or how long their underground operation could be funded with the ten grand the woman was handing over for his care.
He remembered wanting to fall asleep, and he had.
But now – now it was quiet. The pump on the IV hissed softly. The overhead lights hummed. Some kind of air handler, distant. And … there. Breathing that was not his own. Slow, soft, steady.
But only one person. Only one.
And what difference does that make, Nathan? What the hell are you going to do with that information? He considered bitterly. He was still drugged. Weak. He couldn't walk. He had no weapons, and he damn sure didn't have the training to take on the man. The woman – she wasn't trained. She was a civilian, like him. But something told him she could mix it up pretty good if she had to.
He was in better shape than he had been. But he was still pretty much fucked.
It was funny. He's spent the day before – and as long as he could remember – trying to figure out how to die. Now he was trying to figure out how to stay alive. Because they'd given him water and a shower and a bad haircut, suddenly he wanted to live. Which was dangerous, of course. He'd been safer when he'd had no hope at all.
He opened his eyes enough to peer under his lids. The room was dim; they'd turned the lights down so he could sleep. He was covered with a clean blanket. In the corner, the woman was sitting in a straight-backed chair. She had her feet up on another one, her knees pulled up, her arms wrapped around them and her head down. She had her eyes closed, but he didn't think she was sleeping. She had something in her hand, slender and white, maybe a pen or a thermometer.
He couldn't see the man without moving his head. He didn't do that yet.
The man – Ingram knew his type. He was muscle, a hired gun, but he was also more. He was smart. He was sure of his power, sure enough that he didn't feel the need to demonstrate it. Controlled. And he was deeply dedicated to his mission. Whatever that mission was.
He was one of Alicia's old kind.
The woman – he didn't have the woman figured out. He only remembered her vaguely, her name but not her face. The Red Shirt, the short one, she'd said. No one but Chrissy Buchannan and Ms. Watts knew about the glasses. And Harold, of course. So Nathan could believe that part. But since then? He remembered that she'd vanished after the first summer. That he'd looked for her and never found her. That he'd been pissed off about it. He had no idea what had happened to her in the years in between.
She was grown up now, of course. Pretty. The kind he might have gotten in trouble with, back in the day. Or tried to, anyhow.
The man with the gun cared for her. But he didn't take orders from her. They were partners, of a sort. But not a strike team. Something else.
He couldn't get it straight in his head.
Her phone buzzed and the woman jerked her head up. Ingram closed his eyes again.
In the quiet of the room, he could hear her keyboard click. "Hey, Random," she said very quietly.
The voice from the other end of the call was as loud as hers in the quiet room. "Christine, please, tell me I'm not too late."
The man sounded frantic. Desperate. Talking too loud and too fast.
The man sounded like Harold.
A lot like Harold.
Despite his efforts, Nathan found that he was holding his breath, trying to listen.
"What are you talking about?" the woman asked softly.
"Please. I am begging you, please, please come home. I don't know what's happened, I know you must be very afraid but please come home. Please talk to me about this. Please."
"What?"
"I know where you are. I know … why you needed so much cash. Christine, please, I know you must be frightened, you must be terrified, but please …"
"Harold!" she snapped, soft but very firm. "Stop. I am not here to have an abortion. And that you think I would without talking to you about it …" She took a very deep breath and went silent.
Nathan took another peek.
She was holding the phone at arm's length, glaring at it. Her hand was shaking.
And the voice, the impossible voice, the voice that could not be anyone but Harold, but Harold was dead, but that was Harold, it was Harold, kept talking on the other end of the call, kept saying "Christine" and "please" over and over, desperate and frightened and pleading.
He opened his eyes fully. She wouldn't notice.
The woman – Chrissy, Christine now – took another deep breath and put the phone back to her ear. "Harold. Stop it. Just stop. We're here getting medical attention for one of Root's … victims. The fact that you know where I am, and how much cash I've withdrawn says that you're all over my personal accounts. Again. And that is one of many many things we need to talk about when I see you. But right now … just find us a safe house, a very safe house, and send the address to John."
"Christine …"
She clicked the phone off.
Nathan took a deep breath. "That was Harold," he said.
