TEN
THE SPIDER
The clown just shot a wounded man before my eyes . . . I’m shaking, and there’s an unexpected pressure in my bladder. I think I’m going to wet myself. Oh God . . . he’s noticed me. His eyes widen, and his harsh features melt into a sinister parody of a smile, revealing a gap tooth—the only thing we could possibly have in common. When he takes a step toward me, the muscles in my legs coil with what I now recognize as the urge to run.
Slowly, he takes off the red nose. A tremor shakes his hand. “Little Island . . .”
As I discover his face in its entirety for the first time, I’m aware of every beat of my heart reverberating through my body, of the snow squishing under my boots. He must be pushing fifty, and he’s about the same height as my father but a little beefier. I scan his sharp features, the straight nose and thick eyebrows. Save for the short beard, they could be brothers, really. I doubt they are though, because I’m almost certain I’m standing in front of Dries Kovius.
I look at the three men surrounding me frantically. They stay still, watching. My gaze searches March’s. He of all people is going to say something; he’s going to tell me what’s going on. But he remains silent, a tired smile stirring his lips as the clown opens his arms as if to welcome me. All I can see is the gun in his hand. My breath coming in short pants, I scan the road, the bodies lying at our feet . . . the pines around us.
I can do this. Once I’m hidden in that thick tangle of branches, they won’t be able to find me. It’s only a few yards. I can do this. My rational mind shuts down, and my legs spring into action, the need to escape stronger than the fear pounding in my temples. I bolt between March and the clown and run as fast as I can without looking back. The surprise effect doesn’t last; already I can hear them bark my name. Heavy footsteps crush the snow behind me. I run faster, my lungs burning with the effort of inhaling gulps of icy air. I desperately want to believe I’m going to make it. I’m almost in the woods; the first branches are lashing at my clothes. In my legs, the muscles protest against the sudden effort, and I can tell I won’t be able to keep this up for long. I look ahead and spot an area where the ground seems to slope between two tall pines; with one last effort, I reach it and skid down, ankle deep in fresh snow.
It wasn’t such a great idea, because the soft white mantle actually conceals . . . rocks. A searing pain tears through my right ankle, and I pray it’s not broken. I can no longer run: I roll to the ground and let myself slide down the rest of the way, until I reach a stream. They’re right behind me: over the sound of my own panicked breathing, I register branches creaking and hoarse shouts. Yeah, right . . . like I’m going to stop and come back! I limp toward the stream, intent on crossing it. I don’t care that the water might freeze my feet: it’s my last chance. Once I’m on the other side they’ll give up, and I’ll be free. Just free.
I lunge forward, but one of them catches me before I even touch the water, hauling me backward.
“No! Don’t touch me!” I shriek and thrash against the powerful hold, vaguely aware of Porho saying to someone, “He’s got her.”
A whiff of mint identifies my assailant before I’ve even turned to see his face. March is holding me tight, blocking any possible escape. The silvery stream is mere feet away, but I’ll never reach it. Air whizzes in my throat as I slowly give up the fight. I’m exhausted, and March and Porho top me by at least a foot, Dominik and the clown only slightly less: I’ll never get past them, much less overpower them.
My legs give way under me, but I don’t fall: March gets down on one knee and lowers us both to the ground. My breath coming in ragged gasps, I don’t immediately realize he’s pulled me back against his chest in the semblance of a hug. I feel him nuzzling my hair. “Island, please calm down. You’re safe now; it’s over.”
I have no strength left to push him away, so I bury my face in my hands to block his presence. I just don’t want him to kiss me again. “Who are you? Why are you doing this? Is this, like . . . for a ransom?” I croak.
I register a sharp intake of air and March’s hold tenses, like he just seized for a millisecond. Heavy steps crush the twigs on the ground somewhere to my left, and I look up to see the dreaded rainbow jumpsuit. Looming above me with the sun at his back, Kovius looks even more terrifying. He kneels in front of us and studies me with chilling eyes. “What’s wrong with her? Is she high?”
March draws a heavy sigh, and his voice sounds almost strangled as he says, “I don’t know. I don’t think so . . .”
•••
I’m not high. And yet I’m riding through the deserted Finnish backcountry in an ice-cream truck that’s been modified to fire rockets . . . Dominik took the wheel and Porho too went to sit in the front while I sit in the back, sandwiched between March and Kovius the clown. Ice-cream trays and equipment clank on the shelves as we progress on what I suspect is a trail.
They gave me a black men’s parka in which I’ve huddled into a tight ball. Kovius won’t stop staring at me, so I spent most of the trip with my head buried into my knees to block his scrutiny and March’s repeated inquiries about my well-being. Yes, my ankle is fricking fine. No, I don’t want him to “take a look.” He doesn’t even seem to realize that he and his little terrorist club kidnapped me—not that my future looked any brighter before their intervention. My eyes squeezed shut, I replay in my mind everything that happened since I hacked through that damn firewall. I’m missing something huge; I can’t make sense of any of this, save for the chilling intuition that all I ever was to my father was a pet—one Kovius has now stolen, probably to extort something from him . . .
