Mapmaker (21 page)

I followed behind the doctor past more doors and rooms that all looked exactly alike. We turned left, right, and then right again. I counted my footsteps for a reference of where we had come in from, starting at the elevator. I hated to not know where I was, but it was obvious this place was designed like a maze. Designed to disorient, and it was working.

I tried not to think of Cleo and Gretchen. They
were
professionals at this sort of thing, I kept telling myself, whatever this sort of thing even was. I’d seen how they’d behaved; they clearly knew how to get in and out of dangerous places undetected. They must have fled in the smoke and confusion, as I had. If they’d been hurt, they would have screamed, cried for help. I’d been the only one screaming. No, they’d slipped away and were probably getting their hands on a new plane. Cleo was the kind of person who always had a backup plan. That’s what I told myself to stay strong, anyway.

We reached an elevator, and she swiped a card. The steel
door opened. It was two feet by two feet. I stood between the doctor and the guard. The elevator didn’t feel as though it moved at all, even though we were in there for over a minute.

The doors on all sides slid upward, and I found myself standing in a round room. I blinked for a moment, not trusting my eyes. It was an opulent dining hall. Oak tables set with fresh flowers, a candle at each centerpiece. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling casting a pretty, soft glow. The “windows” looked out to a meadow and lane.

“You might want to sit over there.”

Dr. Preston pointed to a table in the corner where a man sat alone eating a sandwich. My legs nearly gave out from under me.

My father is here. My father …

He was a little thinner, his hair a little greyer. But that slender face, those gentle eyes behind the wire-rim frames were the same.

He’s alive. My father is alive
.

He wore jeans and a T-shirt, the kind of thing he’d wear on a Saturday afternoon back in Amherst, relaxing around the shed. It was summer there. What was it here? This was the place that time forgot. Seasons didn’t matter. Nothing did—not even death, apparently.

I wanted to run to him, to call his name. I stood, unable to move.

I looked around for the doctor, but she was gone. Only then did my feet move toward the table. He was facing a window, so he didn’t see me. I looked at his breakfast, scrambled eggs and wheat toast, coffee and juice. All so normal. Even Tabasco sauce, which he loved.

“Dad,” I breathed.

He didn’t turn. Had he heard me? I reached out to touch his shoulder. My hand was visibly trembling. “Dad?”

He turned at the touch and his eyes met mine. They flickered behind his glasses. A smile appeared briefly. “It’s me, Dad. It’s Tanya.” Everything else I wanted to say died in my throat. A painful lump lodged itself there. Tears blurred my vision. Was he going to stand up? Hug me? Wrap his arms around me and hold me tightly? He sat there staring at me as though I were someone he knew but couldn’t quite place.

“Tanya?” he finally whispered.

He reached forward, covering my hand in his. I noticed his skin looked pale and his hands shook, too.

“Sit down. Have breakfast with me. Or how about lunch?”

I did as he said, but I felt as if I were watching myself from a distance. My limbs obeyed commands that were too surreal to process. I wondered if
I
had died. My dad turned, beckoning a waiter, who carried over a tray of food. On the tray was a beautiful green salad, a steaming bowl of penne with tomato sauce and grated cheese, a glass of sparkling water with lemon. I poked at the fresh greens. They looked as if they’d been plucked that morning. My father must have read my mind.

“They grow it here,” he said. “There’s a greenhouse on-site.”

The food did look delicious. I knew I wouldn’t be able to touch it. I felt an anguish too unbearable to name. My father was alive, but this man across from me was not the Michael Barrett who’d left for Cambodia all those months ago.

“Dad,” I whispered. “We thought you were dead. Beth still thinks you’re dead.”

“I’m not dead,” he said in a quiet monotone.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

He nodded.

“But you didn’t tell us. You couldn’t, I’m guessing.”
Hoping. Praying
.

Again with the noncommittal nod.

“We thought you were dead,” I repeated, enunciating the words carefully. My voice rose in frustration. “Do you understand that? Do you know what you put us through? Do you even miss us? Miss Beth? Miss me?”

He nodded once more, blinking several times. “I do. I do, very much.”