The woman sat up and looked at him. She was very pale. "Yeah."
The phone vibrated in her hand, and she clicked it off.
"He's alive."
"Toldja so." She put her feet down and stood up, tossed whatever she had in her hand in a red sharps bin, and came to his side. Nathan could see the change in her in those three steps. She was furious at Harold. But she consciously stuffed her rage down and made herself be calm for him.
Sweet Harold, considerate Harold – Nathan would have doubted that. But maddening Harold, rage-provoking Harold, Harold that made this woman so obviously want to hurl her phone against the wall - oh, that was someone he knew. Someone he could believe in.
No one in the whole world was as infuriating as Harold.
The phone buzzed a third time. Christine turned it over, slipped the back off, and took the battery out.
Harold was alive, and she knows him so well.
Ingram couldn't catch his breath. Couldn't see, suddenly, through the film of tears in his eyes. Harold was alive. Harold was …
He moved his hand, and she took it gently. Her touch was soft and warm. Ingram couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that sensation. Alicia, it would have been Alicia, in New York, before the ferry …
Harold was alive.
Harold was … he shook his head. Through the buzz, he suddenly remembered her. Sharp clarity replaced his fuzzy recollection. The awkward and very small girl in bent glasses and bad shoes, wearing the clothes he'd provided to all the interns. A silent girl with an endless cycle of library books in her bag. Unsocial. Shy. Unwilling to make eye contact. But so, so confident at a keyboard. Self-taught, for the most part; unconventional in her logic and programming. But insightful about the way things fit together, or should fit together. Poor, uncared for, unkempt. Hungry, too often. Brilliant. And not aware yet that her intellect could put the whole world at her feet.
Oh, he thought, Chrissy. Now I remember.
She had reminded him of Harold. The child he'd imagined Harold had been. He'd tried to help her. And then she'd disappeared.
Harold was alive.
It caught up with him, then, the rush of emotion, of hope. It swept through his muddled mind like a tidal wave, through his battered body, and he was suddenly overwhelmed, gagging. Drowning.
Christine moved with practiced speed. She grabbed a little pink basin with one hand, pulled his shoulder with the other until he was on his side, caught every drop of the vomit as it left his mouth. It was embarrassing. It was necessary.
She was completely unperturbed.
When he was done she took the basin away, helped him sit up enough to rinse his mouth, brought a washcloth to wipe his face.
"Sorry," Ingram said.
"Kind of a lot all at once," she answered easily.
He lay back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. There was a picture stuck there, a photo of flowers and butterflies. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before.
Christine's hand slipped back into his, and he held onto it like a lifeline. "You're taking me. To Harold."
"That's the plan."
"You haven't told him."
"He wouldn't believe us, either."
He glanced at her without turning his head. "You wanted to be sure I wasn't dead before you got me there."
"That, too."
He almost grinned. "I think I'm done trying to die. At least until I see how this plays out."
"That's good to hear."
Harold's alive.
It threatened to overwhelm him again. He closed his eyes. She didn't take her hand away.
Maybe five minutes passed, or maybe an hour, and then there were footsteps and the man came back. Ingram opened his eyes and looked at him. He'd said he worked for Harold. If Harold was alive, that might be true.
If Harold was alive, how the hell did the woman figure in?
The man took one look at Christine and barked, "What?"
She shook her head.
"Harold called," Ingram told him. He was pleased at how normal his voice sounded.
"You talked to him?"
"No. But I heard him. It was … Harold. He's alive."
The man nodded. "Is there a problem?" he asked Christine.
"Not with the safe house. He'll send you an address." She shrugged. "Boys are dumb," she added with resignation.
"Oh." From his reaction, Nathan knew he'd heard that before – and specifically in reference to Harold. "Even the really smart ones."
"Yeah." She looked to Nathan. "You about ready to go?"
Go. They were going to move him again. They were going to take him to Harold. Because Harold was alive. And in a few hours, in a day, however long it would take … Or else it was all a lie, an illusion, and they were going to take him somewhere and put him in front of a keyboard and threaten his life unless he did something he wouldn't do even if he could … "As ready as I'll ever be."
"I'll get our stuff together."
