Impossible Things (Subparheroes), page 13
“You don’t have to keep apologizing. If Reg doesn’t care about you using the cabin without permission, then I don’t either.”
After we said our goodbyes, Sam and I picked up the shopping bags that contained all of our possessions. We went down the stairs at the side of the deck hand-in-hand, and as we followed a dirt path into the woods, he muttered, “That was really awkward.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He wanted to know if I’d told him the truth about why we were on the run, or if I’d concocted that story to save face in front of Turner. Maybe he thought I’d turned into a criminal and was hiding from the police or something. Then he asked if I needed money. I know he was trying to help, but he always had a way of making me feel less-than.”
“I’m glad we didn’t stick around. We need a plan, though.”
“I’m going to keep heading north. We’re only a few hours from the Oregon border. While we’re there, what do you think about trying to track down Arden Harington?”
The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t recall why. “Who’s that?”
“The graduate student who used to work with Mercanti. One of the SPAM scientists mentioned him and said he was from Oregon. I don’t know if he went back home after he quit grad school, but maybe his family is there, and maybe they can tell us where to find him.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
We stopped walking, and Sam turned to me. “Because it’s driving me crazy, Andy. That formula is bouncing around in my head, and I have to know—can it actually do what we think it does? Our pursuers are going to keep hunting us no matter what, because they believe it’s the real deal. But I need an answer for my own peace of mind, and the only person who can provide it is probably this grad student.”
“Could Rosselin somehow predict that we’d go to see this guy?”
“Harington left the lab a long time ago, so I really doubt he’d be on Rosselin’s radar. The only reason we even know about him is because he was randomly mentioned in passing.”
“Okay, let’s try to find him. I want answers about the journal, too, and you’re right that no one else would be able to provide them. Maybe Harington can’t either, but I’d still like to talk to him and learn about Mercanti and his work, given the way it’s impacted our entire lives.”
We started walking again. At one point, a squirrel and I stared each other down, and Sam asked, “What are you doing?”
“Just keeping an eye on him. He was probably one of the rodents that swarmed the deck the other day. I wonder if some part of him remembers me, and if he’s considering flinging himself at me and stuffing himself in my shirt or something.”
“I don’t think he remembers you.”
I glanced behind us and saw that the squirrel had moved to the center of the trail. “I don’t know. He’s still watching.”
That made him grin. “Hold it together, Andy.”
We decided it was best to avoid the heavily traveled interstate that ran right up the middle of California. Instead, we cut across the state, heading west on back roads and minor highways, with the plan of veering north once we reached the coast. Our logic was that no one could possibly predict we’d take such an out-of-the-way path, and that gave us some peace of mind.
Along the way, we stopped at a thrift shop and picked out some clothes. When Sam grabbed a couple of throw pillows and blankets, I asked, “What are those for?”
“We’ll probably end up sleeping in the car tonight, and I want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
Nothing about sleeping in a car seemed very secure. Somehow though, it struck both of us as a better idea than checking into any sort of lodging, even in a totally random location. They’d found us once in a motel, so maybe they could do it again, whether it was through luck, technology, a superpower, or a combination of all three.
After we loaded our thrift shop finds into the car, we visited a local mom-and-pop market. We bought a cheap ice chest, groceries and snacks, some toiletries, and a case of water before getting back on the road.
“I feel better now that we have some supplies,” I said. “And pants without the word ‘juicy’ on the ass, though it was nice of Reg to let me keep these.” I tugged at the fabric of my lavender sweatpants as I said that.
“Yeah, it was.” Sam glanced at me before merging onto a two-lane country highway. “Speaking of Reg, you haven’t said much about meeting him. That had to be weird for you, right?”
“It was startling to have him show up out of the blue like that, but he was exactly what I expected from seeing his photos. I guess I already worked through my feelings of inadequacy from comparing myself to him, so I wasn’t intimidated by the fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, successful, and quite possibly still in love with you.”
“He was never in love with me. I was more like his project, something to fix.”
I glanced at Sam’s profile. “Can I ask a question that’s absolutely none of my business? It’s about your sex life.”
“Reg and I are both vers, if you’re wondering who topped who.”
“That’s exactly what I was wondering, because I’m incredibly nosy.” I glanced at him again. “Does it bother you that I’m only comfortable bottoming?”
His answer made me smile. “Nothing about you bothers me, Andy.”
“There’s no way that’s true,” I said, as I rested my hand on his thigh. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
It was very late when we reached a small town on the coast. We found a place to park on a quiet side street, close enough to the beach to hear the waves breaking and smell the briny sea air. Then we climbed into the backseat, which wasn’t the roomiest thing ever, but we were exhausted and quickly fell asleep.
Early the next morning, Sam drove us to the parking lot of a windswept beach. We used the public restroom, washed up a bit, and changed our clothes, before sitting down at a picnic table for a quick meal. Breakfast was composed of things we’d randomly tossed into the cart at the market—nothing fancy, but it did the job.
Before we got back in the car, we both took a moment to watch the waves breaking onto the shore. “It’s really nice here,” I murmured. “I wish I could enjoy it.”
I’d been able to relax at the cabin, because I’d felt safe there. But now, we were back out on the road, without a home base, and with no idea where the bad guys were or if they could track us. No wonder my worry had ratcheted right back up again.
