Shadow Touch Page 5

  Elena looked at the mirror. There was a bruise on her face the size of an apple. Her long brown hair resembled a rat’s nest. Her body was pasty with a dash of flab. She wasn’t even wearing her good underwear. Oh, tragedy.

  Her heart agreed. She fought for calm, for control, trying to think of other, more pleasant things. She knew what this was—had read about panic attacks in the hospital magazines—but even with the knowing, there were moments when it got so bad she wanted to wail and gnash her teeth, cry out for help because it wasn’t just her heart, but it was her closing throat, the chills, the nausea riding high in her mouth. She felt as if she were having a heart attack, and the idea—even though it was just in her head—scared her more than captivity. She wanted to live more than she wanted to die, even if it was in a prison as some little human experiment. She wanted to live.

  She also wanted to heal herself, but that just wasn’t possible. So ironic. So devastatingly typical. She wanted to hate herself for that, but she was too practical. There were so many other people in the world to hate—like the doctor, like those thugs pretending to be nurses, like whoever had decided to bring her here. So easy.

  Breathe, she told herself. She wished someone would lower the temperature. Cold air was easier on the lungs—cold, bracing air, like in Wisconsin, where the winters froze the snot in your nose, turned flesh to ice in minutes. Good snow, clear skies, crisp and lovely.

  Her heart pounded. Pounded. Don’t panic, don’t panic, you have to focus now, quiet, now isn’t the time to go nuts or hysterical because there’s no one here but yourself so you have to be strong, you have to be an army of one, you have to be well so your mind can plan and you can get out of here, you have to get out of here—

  It got better. She got well enough to sleep and lie down in a ball. Sleep helped. She did not dream. When she opened her eyes it was still a nightmare, but her heart no longer raced and she could breathe. That was a start. All she could ask for, really. Little miracles, bit by bit. Tiny triumphs. All you can ask for is your health, her grandfather had liked to say.

  Elena lay on the mattress and listened to her heartbeat mark the passing of her life. She listened for a very long while.

  The doctor lied. A long period passed without tests. Or maybe he watched her from the other side of the glass, and her reaction to this place was a test all by itself—to see if she cracked, if she inflicted wounds, if she began frothing at the mouth and speaking in tongues. She thought the old man might like that. She almost tried it, just to see what would happen, but eventually decided it was a bad idea; a part of her feared that any attempts to pretend madness might just invite the real thing.

  Elena paid attention to when she was fed—food on a tray, shoved through a slot in the base of her door. Clothes accompanied her first dinner in the facility: soft green scrubs and thick white socks. She was happy for them.

  After her second meal—a small ham sandwich and an apple—she settled down on her mattress, closed her eyes, and began counting. Every time she got to sixty she tore off a scrap of toilet paper. One minute, one mark. She did this until she accumulated more than two hundred forty marks of toilet paper, and then the door made a noise and a tray slid through the slot. It was not an exact science, but Elena did not care. Four hours between meals. Three meals a day. After the last meal, nothing. Not for double those hours.

  By the seventh meal, she reckoned she had been captive for more than two days—probably more, depending on where she was being held and how long she had been kept unconscious. Elena used that time to explore every inch of her cell, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. The tank behind the toilet did not have a removable lid. The seat could not be taken off. There was nothing to hit with, except for some rolls of toilet paper. Elena could imagine all kinds of Monty Python–esque hilarity with that choice of weapon. Unfortunately, she was probably the only person in this place who would find it funny.

  Elena eventually resorted to using her teeth to roughen her nails. Made them jagged, sharp. Good for scratching. Fighting. It wasn’t a sword or a stake or even a butter knife, but at least it was something. Illusion was nine-tenths of staying happy, after all.

  And she was calm. Her heart beat slow and sure. She could breathe. That was good. She wondered how Olivia was doing, if she was feeling better. By now she should be up and walking. Elena was happy she had managed to do at least that much before the kidnapping. This situation—while horrible, awful, insane—would be so much worse if she had been stolen away, knowing Olivia was dying, dead, already gone.