John had rented – actually rented, because he couldn't risk being stopped with an un-dead billionaire in the back of a stolen vehicle – a delivery van, with no seats or windows in the back. He'd outfitted it with a new twin mattress, covered with new sheets. It wasn't perfect, but it would be comfortable enough. The nurse remained impassive while she helped them transfer the patient. They had asked for ten thousand dollars to care for the man; Christine had given them fifty thousand. Their silence was assured.
He folded the wheelchair and tucked it in beside the mattress. They'd need it when they got to New York. They also had a large assortment of medical supplies for the trip.
Christine volunteered to drive, and he let her. She was too agitated to sleep anyhow. He didn't know what Harold had said to her, but he could see her anger simmering. She wasn't going to share with him, at least not yet. She needed to think it through.
He needed to sleep, anyhow.
Ingram had decided to live, apparently. He was still lightly sedated; he was asleep before they got to the highway.
John sat up for a while, watching for tails. There were none. "You want to talk about it, kitten?"
Christine shook her head. "Just Harold being Harold."
"Uh-huh." He reclined the passenger seat and closed his eyes. "We should stop at four, change his dressings."
"Okay."
He slept.
Ingram woke when the van stopped. He looked over his shoulder as Christine turned the engine off. "Rest stop," she said.
She was still calm and kind and reassuring. Of course, Root had been the same, at first.
The man – John, Ingram reminded himself, his name was John – pulled his seat upright and climbed out. He came around and opened the back doors of the van. Ingram blinked at the light. Early evening, by the look of it. It was moderately cold. It felt good. They'd backed in; at the end of the van was a sidewalk, with neatly trimmed grass beyond and then some ordinary small brick buildings.
There were other cars around, some people sitting at a picnic table up by the building, a man walking his poodle by the fence, all of them wearing jackets. They were at the end of the parking lot and no one noticed them especially, but they hadn't taken any great trouble to isolate him, either.
Ingram couldn't shake the fear that these two were keeping him prisoner rather than helping him. He wasn't certain; he couldn't relax. The rest stop: did they know he'd escaped from the government at a rest stop? Was it some kind of twisted reminder?
But for the moment there wasn't anything he could do about it anyhow.
The woman spoke with John briefly. Then she went off to the little brick building.
John climbed into the van, helped Nathan sit up, and offered him a plastic urinal jug.
He needed it. The man climbed out and gave him a little privacy.
When he was done, John took the jug, and gave him a wet-wipe.
"So this is the glamorous part of the job, huh?" Ingram asked.
The man smiled wryly. "I've done worse." He set the jug at the end of the van, gave him a bottle of water. "How's your pain?"
"Not bad." Nathan looked down at his feet. They were covered with loose bandages and rested on what he thought of as a puppy pad, though he knew must have a real medical name. Yellow ooze leaked through the white wrappings and on the pad. They looked disgusting. But they felt a little better. He wiggled his toes experimentally. They weren't fully mobile, but they had been too swollen to move at all before. "Progress," he announced.
"Good." John perched in the open back of the van. He looked relaxed, casual, but Ingram had been with enough operatives to see how he never stopped scanning the area. Muscle, bodyguard, something more. He would be hard to get past, in or out. Nathan was either completely safe or still totally screwed, depending on how the situation played out.
Christine came back from the building. Evidently there was a snack shop there, or vending machines, because she had a popsicle in her hand. She gave it to Ingram. "I guessed grape," she said.
"You didn't bring me one?" John complained mildly.
"Figured you'd walk up yourself."
"In a while."
Ingram unwrapped the popsicle. It was ridiculous, how much that piece of flavored ice on a stick reassured him. Just because she'd brought him a treat didn't mean she wouldn't still torture and kill him. It didn't mean anything, really. But he took a bite, and the flavor was almost overwhelming. It was delicious.
"Good?"
"Yes. Thank you."
She nodded toward his feet. "We need to change your dressings. How's your pain?"
They both asked that like experienced medical professionals. "It's okay."
"Let me know." She got out a red hazardous waste bag, new wraps, gloves, scissors. She seemed to know what she was doing.
Ingram supported himself on his hands and watched her. "You're a doctor?"
