Whisper Page 2

The man in charge of Lengard.

  “I understand that you’ve been down here for some time, but social courtesies haven’t changed much since your arrival,” Falon says, wiggling his fingers pointedly.

  Feeling unbalanced, I slowly reach forward until my hand is clasped in his grip. He gives me a firm shake before releasing me once more.

  “There now. It’s good to see you haven’t forgotten how to act like a human being. Vanik’s reports imply otherwise, but I know he tends toward the dramatic.”

  I have no idea how I’m supposed to respond to that.

  “Have a seat, Jane.” Falon gestures toward one of the chairs facing his desk, and he moves to retake his original position. “We’ve got lots to discuss.”

  I don’t want him to notice my confusion, so I’m quick to follow his instructions. The plum seat is plush, and my tense body sinks deep into its softness.

  When I look up, Falon is watching me. He appears pleased by what he sees, like he can tell that the chair has magical properties that are soothing the ragged edges of my tension.

  “‘Subject Six-Eight-Four,’” Falon recites, picking up his tablet and reading directly from the glowing screen. “‘Allocated ID: Jane Doe. Date of birth: unknown. Current age estimation: eighteen. Parents: none listed. Other relations: unknown. Recruitment status —” he lifts his eyes to me “— transfer.’”

  He lowers the tablet but holds my gaze. “I’m curious, Jane. Our records show that you were transferred to Lengard after a short stint at a psychiatric institute that you reportedly checked yourself into.”

  My stomach lurches, and I struggle to beat back the memories his words call forth.

  “Our scouts discovered you three weeks into your time at the institute, and after confirming your potential, they delivered you to this facility — a much safer alternative than a psych ward for unstable and dangerous youth. That’s why I find myself curious, Jane, because from all I’ve read, it appears as if you’ve been wholly uncooperative since your arrival.”

  His eyes remain fixed on mine as he finishes, “I would very much like to know why.”

  I keep my mouth shut. No words escape my lips.

  “In preliminary testing, your results gave us reason to believe that you would be a distinct asset to our program.”

  I fight against my brow furrowing, having no idea about any “preliminary” testing or the program he’s speaking of.

  “Despite that, you’ve since shown nothing to prove your worth,” Falon continues, his eyes skimming over the tablet again. “Dr. Manning says it’s easier to draw blood from a stone than it is to evaluate your psychological disposition. I’ve already alluded to Vanik’s opinion of you, and many of your rotating evaluators tend to agree with his assessment. Only Lieutenant Enzo has anything encouraging to report, claiming that you are surprisingly committed to your physical training. He seems impressed by how far you’ve come in the time you’ve been here.”

  A flicker of warmth stirs inside me. Of all the people at Lengard, Enzo is the only one for whom I hold any positive regard. He knows I’m classified as a threat, even if he doesn’t know why, but he has no fear of me. And for that I respect him. I do what he says and push my body to its limits daily. It feels good: the running, the sparring, everything else he demands of me. I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Faster. Fitter. That knowledge is what keeps me going on the days when all I feel is weakness.

  “Enzo’s report is the only positive among a slew of negatives,” Falon says. “Your apathy and lack of cooperation in every other area should have prompted us to remove you from Lengard long ago. It’s true that Vanik believes your brain chemistry is —” he searches for an appropriate word “— unique, but we have others who can assist him with his research. So, why are you still here, Jane?”

  I assume the question is rhetorical; I don’t think he expects me to answer, since I can’t possibly know what he wants me to say. I have no idea why they’re keeping me here. I have no idea why I was brought here to begin with. I have no idea why, day in, day out, my hours are spent undergoing tests and — in Vanik’s case — torture.

  Lengard is a secret government facility.

  That’s all I’ve ever known.

  But why it’s secret, I’m not sure. Nor do I understand my purpose here. That is something that has never been explained, never made sense.

  And I’ve never asked.

  I couldn’t ask.

