The Faithful Page 7

  “She died during childbirth.”

  “That still happens?”

  I shrugged. “Apparently.”

  “So your dad raised you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay.” He was writing as he spoke. “So you grew up in Chicago?”

  Chicago?

  “Rowan? You grew up in Chicago?”

  “Sorry, yes. That sounds right.”

  He looked up from the notepad, eyebrows raised.

  “I . . . yes, I grew up in Chicago.”

  “And where did you go to school?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Rowan?”

  “There were horses . . .”

  “What? In Chicago?”

  “Sorry, what did you say?” I blinked, bringing Dan’s face back into focus.

  “You went to a school with horses? In Chicago?”

  “No, of course not. That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Rowan. Can you remember where you went to school?”

  After a moment, I shook my head. “No.”

  His hand was shaking as he put down the pen. “Maybe we should work backward instead. Do you remember moving to New Mexico? Meeting me?”

  “You tried to bring me to a Star Trek convention that weekend.”

  “And you missed out; it was epic. Do you have any blanks about working at Westford? What did you do there?”

  “I was working on Haystack under Kenneth Barnes. That all seems pretty clear.”

  “Good. So before that?”

  “I got my master’s at MIT. I interned at Lincoln Labs in the ISR program.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come on, you know what that is.”

  “Do you?”

  I sighed. “ISR stands for the Intelligence, Surveillance, and Reconnaissance Systems and Technology Mission. I worked on airborne targeting and moving-target-detection radar. Do you want me to go on?”

  “Don’t get snarky, Red. I’m trying to help.”

  “Sorry, I know. I’m just . . .”

  “Freaked out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Before you got your master’s and worked at ISR?”

  “I was at MIT doing an undergraduate. I did a double major in aeronautic engineering and astronomy.”

  “Anything about that time in your life seem fuzzy?”

  I shook my head. “No, it all seems pretty clear.”

  “All right, we’re getting somewhere. So before you started at MIT you would have graduated high school. Where was that?”

  There were horses.

  “I . . . I need more ice cream.”

  “Can you remember high school? Prom? Graduation? Anything?”

  “That’s all a blank,” I admitted, and swallowed past the cold lump in my throat. “Dan, what the hell is happening to me?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Within hours of Sumner’s deposit at the UPS drop box in the Cheyenne Regional Airport, Ora was sitting in Phoenix’s downtown Houston apartment with the envelope in hand. It had taken all her willpower not to open it, but she knew Phoenix would want to see it first, and she didn’t want to deal with one of his rages.

  In bed with Ora one time, Lexy had joked that Phoenix had small-dick syndrome. They had giggled like naughty schoolgirls afraid of getting caught by a cruel headmaster. Of course, not many headmasters could set you on fire without so much as striking a match. Phoenix could.

  Phoenix was taking his damn time on the phone in the study, and she was getting jittery. The leather couch creaked against her bare thighs as she shifted. She knew better than to touch anything; Phoenix was totally OCD about his pad. He went mental if something was out of place.

  The penthouse suite was on the thirty-first floor of one of those ultramodern glass high-rises in downtown Houston. The inside was all glass and white; the walls were a stark snowy white, the floors were white Italian tile, and the furniture was white leather. The kitchen was white granite upon white cabinets with shiny white appliances. Ora doubted Phoenix ever cooked in there; the kitchen was just for show.

  There wasn’t a speck of dust or an ounce of color anywhere. Lexy, who had an unruly mop of dark curls, once admitted she was terrified of shedding hair in the apartment. Ora knew what she meant. She had carefully removed her boots and left them on the white rug by the door, hoping they wouldn’t leave dirt on the pristine shag.

  Phoenix emerged from the study wearing white silk pajamas and a robe, like some kind of KKK version of Hugh Hefner. Ora stifled an eye-roll and tried her best to look respectful. Respect was key when dealing with a human version of a blowtorch, even if she still remembered the spazzy kid who had picked his nose while hiding behind his dad’s robes.

  He was movie-star hot, but in an albino kind of way. His white-blond hair was cut in what Ora thought of as Euro-douche style: short everywhere with a fauxhawk gelled up at the front. His body was roped with thick muscles, his jaw was strong, and his features were chiseled. He had a dimple in one cheek, and his eyes were the pale ice-blue of a glacier.

  Dumb chicks swooned over him, missing the coldness in his eyes and the way he calculated every move to suit his own needs.

  “There go three more shipments, on their way to The Ranch.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. He smelled like man-sweat and Axe body spray—the one that was supposed to turn women into slobbering fools.

  “What is it this time?”

  “Metal fencing. Our agents are loading it onto rental trucks as we speak. Lexy’s been on the phone with New York cashing out IPOs all day. She’s been ordered to liquidate everything that’s left. And I’ve got a purchase list as long as my arm.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “The usual. Arms and ammo, clothes, generators, tools. Livestock, too. They’re converting all their money into supplies. You know what that means.”

  “Cash isn’t going to be useful much longer.”

  “You got it. So did you have any success?”