  Have a good life, she thought at the girl. Do something nice with the time you’ve got.

  Because it would not last. It never did, not for anyone. Death was the end for all, whether you found it in ten years or one hundred. All Elena did was postpone the inevitable, give that second chance nature had denied. Cancer was an easy reverse; the human body was already inclined to help her. Heart disease, paralysis, internal wounds—harder, but not impossible. Genetic problems, which required complex manipulation and specific knowledge, were beyond her power.

  Not that she ever complained. What she could already do was miracle enough.

  A miracle with your freedom as its price.

  Maybe so, but she had no regrets. Doing nothing at all was unacceptable. She had a gift that could help people in profound ways; not to use it would be a crime.

  Her stomach rumbled; she thought it must be getting close to mealtime. Sure enough, she soon heard footsteps in the corridor outside her room.

  This time, however, the door clicked. The lock. Not the food slot.

  Elena jumped to her feet, digging jagged nails into her palm. The door opened. It was the doctor. Behind him stood a dark-skinned man with brilliant green eyes. He wore a tight black shirt and loose cargo pants.

  The two men stepped inside the cell. The doctor studied Elena, a clinical analysis.

  “You’ve settled in,” he said. “I hope you haven’t been too lonely. I apologize for the wait, but something more important took precedence. I’m sure you understand.”

  Elena said nothing. She was quite certain the doctor would not want to hear her colorful opinion on everything she did and did not understand about this place.

  He peered hard at her cheek. “Still no healing. I simply cannot understand that. Surely you have tried to do for yourself what comes so easily for others?”

  Elena continued to remain silent, trying to summon up the deadest, dullest valley-girl expression she could possibly muster. No brains, not a chance. No need to ask questions of the dumbest girl alive. Just a dope with power, that was her. A moron, a fool.

  Go ahead. Underestimate my ass.

  The doctor frowned. “Come, my dear. There are no secrets. I know what you are capable of. If I chose to, I could produce a list of names dating back ten years. Miraculous recoveries from terminal illnesses, most of them in children, almost all in Wisconsin. Tell me you had nothing to do with them. Tell me there is not a miracle in your touch.”

  “There’s no miracle in my touch,” Elena deadpanned.

  The old man sighed. “My dear, that was rhetorical. As you barely finished high school, however, I will assume you don’t know what that means.”

  Ouch. Acting stupid was working just a little too well.

  The doctor gestured to the man beside him. “This is Rictor. He will be your liaison during your stay with us.”

  “My stay. You make it sound like this place is a resort.”

  “It is a house of learning,” he said, “and you and I are both students of each other.”

  “I don’t find that particularly comforting.”

  “My heart weeps to hear that,” he said. Elena was almost positive he was being sarcastic.

  She glanced at Rictor. He looked bored. She suspected it was an act. She could not imagine anyone feeling safe enough to be bored in this place.

  “Why are you doing this?” Elena asked the doctor, repeating the same question tha
t had gotten her hit in the face. It must have been a trigger, one of those things that pinched his buttons; a hint of displeasure appeared around the old man’s wrinkled mouth. He looked at Rictor.

  “Take her. I’ll join you shortly.”

  Rictor grabbed Elena’s upper arm. He did not squeeze, but his grasp was firm, warm. He tugged her to the open door. Elena fought to stand her ground.

  “My dear,” said the doctor, “unless you want him to do more than simply pull, I suggest you start walking.”

  Elena gritted her teeth. “Why are you doing this? Who do you work for?”

  The doctor raised his hand. Rictor yanked Elena out the door. No time to protest, and after a moment she lost all desire to complain. Up and down the long concrete corridor, wide black curtains hung against the wall in set intervals that seemed calculated by the placement of narrow metal doors. Elena turned around; there was a curtain in front of her own cell, pulled slightly back to reveal the stark white interior, littered with old meal trays and dirty dishes.