My head snaps up when I feel the truck stop. March’s hand brushes my shoulder. “Island, we’ve arrived.”
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, for at least the tenth time.
He moves away with a sigh and gives me some space to scramble to my feet. When the truck’s door slams open, the icy air bites my cheeks. I draw a shivering breath that fogs the air around me; it’s much colder here than in Hamina. As soon as I step out, I’m greeted by the sight of a frozen lake, a white immensity stretching under a cloudy sky. On the shores, I see nothing but snow-covered trees for miles around. How I regret ever complaining that Ingolvinlinna was in the middle of nowhere. Not even close. This place—wherever we are—this is officially the frozen butthole of the world.
Nestled in a grove of birch trees, I spot a roof. There’s a log cabin facing the lake—somewhere no one will ever find me. I ball my fists in my coat’s oversize sleeves and when I remain frozen in place, March’s hand hovers at my back in a silent invitation. I will my legs to move, their joints like rusty, reluctant gears. I’m not the only one struggling, by the way: I didn’t notice before, but Kovius has a slight limp. His right leg looks a bit stiff, and as we climb the few steps leading up to the porch, he huffs and swears under his breath.
Once we’re inside, it becomes obvious no one lives here. The sparse furniture looks clean—spotless, really—but impersonal and barely comfortable. A table and a few chairs, a kitchenette. Two doors—I’m guessing a bathroom and a bedroom. Someone turned on the heat, a small blessing in what otherwise looks like the setting to a horror movie. Plot twist: the bad guys win, the girl gets killed, and they bury her body in the woods. A century later, people sell books investigating the mysterious circumstances of her untimely demise, complete with gruesome details about the autopsy of her frozen body, perfectly preserved in the icy ground. I swallow back a wave of nausea—I should never have read that book about the Franklin expedition.
When Porho closes the door behind us, I notice that Dominik stayed outside. Through the windows, I see him climb inside the ice-cream truck.
“He’ll get rid of it,” Kovius comments.
He’s looking at me again—scanning me, really. I’m wondering if he’s starting to regret that he took me. He jerks his chin toward one of the doors, which Porho dutifully opens. March leads me into what is indeed a small bedroom, with bunk beds and a lonely chair sitting in a corner. My eyes dart over to the window, trying to assess the feasibility of breaking it with the chair. As if they’d leave me alone long enough for that . . .
Once the three of us are standing in the bedroom and Porho has closed the door, Kovius gestures to me. “We need to take a look at that neck. Take off your coat and sit on the bed.”
Goose bumps rise all over my body in a prickling wave. I step back, only to bump into March’s chest. “What are you going to do to me?” I’m trying to control my fear before it tears me apart, but already I can hear the tremors in my voice.
His hands creep up my arms. “Island, we only want to check something. We would never”—his voice catches . . . almost like he’s afraid too—“no one is going to hurt you again.”
“Then don’t touch my neck!” I yell between panicked pants.
Kovius runs a hand across his face. “Little Island, believe me, I’d rather do this the easy way.”
“Calm down,” Porho says. “We’re not going to try anything here. We’ll need a surgeon for that. All we want for now is to take a look.”
Okay. Now I know with absolute certainty that they are going to hurt me. My eyes dart at the cabin’s door. Kovius and Porho stand in the way; I’ll never make it.
My mind racing for a way out, I play my only card. I whirl around to face March. “Please don’t let them do this!”
His eyebrows draw together in a pained expression. I have no idea what’s the deal between us—or if there is one, for that matter—but there’s a tenuous connection, I can tell that much. I just hope I’m not making a terrible mistake by staking my chances on a potential case of Lima syndrome . . . He takes a cautious step toward me. “Island, we only want to see whether there’s any scar on your nape. Nothing more. I promise no one will hurt you.”
A sense of impending doom grows inside me, like rocks piling in my stomach. “How . . . how do you know about that?”
March’s features freeze, a tic in his jaw the only sign he’s still alive. Porho, on the other hand, doesn’t seem surprised by my answer—there’s actually something smug about the way he arches one dark eyebrow. And Kovius . . . I’m pretty sure I just saw his hand shake.
“How do you know?” I insist.
“How did you get the scar?” Kovius counters.
“It was at the Poseidon Dome. I had a brain injury and . . . I got surgery,” I admit. I hope he can read the hate in my eyes as I add, “You did this to me . . . when you blew it up.”
His nostrils flare, and I’m scared he’s going to hit me. “Is that what they told you?”
“It’s all over the fricking Internet!”
“I see . . . Isiporho, show her.”
I study the interested party warily. Isiporho? Not “Porho” after all . . . Meanwhile, he’s pulled out a phone from his pocket. His fingers dance on the screen, and he hands it to me. “I snapped these back at the castle. They had a medical file on you. It’s not a tracking device; that much we know.”