  She nodded at the envelope on the glass table in front of her.

  “Sumner was trying to send that to the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children.” It had the anticipated effect; Phoenix’s fair eyebrows sprang up with surprise.

  “No shit.” Phoenix slid a nail under the flap and opened the envelope. He pulled out a one-page typed letter and read it slowly.

  “Well? What does it say?”

  He handed it over with a satisfied smile. There was a small metal key taped to the top of the letter.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  Re: Missing Child Case # 1249058, James Alexander Keightley, D.O.B. September 19, 1971, who went missing from Van Nuys, California on Dec 5, 1977.

  You will find urgent information about this case, as well as hundreds of other missing child cases throughout the US, in PO Box 978, 600 Q Street NW, Washington, DC 20001.

  “Well,” Ora said after a moment. “I guess you were right.”

  Phoenix nodded. “If he survives The Ranch, he could make a powerful ally.”

  This time she couldn’t help the eye-roll. He sounded just like that emperor in Star Wars. “Yes, the force is strong with this one. What do you want me to do with the letter?”

  “Keep it. But give me the key. I’ll check out this mailbox if I have the chance.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth? About all the missing kids?”

  Now it was Phoenix’s turn to roll his eyes. “You are so fucking naive, Ora. Where do you think all the kids have been coming from? Don’t you think your precious papa is capable of this?”

  “I’m not an idiot. I know my dad is a first-class dick. If he had his way—”

  “You’d be fucking me instead of Lexy, making I Fidele some psycho babies for their Generation Zero.”

 
; Ora’s cheeks warmed. “Right. But you don’t want that any more than I do?” She bit down on her lip. She had meant for it to be a firm statement, not a question. The last thing she wanted was to leave the topic open for discussion. Again.

  Phoenix moved in on her. The heat was radiating off him in waves, and Ora froze in panic. If he got angry, the fires would start.

  “The babies, no. The rest . . .” One searing-hot finger burned a trail from her collarbone to the V of her cleavage. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Encouraged by her silence, he drew a circle around her nipple. When it poked up its traitorous head, he grinned and gave her breast a hard squeeze. His hand was as hot as an iron. She half expected the fabric of her top to blacken and start smoking.

  “Phoenix.” She inched away from him. “You know if I were ever going to be with a man, it would be you. But I don’t want to hurt Lexy.”

  Mentioning his sister was the only card she could play under the circumstances. There was a long, hot silence.

  “You mean it?”

  “Of course I do,” she croaked. One thing she couldn’t do was lie to him. She could misdirect, perhaps. But never lie.

  “Prove it. Kiss me.”

  “Phoenix . . .”

  “Ora.”

  Beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip and brow. She leaned forward.

  The kiss was surprisingly deep and passionate. Consuming. Eventually she pulled back. The air was cooling, and she let out a shaky breath.

  “If I ever decide to play for the other team, you are the only man I can imagine being with.” It was the truth. It was insane, but it was the truth.

  If you grew up on The Ranch, you just couldn’t do normal. You were too broken. Which was just what the Fathers wanted, anyway. Phoenix was right; he and Ora were no better than a couple of prized thoroughbreds. They were expected to breed, to contribute to Generation Zero by combining the strengths of their DNA into a new person.

  After all, they had been bred themselves. They were the Chosen. The elite of I Fidele. The product of a horny Priest and a female Disciple.

  Any seventeen-year-old Disciple was at risk. If she caught the eye of one of the Priests, her departure from The Ranch might be delayed so she could become his Amante. A fancy Italian way of saying she became his baby-mama.

  The Priest would have to make a formal petition to the Founding Fathers for permission, citing the potential abilities of the baby they would create, and how that would benefit I Fidele.

  In Ora’s opinion, it was pure bullshit. The way she saw it, a Priest got a hard-on for a girl and used the legalese of I Fidele to take her to bed for however long it took for her to get knocked up.

  Her obligation during this time was complete servitude to her Priest, and Ora could only imagine what went on behind those closed doors.

  The only bit of good news was there was a time limit of one year. If she didn’t get pregnant by her eighteenth birthday, she was released from her obligations as an Amante and sent to the Cocoon in preparation for Outside.

  If she did have a baby, she was allowed to care for it for the first year of its life. But around the child’s first birthday, the baby was taken away from its mother and indoctrinated into I Fidele.

  Ora had witnessed several of these indoctrinations, and found them excruciating and fascinating all at the same time. She’d seen grief-stricken mothers screaming for the children ripped from their arms. She’d seen them fight and beg and sob.

  It always made Ora wonder about her own mom. Had she fought? Had she howled like she was being gutted? Most of them did, and Ora hoped her mother had loved her that much, too.

  Once the baby was removed, the mother was dragged to the Cocoon for mind-washing, and if that was successful she was trained for her mission Outside. But on several occasions, the mind-washing hadn’t worked. Those women had simply vanished, never to be spoken of again.

  Ora was haunted by questions about her mom. Had she survived the mind-wash? Would Ora ever meet her? And if they met, would she recognize her daughter?