  “Oh, my God,” Elena murmured. “There are more.”

  Many more, if every cell was filled. Even if they were not, the fact that they existed, that this facility had multiple rooms built specifically for the observation of its inhabitants, was astonishing and disturbing. Impossible, even—but only because it still seemed too surreal, her kidnapping like something out of a movie. Because people did not really do these things to one another, right?

  Right.

  Rictor tugged her into motion. Elena had no choice but to follow him, but it was like walking as a zombie, shuffling along with only one focus: those black curtains, those doors. Walking past them gave Elena the sense of treading the razor’s edge of something vast and mysterious, the heavy weight of potential riding her shoulders. Beyond every door, a story. Beyond the curtains, views of another world.

  Views, perhaps, of people like her. Which was almost too incredible to accept. The odds could not possibly allow it. Elena had always thought she was alone—and perhaps she was. Perhaps she was the first, some odd rarity her mysterious kidnappers had stumbled upon. Or not.

  She glanced up at the man beside her. He looked tough. Not scary like the pseudonurses, but still, with an edge of iron in his face.

  “Will you tell me where I am?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, and there was a tone of finality there, a warning against being a pest. Elena was not usually very good at taking warnings, but this time she kept her mouth shut. Rictor was an unknown; some people were natural-born bullies, while others were not. Until she had that much figured out about him, she was not going to push her luck.

  He kept a firm hand on her arm until they passed through a large green door separating the holding cells from the rest of the facility. On the other side, in the main corridor, he turned her loose.

  Rictor pointed. “Go.”

  “I’m not a dog,” Elena said, but she started walking. Her arm felt sore from his grip, but she did not rub it.

  They were the only people in the hall, which resembled every underground military base Elena had ever seen on television: dark, shiny concrete with white piping running parallel along the walls, a curved ceiling where caged lightbulbs dangled. The air smelled coarse, dusty. Elena tried memorizing their path, watching for special marks in the floors and walls. Anything to orient herself if she tried to escape. It was difficult. Everything looked the same.

  The facility also felt huge, the product of a long-term plan and a lot of money. A lot of money and not many employees. Only once did she hear other people, and they were far away. Voices, too muffled to understand with any clarity, though Elena thought she heard a woman say, “… shift mechanism unknown … tank isn’t big enough …”

  “Tough shit,” said a man, in a much louder voice. And then the conversation faded into something truly incomprehensible. Elena mulled over those few words, trying to make sense of them. She almost laughed. Making sense of anything in this place was a joke. A killing kind of joke.

  Rictor slowed down. Elena saw a green metal door. On it was the stick figure of a woman.

  “A public bathroom?” She could not hide her surprise.

  “Locker rooms,” he said. “Our facilities are limited to the basics. Everyone has to share.”

  Elena tried to imagine Rictor taking a shower in the same room as the doctor. The image hurt her head. Rictor gave her an odd look, and then pushed open the door, gesturing for Elena to precede him. She did, taking in the surreal normality of white tile and shiny fixtures. Open shower stalls were on her right. Toilets on the left. The air smelled damp, and the floor and walls were slick with moisture. Someone had just been here. She had never been so glad to see a regular bathroom.

  “You don’t have to take a full shower, but we will need to do something about your hair.” Rictor leaned against the wall. It was strange hearing so many words come out of his mouth; he did not strike her as a big talker. Of course, what he was saying also made no sense whatsoever.

  Elena touched her hair. It was so tangled, her hand bounced. Reaching through to her actual scalp might require a diamond-bit drill. “You a hairdresser? Because hey, if this place is really a salon or beauty school, I think you all kidnapped the wrong chick.”

  “You’re funny,” Rictor said, looking about as amused as an overmilked goat. “I haven’t seen funny in a long time.”

  “Yeah,” Elena said. “I can tell.”

