The Rising
Page 2
I cleared my throat. “So, what did you guys find out while I was sleeping on the job?”
We’d gone to the library to research a name that Rafe’s mother had given him to contact as a last resort. We had no idea if this guy could—or would—help us, but it was our only shot.
“Cyril Mitchell is an unusual enough name. I narrowed it down to the most likely guy—the others were too young. I have a phone number, but that’s it.” Daniel unfolded two notes from his pocket. Scrap paper from the library. He ran his finger down his notes and let out a deep breath. If Corey looked bitter, Daniel looked defeated, and it was just as painful to see.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We call the number. We talk to whoever answers. That’s all we can do.”
One of the toughest parts about making that call was picking a pay phone. Not only are they rare these days, but we wanted one a fair distance from where we’d spend the night. Sure, the risk that someone was tapping this guy’s phone—or that he was working for the people chasing us—was slight. But right now we only trusted one another.
We caught the SkyTrain and found a pay phone. Then I prepared to call the man we hoped was the right Cyril Mitchell.
While Rafe had been captured the first time, he’d found information about another experiment: Project Genesis. The kids who’d been guinea pigs in that one had supposedly escaped, along with their parents. Rafe was sure Mitchell would know more. If we could find those subjects, maybe they could help us.
I pumped five dollars in coins into the pay phone and dialed.
When a woman answered, I asked to speak to Cyril Mitchell.
“Sorry, wrong number,” she said.
I read her back the number I’d dialed.
“That’s right, but there’s no one named Cyril here.”
Before she could hang up, I said, “I really need to get in touch with Mr. Mitchell and this is the only number I have.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
My mind whirred, trying to think of something else to say before she hung up. But she stayed on the line. As if she was waiting.
“Do you know any way to get in touch with Mr. Mitchell?” I asked finally.
“No.”
So why aren’t you hanging up?
If Mitchell knew about Project Genesis and Project Phoenix, both top-secret supernatural experiments, maybe he was on the run, too. Maybe this woman was waiting for something—a name, a code word.
But if he’s on the run, why would Daniel be able to find his number so easily?
Maybe it wasn’t the right Cyril Mitchell. Or maybe it was and she could tell I was young and I was scared, and didn’t want to hang up on me.
I took deep breaths and clenched the receiver.
This was our only lead. Our only lead. I couldn’t let it slip away.
“I’m going to leave a message,” I said. “Just in case.” I chose my words carefully. “My name is Maya Delaney. I’m a Phoenix from Salmon Creek, British Columbia.”
I paused. It took at least three seconds for her to say, “I’m sorry, but you really do have the wrong number.” Which told me she’d been listening, maybe even writing it down.
“Just take the message. Please. Maya Delaney. Phoenix. Salmon Creek. He can contact me at . . .” I read off the email account Corey had set up at the library. “Do you need me to repeat any of that?”
A long pause. Then, “He can’t help you, Maya.”
My heart thudded. This was Mitchell’s number. “Can I speak to him? Please?”
“Not without a—” She stopped herself. “He died six months ago. I’m his daughter.”
I took a deep breath. Tried not to panic. “Okay. Can you help? Or can you give us the name of someone who can? Please?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
She hung up.
TWO
WE SPENT AN HOUR trying to call back. We even used different pay phones. She wasn’t answering and she’d turned off the voice mail.
We took refuge in a half-constructed condo building. There were plenty of them around. Vancouver had been booming a few years ago, insanely priced condos popping up everywhere, eyes fixed on the Olympics. Then the economic crisis hit and developers fled.
We hadn’t said much since our last attempt to call Mitchell’s daughter. There was nothing to say except “What now?” and no one dared ask that. When the silence got too heavy, I snuck off to the highest level with a solid floor—seven floors up. I perched on the edge, letting my legs hang over as I stared toward the distant ocean. Toward my island.
I ran my fingers over the worn leather bracelet on my wrist, over the cat’s eye stone. Rafe’s bracelet, the one he’d given me.
A few minutes later I heard footsteps. Daniel.
He didn’t come over and I didn’t turn, in case he was just checking on me. I heard him settle behind me. Then silence, broken only by the soft sound of his breathing.
“You going to stay back there?”
His sneakers scuffed the floor as he rose. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
I held my hand up behind me, and his fingers closed around mine. I clasped his hand, feeling the heat of it chase away the October chill. He sat beside me, his legs dangling, too.
“We need to find these other subjects,” I said. “Project Genesis.”
“I know, but . . . At the library, I searched on all kinds of words from those pages Rafe gave us. There’s nothing. It’s a dead end.”
Silence thudded down again. I stared out at the city and tried to rouse myself. We had to move. We had to do something. The thoughts would skitter through my brain, only to be swallowed by a yawning black pit. Move where? Do what? Our only lead was gone and I felt lost. Too beat down to even look up for a spot of light.
“I think we should go to Skidegate and try to contact your grandma,” Daniel said.
I looked at him. I wanted to shout for joy and throw my arms around his neck and thank him for giving me exactly what I wanted—contact with my family. But I only had to look at him, his eyes anxious, his face drawn, holding himself still as he awaited my response, and I knew this wasn’t about choosing the right path. It was about making me happy. Or making one of us happy. Lifting the dark cloud for one so we could all breathe a little easier. He knew I wanted this more than anything. So he was giving it to me, caution be damned.