  So I’ve waited, hoping one day someone would tell me.

  No one ever has.

  Falon spoke true when he said they pulled me from a psychiatric institution. But I’m just as much a prisoner here as I was there — perhaps more so.

  There, at least, I understood. By placing myself in that hospital, I locked myself away from the world. There, I knew the rules. But here? Two years, six months, fourteen days, and I still don’t know what game we’re playing, let alone whose rules I should follow. I am nothing more than a glass pawn in a black-and-white chess set: out of place and utterly breakable.

  Falon releases a breath and wearily rubs a hand across his face. I’m not sure if it’s a genuine display of fatigue or the gesture is all for show. He could just be trying to make me feel empathy. I have no idea why he would try to manipulate my reaction, though. I have no idea about anything when it comes to this man.

  “I’ve decided that we’re going to attempt something different with you, Jane. On a trial basis only. So far you’ve given us nothing to help further our goals, and I feel it prudent to warn that if you continue to resist the intentions of Lengard, I will have no choice but to eliminate you from the program. Do you understand what that means?”

  Despite knowing nothing about this so-called program, I’ve always understood I would never be released back into the real world as a civilian. The one thing they did tell me, right at the beginning, was that Lengard must be kept secret from the general population … and that the government would do whatever it must to ensure that remains the case.

  Since I have no intention of walking free again, the threat has never alarmed me. I understand exactly what Falon is saying — that if I fail whatever this new trial is, that’s it. Lengard will get rid of me … and no one will even know that I’m gone.

  I can see Falon is waiting for a response, and this time I must give it to him. I nod once, and his eyes light with approval at my gesture. Maybe he really did think I was insane, as Vanik likely suggested in his reports. Perhaps Falon wondered if I was just sitting here, an empty shell of a girl, unaware of his words. He can’t possibly know that words are all I’m ever aware of. Every hour, every minute, I weigh them in my mind. Words are everything to me. They are life. They are death. They fill all the spaces in between.

  “Good,” Falon says. “Then you’ll start working with Ward as of tomorrow. Your schedule will remain mostly the same, and your evaluations with Dr. Manning, Lieutenant Enzo and Vanik will continue, but you’ll no longer be moved from person to person in the afternoon. Those hours will be allocated solely to Ward. You will do what he says — whatever he says — and if he doesn’t come to me with any indication of progress after one month, then you’ll be evicted from the program. Do you agree to those terms?”

  I nod again, because I know that’s what he expects. I wonder who Ward is and what he’ll do when he discovers for himself how apathetic I am. A month is a long time, but nothing he does can be worse than Vanik’s experiments. And at least I now have a time frame. An expiry date.

  It’s best this way. I know it is. And yet … now that I’m facing my end, I can’t ignore the whisper of unease in the back of my mind. Because … what if a month isn’t long enough?

  “We’re done here, then,” Falon says, standing.

  I follow his cue and rise from my seat, resisting the urge to glance longingly down at it.

  “I do hope you make the most out of Ward’s training,” he adds, then calls for the guards to escort me back to my cell. “Very few people are granted one-
on-one time with him. Don’t waste this opportunity. It may well be your last.”

  Message delivered, Director, I think. Then I’m again cuffed like the monster I am and manhandled back to my cell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  True to Falon’s word, the next day starts out normal for me. Or Lengard’s version of normal, at least. Dr. Manning analyzes my silence and tries to make me reveal my secrets, Enzo attempts to banish physical weakness from my body and Vanik does his best to strip away my sense of self. None of them succeed, except, perhaps, Enzo. But that’s because I find his training therapeutic. He doesn’t want me to talk to him like Manning does, to spill the words that flood up from deep within me. He doesn’t try to be like Vanik, peeking into my brain and shredding my nerve endings one by one. Enzo only wants a single thing: to train my body into compliance. He expects me to build strength and develop endurance. These I can do. These I enjoy.