Maybe it was time to try a different tack. “Dad, Harrison tried to kill me.”

My father turned his vacant, rheumy eyes in my direction. “Harrison is my best friend. He’s your godfather. He would never hurt you.”

It was obvious he wasn’t going to tell me anything I needed to know. Either he knew he was being watched, or he had been brainwashed. Given that he was more interested in his meal than seeing his daughter, the latter seemed more likely. I wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Is Connor here?” I asked. My voice caught on his name.

Again, he didn’t answer. He took a bite of his eggs. “We are doing such amazing things here. Things that are going to change the world—”

“Dad,” I interrupted.

“Listen to me, Tanya. Imagine a place where no living creature ever gets lost again. Remember how sad you were when Bootsy disappeared? How you searched for
her in the woods every day after school?” His voice had a soft lilt.

There were people all around, but no one seemed to be paying attention to us. I glanced at the ceiling, at the walls, searching for tiny microphones or cameras.

“No one will be lost in the future,” he added. “I have so much time to work here, and the work is so close to being finished. Nothing to worry about.” His eyes were drier now, but still glassy, like his smile. “Do you know what else?”

I shook my head. I felt sick and empty. I could see now what Dr. Luanne Preston meant: this could be a not-very-nice place.

“There’s an ocean here,” he finished.

I raised my eyebrows. “An ocean?”

He laughed again, more like a chuckle. Not his real laugh. Not the laugh my real dad had. His eyes darted across the room. The doctor was walking toward us. For the second time, my father reached out for my hand. He spoke quickly. “The air and water come from outside.” He dropped my hand and took a bite of toast. It was the first time his voice had sounded normal, the first time he’d appeared even remotely like himself.

“Tanya.” The doctor stood over us. She placed a small cupful of pink and white pills in front of my father. He took the pills and swallowed them.

“Michael,” she said. “Did you have a nice visit with your daughter?”

I watched my dad nod with polite and enthusiastic subservience, like a child. They’d destroyed him. This sick woman or someone just like her had killed the Michael Barrett who’d
been my father.
Dr. Luanne Preston
. What kind of a doctor was she? I wished I’d grabbed the pills she’d given my dad and thrown them at her. It was only the desperate hope of finding Connor that kept me in line. I had to behave right now.

“Michael, it’s time to go back to the office,” Dr. Preston said.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He stood.

She turned to me. “His program is really coming along. Your father is doing a wonderful job here. Our hope is that you can work for us, too, someday.”

Our hope
. It wasn’t hard to smile at that. Masking the horror took some effort.

“Goodbye Tanya,” my father said formally. He held out his hand for me to shake. I could feel the watchful eyes of Dr. Luanne Preston on me as I shook back.

“Bye.” I bit my bottom lip in an attempt to fight back tears.

I had to ask to see the beach. There was something my father was trying to tell me. Something I didn’t understand yet. I watched my father make his way out of the dining hall. The disassociated feeling—of being trapped in a bad dream—began to fade. The anger returned.

“When will I see him again?” I demanded.

“When you answer our questions,” Dr. Preston replied.

“I already told you everything I know.”

“Tanya, if you cooperate, you can have a nice life here, like your father does. You can work beside him, like you would have done at MapOut.” The elevator descended from some hidden place in the ceiling. “How about a tour?” she asked pleasantly, heading toward it. She swiped her key card and one of the doors opened.

Inside, the elevator looked more like a security checkpoint. A black-uniformed security guard sat at a desk, a submachine gun on the table in front of him, next to an office phone. Two screens lit up behind him black and white, hazy with static. She picked up the phone—connected by a cord to the receiver—and pressed the buttons quickly.

A voice answered. “Dr. Preston 4476. Outgoing call.”

A sound rang out, like a dial tone.

A man’s voice anwered. I recognized it immediately. It was Harrison.

One of the screens flickered, and the interference faded. A crystal clear image of Harrison appeared. He was dressed business-casual, sitting at his vast desk in his plush Amherst MapOut office. Judging from the angle, the camera was hidden somewhere in the ceiling. I shuddered involuntarily. Dr. Preston had probably watched me from this angle when I’d greeted Harrison in that office on my first day. Maybe my dad had, too. Harrison was so far away, and yet he still filled me with fear. Or maybe it was the fear of knowing I would always be watched no matter where I was, from this point forward.