We’d gone to the library to research a name that Rafe’s mother had given him to contact as a last resort. We had no idea if this guy could—or would—help us, but it was our only shot.
“Cyril Mitchell is an unusual enough name. I narrowed it down to the most likely guy—the others were too young. I have a phone number, but that’s it.” Daniel unfolded two notes from his pocket. Scrap paper from the library. He ran his finger down his notes and let out a deep breath. If Corey looked bitter, Daniel looked defeated, and it was just as painful to see.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We call the number. We talk to whoever answers. That’s all we can do.”
One of the toughest parts about making that call was picking a pay phone. Not only are they rare these days, but we wanted one a fair distance from where we’d spend the night. Sure, the risk that someone was tapping this guy’s phone—or that he was working for the people chasing us—was slight. But right now we only trusted one another.
We caught the SkyTrain and found a pay phone. Then I prepared to call the man we hoped was the right Cyril Mitchell.
While Rafe had been captured the first time, he’d found information about another experiment: Project Genesis. The kids who’d been guinea pigs in that one had supposedly escaped, along with their parents. Rafe was sure Mitchell would know more. If we could find those subjects, maybe they could help us.
I pumped five dollars in coins into the pay phone and dialed.
When a woman answered, I asked to speak to Cyril Mitchell.
“Sorry, wrong number,” she said.
I read her back the number I’d dialed.
“That’s right, but there’s no one named Cyril here.”
Before she could hang up, I said, “I really need to get in touch with Mr. Mitchell and this is the only number I have.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
My mind whirred, trying to think of something else to say before she hung up. But she stayed on the line. As if she was waiting.
“Do you know any way to get in touch with Mr. Mitchell?” I asked finally.
“No.”
So why aren’t you hanging up?
If Mitchell knew about Project Genesis and Project Phoenix, both top-secret supernatural experiments, maybe he was on the run, too. Maybe this woman was waiting for something—a name, a code word.
But if he’s on the run, why would Daniel be able to find his number so easily?
Maybe it wasn’t the right Cyril Mitchell. Or maybe it was and she could tell I was young and I was scared, and didn’t want to hang up on me.
I took deep breaths and clenched the receiver.
This was our only lead. Our only lead. I couldn’t let it slip away.
“I’m going to leave a message,” I said. “Just in case.” I chose my words carefully. “My name is Maya Delaney. I’m a Phoenix from Salmon Creek, British Columbia.”
I paused. It took at least three seconds for her to say, “I’m sorry, but you really do have the wrong number.” Which told me she’d been listening, maybe even writing it down.
“Just take the message. Please. Maya Delaney. Phoenix. Salmon Creek. He can contact me at . . .” I read off the email account Corey had set up at the library. “Do you need me to repeat any of that?”
A long pause. Then, “He can’t help you, Maya.”
My heart thudded. This was Mitchell’s number. “Can I speak to him? Please?”
“Not without a—” She stopped herself. “He died six months ago. I’m his daughter.”
I took a deep breath. Tried not to panic. “Okay. Can you help? Or can you give us the name of someone who can? Please?”
“No.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”
She hung up.
TWO
WE SPENT AN HOUR trying to call back. We even used different pay phones. She wasn’t answering and she’d turned off the voice mail.
We took refuge in a half-constructed condo building. There were plenty of them around. Vancouver had been booming a few years ago, insanely priced condos popping up everywhere, eyes fixed on the Olympics. Then the economic crisis hit and developers fled.
We hadn’t said much since our last attempt to call Mitchell’s daughter. There was nothing to say except “What now?” and no one dared ask that. When the silence got too heavy, I snuck off to the highest level with a solid floor—seven floors up. I perched on the edge, letting my legs hang over as I stared toward the distant ocean. Toward my island.
I ran my fingers over the worn leather bracelet on my wrist, over the cat’s eye stone. Rafe’s bracelet, the one he’d given me.
A few minutes later I heard footsteps. Daniel.
He didn’t come over and I didn’t turn, in case he was just checking on me. I heard him settle behind me. Then silence, broken only by the soft sound of his breathing.
“You going to stay back there?”
His sneakers scuffed the floor as he rose. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
I held my hand up behind me, and his fingers closed around mine. I clasped his hand, feeling the heat of it chase away the October chill. He sat beside me, his legs dangling, too.
“We need to find these other subjects,” I said. “Project Genesis.”
“I know, but . . . At the library, I searched on all kinds of words from those pages Rafe gave us. There’s nothing. It’s a dead end.”
Silence thudded down again. I stared out at the city and tried to rouse myself. We had to move. We had to do something. The thoughts would skitter through my brain, only to be swallowed by a yawning black pit. Move where? Do what? Our only lead was gone and I felt lost. Too beat down to even look up for a spot of light.
“I think we should go to Skidegate and try to contact your grandma,” Daniel said.
I looked at him. I wanted to shout for joy and throw my arms around his neck and thank him for giving me exactly what I wanted—contact with my family. But I only had to look at him, his eyes anxious, his face drawn, holding himself still as he awaited my response, and I knew this wasn’t about choosing the right path. It was about making me happy. Or making one of us happy. Lifting the dark cloud for one so we could all breathe a little easier. He knew I wanted this more than anything. So he was giving it to me, caution be damned.