"No."
"A nurse?"
She shook her head. "Still a code monkey. But I've had a little practice."
Ingram looked to John. The man watched, unconcerned, while she peeled off the bandages and gently washed the draining wounds with clear water. She'd thrown up when she first saw them, but she was fine now.
"It's the torture she can't handle," John said quietly.
"Oh." He watched her for another moment. It occurred to him, belatedly, that the man was letting her do the dressing change so that he could keep his hands free. He was still scanning the area with casual diligence. There was something else. Christine trusted him completely. She didn't bother to look over her shoulder while John was there.
They'd trimmed his toenails very nicely while he was unconscious.
He finished his popsicle. He was starting to feel cold, but the fresh air felt good. "Why didn't you ever come back?" he asked suddenly.
Christine glanced up at him.
"To IFT. We looked for you the next summer. We couldn't find you. St. Mary's said you moved away."
"Oh." Her attention focused on his feet again. "My life went kinda pear-shaped that year."
"Your life was already pear-shaped," he answered gently.
"It got worse." She put a clean towel under his feet, changed her gloves, and applied more antibiotic ointment.
John's phone chirped. He brought it out and put it on speaker. "Harold."
"I'm sending you the address for the safe house," Harold said tightly. "It should meet all of your requirements. We've been there before."
Nathan took a deep breath. It was so definitely, impossibly, Harold. He wondered what would happen if he spoke up right now. But though the phone was right there, he couldn't do it.
John glanced at his phone and a bare grin crosses his lips. "Excellent choice. We'll be there in a couple hours."
"I'll meet you there." There was a pause. "Is Christine with you?"
Christine was still bent over his foot; she shook her head without looking up.
"She'd got her hands full at the moment," John answered easily.
"Tell her … I'm very sorry."
"You can tell her when you see her."
Harold sighed. "Flowers and chocolate and jewelry?"
Christine glanced sidelong at him.
"Poetry, I think," John answered. "Sonnets."
Harold groaned audibly. "I'll see you soon."
John clicked the call off.
Ingram looked at the woman. She wrapped his feet loosely, gently. She was very focused. Intent. She was beautiful. Ingram frowned himself, wondered how he'd missed that before. He'd been trying to die, of course. Trying to keep them at arm's length, to keep from trusting them. He still should. But it was getting harder by the minute.
Olivia had always been most beautiful when she was most troubled. Something about her pain always let her true beauty shine through. And this woman was the same. Pretty enough when she was happy. Breathtaking when she was hurting.
And hearing Harold's voice hurt her.
She must care for him very deeply. He could not hurt her so badly otherwise.
"You get apology sonnets?" he teased gently. "The most I ever got were two limericks and a sarcastic haiku."
She smiled wryly at him as she pulled her gloves off. Some of the pain melted away, and with it some of the beauty.
She might still be trying to use him to get to the Machine.
But Harold was alive, and they were taking him to Harold and …
… and if Harold was alive …
"Will," he said, and his throat was suddenly too tight to breathe.
"Ingram," John said sharply.
His fists balled around the sheet beneath him. He couldn't inhale. He thought he might vomit again, but he couldn't breathe, couldn't remember how. His heart beat faster, and faster still. He could hear it in his head like ocean waved breaking over his head, too fast, dragging him under.
He heard a strangling noise and knew it was coming from his own throat but he couldn't … Will …
The edges of his vision went dark again. The pounding heart, the closed throat …
Christine climbed up next to him, took his face between her hands, and forced him to look at her. "Mr. Ingram," she said clearly. "Nathan. Breathe."
He could barely see her. Couldn't breathe. Because if Harold was alive … Will might be … Will might be …
The tiny piece in the paper, just gossip, the reason he had left Green Bank in the first place … it might be true.
The woman made a little "O" with her mouth and blew gently on his face.
Involuntarily, surprised, Ingram inhaled. His throat seemed to open and the air filled his lungs.
"Now out," she urged gently.
He exhaled. The next inhalation took effort, but he managed it on his own. Then habit took over again. The darkness began to recede, and the pounding waves of pulse to quiet.
He brought his hands up and grabbed her wrists. "Will," he managed to say.
