Chapter 4: The Way Home
5:17 AM.
Kyle pulled the car up beside a 24-hour gas station. The rain had just stopped, and the ground reflected fragments of light from the streetlamps. Marcus was leaning against the passenger seat, breathing shallowly. Two years of imprisonment had left their mark on him—his cheekbones jutted out, his skin was grayish, and where the band had been removed from his wrist, the needle marks were still bleeding.
Kyle turned off the engine and got out. As he pushed the nozzle into the gas tank, he heard Marcus shift in the car. He looked up at the canopy—one fluorescent tube was broken, flickering on and off.
After filling up, he walked into the convenience store. He grabbed a bottle of water, a roll of bandages, and a can of coffee. The old man behind the counter gave him five dollars too much in change. Kyle pushed the five dollars back.
When he got back to the car, Marcus was awake. He opened his eyes, his pupils taking two seconds to focus.
"Are we there?" His voice was hoarse.
"No. Let me deal with your hand first."
Kyle unwrapped the old bandage from Marcus's hand. The last piece was stuck to the wound. He poured a little water from the bottle cap, waited a few seconds, then gently peeled it off. Marcus didn't make a sound, just kept his head down watching his movements.
"You know first aid?" Marcus said.
"Someone taught me."
Kyle unrolled the new bandage, starting from the inside of the wrist, wrapping twice, going up at an angle, and finally tying a knot at the wrist bone, biting it off with his teeth.
Marcus turned his wrist to look at where the knot was tied. "Standard military wrapping technique."
Kyle opened the water bottle, took a sip, and handed it to him. Marcus took it and drank two mouthfuls.
"Get out. Let me drive. You've been driving all night."
They switched positions. Marcus slipped as he came around from the passenger side, grabbed the car door, and steadied himself. Kyle didn't reach out to help. The car pulled out of the gas station and onto the highway.
A day later, the car stopped behind an old apartment building in Portland. Kyle had been to this building once three years ago—it was a temporary hideout given to him by a middleman. The middleman was dead, but the building was still there. The key had been hanging on the chain around his neck all along.
"Get out."
Marcus pushed open the door and stood in the alley. He looked up at the apartment building's exterior wall. Some of the bricks on the wall had come loose, and rainwater was seeping in through the cracks. The first-floor windows had iron bars, and the windows above the second floor were covered with newspaper. In the entire building, only one light was on on the third floor.
"Is this place safe?"
"Not safe. But safer than the street."
They went in through the back door. The stairwell smelled of mold and urine mixed together. Most of the motion-sensor lights were broken, and they had to feel their way in the dark for a few steps on each floor. Kyle walked in front, his footsteps very light. Marcus followed behind, each step echoing dully on the concrete stairs.
Fourth floor. Kyle took out the key and opened the door to 404.
The room was small. A bed with grayish-white sheets. A chair missing one leg, propped up with a stack of magazines. A TV with two cracks across the screen. The window was covered with black paper. The refrigerator was in the corner, its handle wrapped with tape.
Kyle opened the refrigerator. Inside were three bottles of water and a pack of crackers. He checked the expiration date—four months past. He threw the crackers in the trash and put the water on the table.
Marcus sat on the chair propped up with magazines, took the water Kyle handed him, and drank most of the bottle. His complexion was a bit better than before, but his fingers were still shaking. He put his hands on his knees, pressing down. Still unable to control the trembling fingers.
"You need to eat something."
"Can't eat."
"Then drink water."
Marcus finished the rest of the water and put down the bottle. He looked at Kyle, his gaze much clearer than in the car.
"That list," he said, "you asked me in the car what Vera really wants."
Kyle leaned against the wall.
"She wants the list. But not for the truth."
"I know."
"How much do you know?"
"She knows you were locked up for two years, and she's only coming now. She knows someone almost exposed the whole thing two years ago. She knows who Amy is."
"Right." Marcus said, "But the list doesn't just have my father's name on it. There's another person. That person is now a congressman."
Kyle didn't say anything.
"So do you know what she'll do after she gets the list?"
"Cross out everyone's name. Leave only that one."
Marcus looked at him, silent for a long time. "How did you know?"
"I guessed."
"You guessed right."
Kyle pushed off from the wall and walked to the window. The window covered with black paper let no light through, but he knew it was already light outside. He could hear the sound of cars starting on the street, people talking in the distance.
"Vera wants to release the list." Kyle said.
"Not the complete one."
"You want to release it too."
"The complete one." Marcus looked at his back, "Will you help me?"
Kyle turned around, leaning against the windowsill. He rolled up his left sleeve. Those names were exposed—Irene, Irene, Irene.
Marcus looked at those scars and said nothing.