The second screen flickered, and I appeared in sharp black and white, in real time. I glanced around in a panic, struggling to determine where the camera was. I couldn’t.

“Harrison,” Dr. Preston said. “Tanya is here. I’ve explained that she can help us here. Work for our company.”

Harrison’s face was damp and pale. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He looked terrible. “So our deal stands,” he choked out. “Connor will be released.”

“Yes, our deal stands,” Dr. Preston said, sounding bored.
“Though I have to add that it should have been much easier to negotiate. I hope you’ll reflect on that.”

Before he could respond, she pressed a button on the phone. The screens went black. Only now did I realize that the security guard had been staring at me the entire time, unblinking. I wondered what he would do if I suddenly lunged at Dr. Preston. If I pulled out the weapon Cleo had given me from beneath my sleeve and shot her. I still wasn’t sure exactly what it did. Would it kill her? Knock her out? Actually, it wasn’t that hard to guess what the guard would do. He’d pump me full of submachine-gun bullets, and then this elevator would take my body somewhere to be erased from existence.

Dr. Preston punched a code into the keypad, and the door slid open. I followed her into another small chamber—more of a real elevator, a steel box. When the door closed behind us, I heard the hum of machinery. I couldn’t tell if we were moving up or down. I told myself to stay calm. But it was impossible. Creeping terror took hold. My breathing became labored.
They don’t even need to kill me
, I realized.
I’ve already been erased from existence
. Cleo and Gretchen were the only two people who knew I was here. If they were dead—and there was only so much denial I could indulge—then I’d have to figure out a way to escape. Most likely I would die trying.

“Tanya, are you all right?” Dr. Preston asked.

I glared at her. The door opened onto a nondescript hall.

“Try to relax,” she said, her voice businesslike. “You aren’t in any danger.” She led me up a stairwell to an adjoining identical hallway. I furiously concentrated on my inner compass. I
was pretty certain this hall faced north … no, northeast. But because it was impossible to tell if we had gone up or down in the elevators, I was disoriented.

We came to a door, and I glanced wildly up, down, and sideways, hoping to feel that invisible tug. I didn’t, but for the first time I spotted tiny black orbs in the lighting fixtures: surveillance cameras.

Dr. Preston swiped her card through the door handle. My lips parted slightly. I wasn’t sure why I was surprised; maybe I’d been expecting to be escorted to an interrogation cell. This was more like a living room spread from some glitzy real-estate website. White sofas ringed a pale blue rug; huge windows looked out to the sea.

“This could be where you live,” said Dr. Preston. “Isn’t it spectacular?”

My body went cold. I shivered again, wrapping the heavy lead jacket around me, tucking my hands into the sleeves.

“I’ll show you where you’ll work alongside your father,” she added.

She moved to another door inside the house. It was made of gorgeous pine, and it didn’t require a swipe card—there was just a regular brass knob.
Just like a real home
. She turned it, revealing a high-tech office. It was as large as the renovated third floor at MapOut, only there were no cubicles. The desks were all empty, except for one. My father occupied it, sitting in front of two monitors, his back to me. The air was filled with a strange sound, pumped seemingly from every direction: a drumbeat, then a whoosh like a wave, then another drumbeat. On the screen was a shaky black-and-white image, moving in time with the rhythm.

“What is that?” I asked Dr. Preston.

Similar images played from the hundreds of high-definition monitors around the room. The sound was so familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.

“Why don’t you ask your father?” she encouraged gently. “Go on. He’s waiting.”

I walked over to him, my legs shaky. I almost hesitated when I reached for his shoulder. It was a reflex from home; he hated being disturbed when he worked. He looked up and smiled before I could make contact.

“Tanya, sit down. I’m anxious to show you what we’re making here.”

I slumped down in the empty chair behind him. Only when I exhaled did I notice I’d been holding my breath.

“This is a heart,” he said. “Did you know that everyone has a unique heartbeat? Think of it as an aural fingerprint. A signature in sound. The heart is always sending a message to the world.”