  He ignored that. “Your hair is a mess. The doctor considers it a liability. He wants me to cut it.”

  “Your doctor is a crack-ass nutcase. What does he think my hair can do? Reach out and slug someone?”

  Rictor held out his hand and showed her a pair of gleaming scissors—a startling reveal, like dealing with a magician. Elena wondered where he had gotten them, and whether she could bring herself to stab him if she got the chance to wrap her fingers around that shiny metal.

  Through the eyes and throat. Soft places.

  “It might be safer if I do it,” he said, as though reading her mind.

  Elena scowled. “Leave me the hell alone. Haven’t you guys already done enough? Besides, that cell is cold. If you take my hair, I’ll die of exposure.”

  His jaw tightened. There was no pity in his eyes. “I can make you.”

  “You can make me do a lot of things. Everyone in this place can. What’s stopping you?”

  “Fine,” he muttered. Before Elena could stop him, he grabbed a handful of her hair and began cutting through it. She cried out, twisting away, but he pinned her hard against a locker and kept cutting. Clumps of hair fell around their feet—ten years of her grandfather smiling over those long brown strands. Elena hooked her sharp nails into Rictor’s neck, raking down. He grunted, but kept on working.

  When he finally released her, it was sudden, a shock. Elena stumbled, catching herself against the locker. She touched her scalp. Found that she had nothing left but a short stubble. Her head felt light and cold.

  “Better,” Rictor said without emotion. Long red welts covered his neck. The floor looked like the back of a Wookiee. “Go to the sink and wash your head. We don’t have much time.”

  When Elena did not immediately move, he grabbed her arm and hauled her over to a deep white sink. He grabbed a bottle of shampoo from the open shower stall and handed it to her.

  “I do not want to do this for you,” he said. Elena believed him. She took the shampoo and washed the remains of her hair. It took less than a minute; there was hardly anything left.

  When she was done, he handed her a towel. She scrubbed her head—furious, frustrated—and then pointed at it with a shaking hand. “Clean enough?”

  “Dry it some more,” he suggested. “There can’t be any moisture.” A specific detail that provided Elena with some idea of why the doctor might believe her ratty hair had to go—though his actions seemed more inclined to sadism and control, rather than the pursuit of exact medical science.

  Elena dried her hair unt
il Rictor told her to stop. They left the locker room.

  He walked faster this time. Elena struggled to keep up. She examined as much of the halls as she could, memorizing every twist and turn and landmark. She thought she might be able to find her way back here if the opportunity arose. She might even be able to do more than that, especially if this place was as empty as it seemed.

  Or not, she thought, as a man suddenly screamed. Distant, faint; the echo of his heartrending voice twisted down the corridor until he sounded more animal than human. Or perhaps there never was a man, and she had only imagined the brief baritone that now raked the air like a wildcat’s cry: high, ripping. Elena missed a step.

  Rictor said, “Keep walking.”

  “What’s being done to him?” The screaming continued; a spit and howl that broke her heart—and scared the shit out of her.

  “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he said. The screaming stopped abruptly. The silence was almost as horrible, heavy with exhaustion, as though the air itself were glad of the man’s quieted cries. For a moment Elena felt the strain of guilty comfort. She was not alone in this place. Someone else was here, suffering. Someone else had been targeted, their comfortable world ravaged.

  I’m sorry, she thought, remembering the anguish in that one long note of pain. I’m so sorry for my selfishness.

  Just not sorry enough to take it back.

  Again she studied Rictor. She wondered why he ranked more important than the men in white, what he had done to earn a place inside this facility, why he would even want to work for people who kidnapped women and then treated them like lab experiments. Must be tough to get a girlfriend, with a background like that.

  Rictor’s pace faltered and he gave her an odd look—something almost like confusion. It was the most human expression she had seen on him so far. He tore his gaze away. Quiet, he said: “Do what the doctor tells you. Don’t push him too far. He needs you, but he’ll take only so much defiance.”