  I revel in my time spent under Enzo’s watchful guidance. The burning muscles, the sweat in my eyes, the straining heartbeat … they make me feel alive.

  The only problem is that every day after Enzo, I have to go to Vanik. And if the time with Enzo brings me to life, my hours with Vanik all but kill me over and over.

  I have never understood the reasons behind his obtrusive tests. Once I heard him utter the word incredible under his breath while examining my brain waves, a word that preceded a particularly painful experiment — agonizing enough that I blacked out and woke in my cell hours later. I have no idea what Vanik is searching for or why he seems convinced that I’m the one in whom he will find it. Falon may say there are others who can take my place, but I don’t think Vanik would agree. He needs me. It’s the only reason he hasn’t risked pushing me to the point of brain damage — or beyond.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Today’s session is no different from all the others. I somehow manage to survive his poking, his prodding, his attempted violation of my mind. I’m now being escorted down yet another black-and-white tile corridor, on my way to find out who my new evaluator is and what he plans to do with me.

  My guards — two again, but not the same ones from last night — stop me in front of a closed door that has no label. One guard uncuffs me while the other presses a hand to the scanner, prompting the door to slide open.

  I can’t keep my eyes from widening. That is my only outward reaction.

  It’s some kind of library. Every wall is covered with books. Hundreds of them. No, thousands of them. Maybe more. Tome after tome after tome line the shelves spread all around the moderately sized room. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. So many words. So many wonders.

  “You can leave us. I’ll call for you when she’s ready to go.”

  I’m startled, not only by the words that imply it’ll be my decision but also by the speaker. I was so taken by the books that I failed to notice the room’s sole occupant.

  He sits facing me, casually resting on the only piece of furniture: a couch that looks even more comfortable than the chair in Falon’s office. I want to sink into it without delay, but I don’t. I don’t move at all, in fact, not even when I sense the guards leaving and hear the door slide closed behind me. It takes every ounce of my willpower to remain impassive as I study the person in front of me.

  This can’t be Ward.

  I’d assumed he’d be middle-aged, like Falon, Vanik and Manning. He can’t be more than a year or two older than me, about Enzo’s age. But Enzo’s limited years make sense; his job requires physical fitness and little else. Age doesn’t matter. Ward’s position, however …

  Maybe he doesn’t need to have the wisdom, knowledge and experience of years behind him for whatever he plans to do with me.

  “Would you like to have a seat?”

  He motions to the space on the couch beside him. It’s not an order; he’s giving me a choice.

  I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a choice.

  It was before I arrived at Lengard, that much I know.

  “I don’t bite,” he adds.

  Seeing my hesitation, he even throws in a crooked smile, a single dimple indenting the tanned skin of his left cheek. But as teasing as that dimple is, my gaze is focused on his eyes. I’ve never seen such a bright green. Falon’s sapphire shirt was dull in comparison.

  When I continue to remain frozen in place, he rises to his feet, and I struggle not to stare. Golden hair, broad shoulders, narrow hips, long lean legs. Everything about his body is strong, hard, intimidating. But at the same time, his expression is soft, warm, inviting. I have the strange desire to run toward him — and away from him.

  He’s messing with my head, and he’s barely spoken two sentences.

  Irrationally, I blame the clothing. He’s wearing jeans — jeans — and a fitted black T-shirt that clings to every inch of his torso. I miss jeans. I miss T-shirts. I miss blues and blacks and colors in general. Like Falon, I have no idea why this guy in front of me doesn’t have to wear regulation attire, but his lack of uniformity — and his presence in general — is disarming.

  “Seriously.” He throws out an arm. “Please sit down. I feel weird with you just standing there.”

  I blink at that. Not because he feels weird — I’m used to people being nervous around me. No, I’m caught off guard by his manners. I’d forgotten how nice the word please sounds, how beautiful its intentions are. I find myself responding unconsciously, and I move to sit on the farthest corner of the couch, where I sink deep into its cushions.