Kyle rolled down his sleeve, "Let's go. Get the evidence."
At seven in the morning, they stood in front of that old building. The bricks were blackened, the windows fitted with iron bars. There was no sign at the entrance, only a street number, the digits on the brass plate already blurred.
Marcus pressed his right hand on the door lock. The biometric reader emitted a short beep. He entered a twelve-digit password, with a brief pause between each digit, but the sequence was correct.
The door opened.
Inside was a very small room. A table, an overturned chair, an old computer, a safe embedded in the wall.
Marcus opened the safe and took out a hard drive and an envelope.
"Evidence. Lab surveillance footage, email correspondence, test records. The court can accept it directly."
Kyle picked up the envelope. Inside were photos.
The first one: a laboratory. White walls, stainless steel countertops. A woman lying on top. Blonde hair, prominent cheekbones, collarbones like two branches lying across her neck. Four or five tubes connected to her body. Eyes closed, a slight curve at the corner of her mouth.
The second one: the same woman, holding a baby. She was smiling. Her eyes were empty. The baby was asleep.
The third one: a car crashed into a tree. The front was deformed, the hood curled up. The driver's door was open, a pool of blood on the seat.
Kyle put the photos back in the envelope. "You should keep these."
"Why?"
"Because of Irene. You're the last person who saw her alive."
Marcus didn't take it. He looked at the envelope for a long time. Then he picked it up, put it on the table, and pressed it down with his hand.
"Let's go. Upload it."
Marcus sat down at the computer and turned it on. A command line interface appeared on the screen. He typed a few lines of code and started loading the program.
Kyle stood by the window, lifting a corner of the curtain to monitor outside.
"How long will the upload take?"
"Twenty minutes."
Kyle let go of the curtain. He walked to the table and watched the code scrolling on the screen. The progress bar kept rising.
His phone vibrated. Unknown number, Portland area code.
Kyle answered.
"Raven." Vera's voice, "You're late."
"Plans changed."
"Are you with Marcus?"
Kyle didn't answer. He glanced at Marcus. Marcus didn't look up.
"Your name isn't on the list." Kyle said.
Silence.
"Not mine." Vera said.
Kyle's fingertips paused on the windowsill.
"How did you know?"
"I spent two years going through all the files and found a tampered contract. It had my father's signature on it. Not Marcus's."
"Then why did you still keep him locked up there?"
Vera didn't answer. The call disconnected.
Kyle watched the screen go dark. He turned around. Marcus was sitting at the computer, the progress bar at forty-seven percent. His hand was resting on the keyboard.
"She hung up." Kyle said.
"That's how she always is."
"You knew all along that she locked you up to protect you?"
Marcus withdrew his hand from the keyboard. He lowered his head, looking at his wrist. That white mark was very obvious under the light.
"This band," he said, "I designed it myself. Before I went in, I found a rune master. If anyone tried to take me out of the Nest, the compound would release immediately. I'd rather die by my own hand."
"She didn't put it on you?"
"No."
"And you didn't tell her?"
"No." Marcus looked up, "She thought I was taking the blame for my father. She thought she was protecting me. If she knew that band was something I put on myself."
"What would she do?"
Marcus didn't answer. He continued operating the computer. The progress bar reached eighty-two percent.
Kyle stood by the window, not moving. He looked at the old scars under that white mark on Marcus's wrist—they were cuts. Row after row, neat and orderly.
"Those scars on your wrist, what are they?"
Marcus's hand paused, "Irene's code number. A7. I carved it. One stroke every day. Carved for two years."
Kyle said nothing.
The progress bar reached one hundred percent.
"Upload complete." Marcus said, "Scheduled send. In fourteen days, at midnight, three media outlets will receive it."
Kyle walked to the table. He reached into his backpack and felt the USB drive—the one Marcus had given him in the car. He didn't immediately take it out. His fingers paused at the edge of the USB drive for two seconds.
Then he placed it on the table.
"Two lists." He said, "You have one, I have one. You release yours."
"What's in your copy?"
"Your father's name, Vera's name, that congressman's name. Everyone who signed with the Sterling Group."
"You're going to release everyone together?"
"Yes."
"What about Vera's plan?"
"Her plan is hers." Kyle put the USB drive in his pocket, "My plan is mine."
He walked to the door. His hand rested on the doorknob, pausing for a moment.
"Where are you going?" Marcus asked from behind.
Kyle didn't answer.
The door opened. The lights in the hallway were off. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell, going down floor by floor, getting lighter and lighter, until finally they couldn't be heard anymore.
Marcus sat in the chair, not moving. The screen on the table was still lit, the code stopped at the last line. He looked down at his wrist—those scars, A7. He pulled down his sleeve, covering them.