  “Ora, did you hear me?”

  She blinked, and Phoenix’s pale face swam back into focus. “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said you better get going.”

  “Right. I mean . . . where am I going?”

  “Did that kiss scramble your brains? Back to Wyoming. Someone should be waiting there. You know, in case Sumner survives The Ranch.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I think I’m heading back to Washington,” Josh said, taking a sip of his tepid coffee. “I have a contact at the Department of Education who owes me a favor.”

  They were sitting on a bench overlooking the wide expanse of sandy beach a couple of blocks from where Mr. Barbetti sat, drunk and miserable, in his empty yellow house. The day was overcast, threatening rain. The fall wind that cut through Josh’s light parka was cold and damp.

  “Sounds good.” Carl nodded. “I spoke to the principal at Jack’s school, and he says the last PSST was done in May, when he was in the third grade.”

  “And Jack participated in the testing?”

  “As far as he knows. The testing is funded by the Department of Education, but orchestrated by the National Center for Education Statistics. They send their own people out to run it, so the school administration doesn’t have much involvement.”

  “Really? That seems odd. Does NCES send its own people out to administer other standardized tests as well?”

  “I was wondering the same thing. It seems like a big expense.” Carl paused to take a sip of his coffee and wait for a woman walking two poodles to pass them. She was wearing tight yoga pants that left little to the imagination, and both men took a moment to admire the view before returning to the business at hand.

  “The other standardized test is the NAEP, or National Assessment of Educational Progress.” Carl pulled a notepad out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. Josh could see Carl’s untidy scrawl covering every inch of the page.

  “That one is done in fourth, eighth, and twelfth grades, and covers a broad range of topics from math to science, reading, writing, the whole shebang. That test is administered by school staff.”

  “Huh.”

  “Also, the NAEP is focused on averages; the information goes toward the National Report Card. So individual children remain anonymous.

  “The other thing the principal said? Apparently the PSST is hands-on in its testing. NAEP only starts their testing in fourth grade, so the kids are old enough to sit for a test. They can read, write, et cetera.”

  “Right, that makes sense.”

  “But the PSST starts in kindergarten. These kids can’t read yet; they’re just starting to learn their ABCs. So the test is verbal. The testers get one-on-one time with all the kids from kindergarten through third grade. It’s only from fourth grade on that the test is written.”

  “Holy crap. What are they testing them for?”

  “I asked that. The principal spouted off some stuff about fine motor skills, social development, language skills, yada, yada. He acted surprised when I asked, like he’d never really thought about it. And you know what? I don’t think he knows what they’re testing, at least not the specifics. Seriously, Josh, how can that be going on in classrooms around the nation and no one ever questions it?”

  Josh shrugged. “This test has been around since 1965. It’s become a permanent structure. It’s the way things are done because they’ve always been done that way.”

  “I guess so. Who’s going to question a test administered by the National Center for Education Statistics, and funded by the US Department of Education? How much more official can it get? To tell you the truth, I’m having trouble believing our government is involved in some kind of child-kidnapping scheme. It seems ridiculous.”

  “I hear you. We’re a part of that institution;
we took oaths to protect it. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t bad apples in the basket. We’ve both been around long enough to know that.”

  “That’s true,” Carl said, nodding.

  “For what it’s worth, I doubt this thing is government-wide.”

  “Maybe not, but it would have to go pretty far up the chain of command, and be pretty widespread, too.”

  Josh sighed. “Yeah. Maybe that’s why it never occurred to me before.”

  The two agents sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in their private thoughts. Finally, Carl asked, “Have you seen Mr. Barbetti today?”

  “I have. He’s not looking so good.”

  “He’s drinking a lot.”

  “He’s given up hope of us ever finding his son. Nothing left to do but drink himself to death.”

  Just like Sherry Jervis, now seventeen years in her grave. Yet her decision to give up had spurred him to do just the opposite. Her suicide pushed Josh’s interest in finding Ryanne into an obsession that had eaten almost two decades of his life, and snowballed to include hundreds of missing children.

  “And you?” Carl turned to Josh, eyebrows raised.

  “I think I’ve got hope for the first time in over a decade.”

  Carl stood and stretched. “What time’s your flight?”

  “Not until three.”

  “Want a ride? I’m heading back to the Portland office now, anyway.”

  “I’ve got the rental to return, but thanks.”

  He had spent the last few days in Seaside and Astoria going over the crime scene, questioning Jack’s teachers, friends, and acquaintances, and following up on any other potential leads. The only person who had been difficult to track down was the principal of Seaside Heights Elementary. They had finally located him on his way back from a symposium in Seattle.

  After three days on the West Coast, there was no longer a doubt in Josh’s mind that Jack Barbetti was missing child number 779. There was nothing more to be done in Oregon. He doubted Jack Barbetti was even in Oregon any longer.

  For the first time in a long while, Josh felt the nervous anticipation of having an actual lead to follow. And he was heading back to his own neighborhood. It was time to pay his friend at the Department of Education a friendly visit.