  I was right: it is more luxurious than Falon’s chair. But I don’t allow myself to relax. I sit perched on the edge of the lounge, stiff as a concrete slab, waiting to see what will come next.

  “Thanks,” he says, taking his seat again. “I always feel strange sitting down when other people are standing.”

  I’m surprised by his admission. I thought he was anxious about my threat-level classification, but apparently that isn’t the case.

  I wonder what he knows about me. Surely he wouldn’t still be smiling that crooked smile if he’d read my file.

  “I’m Landon Ward — ‘Ward’ to most people, but you can call me ‘Landon.’”

  I will do absolutely no such thing.

  “As for you …”

  Ward’s gaze rakes over me, from head to toe and back again. Something causes his eyes to light up. He presses his lips together, looks away, smiles a secret smile.

  “You are definitely not a Jane Doe.”

  Eleven hundred years. That’s how long it seems to take before I can manage a breath.

  I don’t know what to make of Ward’s statement. I fight the blood that tries to find its way to my cheeks, and wrestle away my urge to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I want to move my hands, to cross and uncross my legs, to bite my lip, but I resist the impulse to fidget. I won’t let him see that he’s unsettled me. I refuse to give him that kind of power.

  “No, definitely not a Jane Doe,” he says again, almost pensively. “But I’ve been told that you won’t give us your real name. So, what should I call you?”

  If he expects an answer to that question, then he really hasn’t read my file.

  “We could go with something descriptive. Your hair is so dark, but your eyes are so bright — we could do something there.” He tilts his head and goes on, “Maybe we could go with something unexpected, something imposing … like ‘Butch.’ How do you feel about ‘Butch’?”

  I’m amazed by the words that are pouring from his mouth. For the first time in two and a half years, I’m fighting what feels like a smile.

  “You don’t look like a Butch, though, do you? No more than you do an average Jane Doe.” He appears amused, and I still don’t know why. “What about some kind of flower? ‘Blossom’ could work.”

  My nose wrinkles before I can suppress the impulse. I quickly wipe my expression clear, but the damage is done.

  Ward’s dimple reappears. “Not a fan of that one, huh? No flowers, then. Promise.” He stru
ms his fingers on his denim-clad thigh. “It looks like you’ll have to leave it with me. But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll come up with something once I know you better.”

  Who is this guy?

  “Right!”

  He claps his hands and jumps to his feet. I jerk at his sudden movement and hope he doesn’t notice.

  “We’d better get started. We only have —” he glances at his watch “— five more hours together. You know what they say: time flies when you’re having fun.”

  Five hours? It’s not uncommon for me to have longer sessions in the afternoons, but usually the time is split between multiple evaluators. It’s been years since I’ve spent that long in the presence of just one person.

  “I’m thinking we’ll take it easy today while we get to know each other,” Ward says, striding over to the nearest bookshelf. “That work for you?”

  No. It doesn’t work for me. I don’t know what “easy” means to him. I don’t know why he wants us to “get to know each other.”

  “Besides,” he adds, perusing the titles, “I’m still wrecked from last night, and I don’t have the mental capacity to do anything too strenuous. It was my sister’s eighteenth birthday, and when I say she knows how to celebrate, I mean it. I’m only a year older, but sometimes I feel like an old man in comparison.”

  I don’t understand what is happening here. He’s talking to me like we’ve known each other for years. Why isn’t he taping electrodes to my scalp, sending Tasered pulses into me and demanding that I follow a strict set of instructions? His behavior makes no sense.

  “Heads up.”

  When he tosses a book my way, I catch it just before it hits me in the face.

  “Nice reflexes.” He looks impressed. “Enzo’s always bragging about how well you’ve responded to his training.”

  I shift on the edge of my seat, wondering not only what Enzo has been saying but also why he’s been talking to Ward about me at all.

  “You should get comfortable. That one’s a classic. It’ll be ruined if you read it sitting like there’s a pole stuck up your ass.”