She spun back toward the door to Michael’s room and hobbled forward. Her knees buckled in fear when she saw the door shade was illuminated.
Why is Michael’s light on? Why the hell ...
For a brief second the light created a silhouette against the window shade. The brief image was as clear to her as those presidential cutouts kids did in school during President’s Week.
It had been the silhouette of a man.
Her leg felt anchored to the ground, but she dragged it along like an inanimate object. When she reached the door, she grabbed the knob and pushed without hesitation. She limped in, her eyes searching.
No one.
Her mind began to whirl aimlessly. There was no one in the room except, of course, for Michael. He lay sleeping. Or was he? Yes, his eyes were closed, but there was something very strange, something so obvious and yet so subtly horrifying that she felt her chest tighten. She could not breathe. If Michael was just sleeping, then how come his face was upside down? How come his head was lolling at a strange angle. And most important, how come he was lying half off the bed?
From behind her came a voice. “Good night, Sara.”
She turned, but Sara never got a chance to see the man’s face.
17
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
“DAD?”
Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.
“Yes, Cassandra?”
She licked her lips nervously. “Where are you going?”
“On a business trip. I’ll be home tonight.”
“Where?”
He put down his briefcase. “Why are you so interested?”
“Just tell me where.”
“Washington.”
Cassandra closed her eyes. “You’re going to meet with them again, aren’t you?”
“Meet with whom again?” he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear. “What are you talking about?”
“With Reverend Sanders, for one.”
Silence. Then: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she replied. “I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in your closet.”
His eyes widened. “You what?”
She moved closer to him. “It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there’s more bloodshed.”
“Cassandra, you don’t know what—”
She stepped in front of him. “Don’t let him blackmail you any longer.”
His face grew tight. “Stay out of this. I know what I’m doing.”
“How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to die before you put a stop to this?”
“Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense.”
“Dad . . .”
“Move!” He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to the floor.
“Cassandra!” He sprinted toward her. “Honey, I’m so sorry,” he began. “I didn’t mean to hurt—”
She sat up, her eyes burning. “Get away from me.”
He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish. “I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I’m doing. When I come home tonight we’ll talk about it, okay? Just trust me. I love you.”
He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was still unsure about what she should do. This was, after all, her father—not some evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.
What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of? Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he had to say first before jumping to any conclusions . . .
No.
She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tell someone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be able to look at it objectively.
It was time to tell Sara.
SO hot . . .
Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was no easy task. His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights. Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.
He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars. Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a baseball game. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, but he found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no question about it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael’s cloudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like that—only more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.
What the hell is going on?
He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. But how often did he dream of sounds with no vision? No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard wood floor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body felt sore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, he surmised, was entirely possible.
He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. His hands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinning back his shoulder blades painfully.
After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a sitting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting with a heavy accent, “Supergirl! Supergirl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of your life!” With a struggle Michael’s eyes fluttered and then opened. It took him another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Small room. Barren. Dirty. The walls were covered with chipped paint. A lightbulb dangled from exposed wires on the ceiling. There was a foldout chair and ratty mattress that made the room smell of mildew, sweat, and urine. There were also bloodstains on it. Michael’s right ankle was shackled to a pipe running through the room. His mouth had been taped shut with what tasted like masking tape. His eyes continued to scan the room until they stopped at something on the ceiling.
What the . . . ?
He looked again. Jammed in a hole by the door were sticks of what looked like dynamite. Michael swallowed.
Where the fuck am I?
He tried to reconstruct his last conscious hours. He had been at the clinic. Harvey had given him an injection of SR1. Reece and Sara had visited him. He recalled dozing a bit while they were still in the room and finally falling asleep. And then . . . nothing.
The heat in the room was well past tropical, the air thick and still. His body was coated with sweat. He tried to wipe his cheek on his shoulder, but his wet shirt just added more perspiration to the area. He glanced about the room again. His eyes stopped when he saw a piece of paper on the floor:Hello, Michael.