She didn't blink, didn't look away. Her face was inches from his, her blue eyes looking directly into his and they were so bright, so clear that he could not possibly doubt her, not this close and he wanted so badly for her to tell him again, now, like this when it would have to be true …
"Will," he demanded.
"Will's alive," she answered simply.
His head swam. He felt her hands tighten on his cheeks, supporting his head. He squeezed her wrists, hard, but she didn't pull away. And her eyes, her blue eyes that seemed to look right through him, they never wavered.
Will's alive.
He couldn't bear it. The darkness in his vision began to grow again. He couldn't look away from those eyes, but he looking into them was like falling. He felt cold and then hot and his throat burned and the grape was coming back up and he was he was he was …
Christine blew on his face again.
Nathan blinked and managed to turn his head. He pulled her hands down, away from his face, but he held on. The man was in the van, too, then, on the other side of him, and Ingram tried to let go of her wrists, tried to explain that he wasn't hurting her on purpose, that he couldn't help it. That the man didn't need to restrain him, but he was falling and if he let go he might die … but John seemed to know that, too: His hand was on Ingram's shoulder, warm and solid and strong, holding him up. Nathan managed to bring his gaze up, to meet the man's eyes, and they were blue, too, but different blue, kind and concerned but not looking right through him the way hers did, understanding, giving him space.
"Sorry," he managed to say. He dropped his eyes, released his grip on Christine's wrists, but she didn't pull away. She caught his hands gently. "I don't … I don't know what the hell's wrong with me."
"Steak," John pronounced simply.
"Huh?" Nathan took a couple deep breaths.
"In the time you were in that room, starving, you thought about a big juicy steak, didn't you? About how it would smell, about the sizzle, about how good it would taste?"
The man's voice was deep, but not threatening. Warm. Knowledgeable. Ingram could feel the calm begin to seep into his body again. His heart slowed down in stages. "Yeah."
"Now that you're free, we could find a restaurant, buy you that steak. But you know what would happen? Even if you could eat it, you'd just toss it right back up."
Nathan nodded. He looked at his hands. The girl's hands. She had bright red marks around her wrists. But she didn't pull away.
"That doesn't mean you'll never eat that steak," John continued calmly. "It just means you need to work back up to it. Popsicles for now, and then applesauce, and then rice, maybe noodles in a day or two. You will get to that steak, I promise. And you will enjoy it, every bit as much as you imagined. But you're not ready for it yet."
He could feel the world come back into focus. The last of the panic drained away. He managed to look up at him. "What's that got to do with my son?"
John gave him a tight smile. "You've had no one to talk to but Root. No one that you cared about. She told you they were all dead. No connections, no hope." He nodded. "Now Christine and I, you're not connected to us, especially. We're protein shakes and popsicles. But Harold, and especially Will? They're steak. It'll take you a little while to get ready for them."
Ingram thought about it for a long time. The red marks on her wrists were going to turn into bruises. She didn't care. She was still, patient. Relaxed. Popsicles, yes. They were easy. Calm. Both of them. As much as he wanted to fight it, he felt safe with them.
He looked up again. "You've been here. Where I am."
The man nodded solemnly. "Once or twice."
"Who are you?"
John gave him another crooked smile. "Right now, I'm just a man who didn't get my popsicle yet." He moved his hand and eased Ingram back down on the mattress. Then he looked across to Christine. "Finish up," he said.
She slipped her hands loose and moved down by his feet again. She put a clean puppy pad under them, packed up the rest of the gear. Then she moved back up, rummaged a bit, and held a pill out to him. "You should take this."
The pill would make him sleepy, he knew. He should refuse it, stay awake, listen for more clues about these people, watch for a chance to get away if necessary.
But his feet had begun to ache in a way that he knew would just get worse. He wasn't going to be able to run on them anyhow. And these people – John and Christine, these people who had saved him, who said they were taking him to his oldest friend, who told him his son was alive – he couldn't not trust them anymore.
The worst-case scenario, he realized, was that they were lying and planned to torture him further and that realization would utterly destroy him and so what? He'd been nearly dead when they found him anyhow.
He leaned up on his elbow and took the pill.