I take the proffered phone hesitantly. On-screen is the hasty and poorly lit shot of an X-ray. I’m no medical expert, and one half is a little blurry, but I can still recognize a human head . . . and I know something doesn’t belong in there. At first I think I’m seeing some sort of giant daddy longlegs, and I nearly drop the phone, but it’s not that. It’s . . . my skin crawls as I examine the white outline of some kind of narrow, rectangular device lodged right above the first vertebra. The legs are in fact long filaments reaching . . . inside the skull—possibly all the way to the ears; I’m not sure.
This time, the phone does slip from my hands, and March catches it before it reaches the floor. I reach reflexively to touch my neck and stagger back. “You’re lying . . . it’s not . . . it’s not in my head!”
Kovius and March both move at the same time to catch me. I scramble away until the back of my knees hit the bed. My legs give way under me, and I let myself fall onto the mattress. “What the hell do you want from me? Why are you showing me this?”
March crouches to be at eye level with me. I retreat farther into the bed and huddle to avoid his gaze, the blue eyes I thought I recognized, which belong to a murderer, a kidnapper. Yet his voice is soft, coaxing, each deep vibration like a petrifying caress. “Biscuit . . . please look at me.”
Biscuit. Far from reassuring me, the pet name he keeps using raises a trail of goose bumps down my spine.
“Biscuit—”
“That’s not my name!” I scream, hugging my knees harder.
“Island,” he tries again. At the same time, I feel something touch my leg. His hand. I kick blindly to get rid of it. “Island, it’s me. I’m not going to hurt you. Please listen to me.”
I hug my knees tighter and rock myself, in a desperate bid to shut him out. “Leave me alone. Let me go. Let. Me. Go!”
“What was in the drip?” I hear Kovius ask.
“A cocktail of anxiolytics and a light sedative. But I don’t think that’s what affected her memory like that. She didn’t react when she saw me in Hamina either,” March tells him.
His words send me spiraling farther down an abyss I don’t think I’ll ever reemerge from. It’s him. It was him at the Christmas market. Watching me. Somehow March and I know each other . . . and every memory I might have of him is lost in the depths of the South Pacific, sleeping in the ruins of the Poseidon Dome. What happened there?
“I sent the files to Viktor; maybe he can tell us more about the implant,” Isiporho adds.
“Island . . .” March croons, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you certain you’ve never seen me before?”
Unable to look up at him, I let out a brittle, “No,” even as the chills coursing through my body remind me that it could be a lie.
From the corner of my eye, I see Kovius step closer. “What about me?” he asks, his tone unexpectedly soft.
“You’re Dries Kovius. You’re the guy who bombed the Poseidon!”
His fingers slowly curl into fists. “I see . . . and do you know who kept you prisoner?”
Prisoner? I feel the room tilting around me as I hear my father ordering Bentsen to go ahead and lobotomize me. I see Morgan’s terrifying smile while he taped my mouth. My skull is throbbing as if it’s about to explode, and a wave of nausea makes my stomach heave. Was I really . . . their prisoner? “This is insane,” I whimper. “This isn’t real. It’s not . . . real!”
March keeps stroking my hair, my shoulder. I wish he’d stop, but I don’t have the strength to fight back.
Unlike him, Kovius doesn’t lose sight of his goals. “Tell me who took you.”
“You did!” I’m crying hysterically now, loud sobs shaking my frame.
“No, little Island. I saved you. Anies took you.”
“I have no idea who that is!”
Kovius’s voice deepens with anger. “No idea? What about Aidan Keasler?”
March protests. “That’s enough. She’s not in any condition to—”
“That’s . . . my father,” I manage, struggling through a hiccup.
My answer is met by several seconds of stunned silence. On my shoulder, March’s hand stills.
Kovius eventually speaks, his voice clipped, each word like a countdown to an imminent explosion. “Say that again.”
“I-it’s my father’s name. Aidan Keasler.”
I vaguely register Isiporho swearing in Afrikaans while March remains silent, his breath slow and unsteady.
When I peek between my arms, I see Kovius’s blurry form leave the room. Moments after the door has slammed behind him, something crashes to the floor, followed by a roar of pure bone-chilling rage. With a final glide of his fingers in my hair, March lets go of me. I’m not even sure I’m relieved: he scared me marginally less than his acolytes.
“I’ll go talk to him. Isiporho, can you please watch over Island?”
I glance up at the two of them. The smug expression I thought might be permanently etched on Isiporho’s face is nowhere to be found. He places his hand on March’s shoulder and gives a brief squeeze before tipping his head to the door behind which Kovius is working on destroying the living room. “Go.”
When March opens the door, I get a glimpse of Kovius standing among toppled chairs, dragging a hand across his face. Was it the mere mention of my father’s name that set him off like that? Or maybe they have . . . the wrong person? Once the door closes behind March’s departing form, I roll around to face the wall. I’m not in Kansas anymore; this is hell.