I turned to look at Sam. He was worried, too. I could see it in his eyes. But for my sake, he smiled and tried to seem confident. He drew me into his arms and kissed my forehead before saying, “We’re going to be okay, Andy. I promise.”
I really wanted to believe that.
CHAPTER 16
SAM
The drive along the coast from northern California into Oregon was beautiful. At times, the highway wound along steep cliffs, with the endless expanse of the Pacific on one side and lush forests on the other. We rolled down the windows and turned on some music, and both of us focused on living in the moment. The wind in my hair and Andy’s hand on my thigh felt wonderful, and I could feel some of my tension draining away.
In the afternoon, we stopped in a little town called Florence to fuel up the car and take a break from driving. We ate lunch at a sandwich shop, and my eyes kept darting to the door every time someone entered. I knew I was being paranoid, though. No one could possibly know where we were, and the bad guys weren’t about to come barging in.
After lunch, Andy wanted to take a walk before getting back in the car. When I spotted a public library, I said, “Let’s go inside and look up Arden Harington and his family.”
We obviously could have done an internet search on our phones, but I wanted to be a hundred percent sure that no one knew about our plans. If SPAM or anyone else was monitoring our phones somehow, that would lead them right to us.
Not that I said that to Andy. I was trying to come across as confident and unworried for his sake, and this distrustful shit wasn’t a good look.
I wasn’t prepared for the way he lit up when we entered the library. It was like that old cliché about a kid in a candy shop. He hurried over to the first display he saw, which was a collection of books on local history. Then he flipped one open and started reading it.
When I told him, “I’m going to be right over there, at those computers,” he nodded and kept reading.
It only took about fifteen minutes to gather all kinds of information on Arden Harington and his family. Andy’s exploration of the library took considerably longer. I watched him hurry past me several times as he checked out every department. At one point, he told me, “It’s killing me that I can’t check anything out.” That didn’t stop him from taking it all in, though.
Finally, he ended up at a table near the exit. When I joined him, he was reading a paperback. According to the sign, this was a used book sale set up by the Friends of the Library, so I said, “Not that you need my permission, but you should get yourself some books.”
He looked up at me with hope in his eyes. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“It doesn’t seem silly, weighing us down with a bunch of books when we’re on the move?”
“Definitely not.”
He smiled at me and started grabbing things off the table. “They have that spy thriller, the one you bought me back at the motel. I never got to finish it, and I wanted to find out what happened.”
In all, he selected eleven books. I helped him carry them to the counter, and after a volunteer totaled them up, Andy frowned. “I got carried away.”
I handed over some money and assured him, “It’s fine. Really. We haven’t been spending all that much, and we still have plenty of cash.”
We divvied up the pile, and as I helped him carry the books to the car, I asked, “Why’d you leave your job at the university library and go to work for SPAM? Libraries are obviously your happy place.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old and still living at home, so in part, it was because of the big step up in pay. I don’t have to tell you how expensive San Francisco is, and I couldn’t afford to move out on my old salary. I mean, maybe I could have if I’d found a place with a ton of roommates, but I hated the idea of living with strangers.”
“I get that.”
“But the other reason I left is because I felt stuck. I’d started that job when I was eighteen, fresh out of high school. I really liked it, but I felt like I’d never change or grow as long as I stayed put. The job at SPAM scared me because it was totally outside my comfort zone, and that was a big part of the appeal.”
We’d reached the car, and as I unlocked the door and stacked the books in the backseat, I said, “And now, a few weeks later, you’re so far outside your comfort zone that you can’t even see it from here. I’m sure that’s not what you had in mind when you went to work for SPAM.”
“I don’t regret a thing.”
I took his armload of books and put them in the car. “Really? Even after everything that’s happened?”
His voice was almost a whisper. “If I hadn’t taken the job, I never would have met you.”
When I turned to look at him, he shyly shifted his gaze to the sidewalk. I tilted his chin up and kissed him before saying, “You mean the world to me, Andy. I hope you know that.”
“Ditto.” He offered me a self-conscious smile before quickly climbing into the car.
Once we were back on the road, I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and handed it to him. “We have a destination.”
“What’s this?”
“The address to the Harington mansion. It’s in northern Oregon, on the edge of the Mount Hood National Forest. I read an article about it. Apparently, it was built in the 1800s, and it’s quite the sight to behold.”
“Is it a museum or something?”
“No, it’s a private residence, and it’s still owned by the Harington family. Arden’s great, great grandpappy was a bigtime timber baron and made a fortune back in the day. I may be off by a great or two, but you get the idea.”
Andy glanced at me. “So, is the plan to drive up to the mansion, knock on the door, and ask if Arden is home?”
“Pretty much.”
It was close to sunset by the time we turned onto the narrow road leading to the Harington estate. A sign told us it was private property, and there was a huge wrought iron gate that should have been blocking our path, but for some reason it was wide open.
As we drove through the gate, I blurted, “Holy fuckballs, would you look at that?”
Ahead of us, the road curved up and around a cobblestone patio with a huge, stone fountain in the center. The fountain wasn’t running, and the cobblestones were being overtaken by moss and a carpet of tiny wildflowers.
Above that stood an architectural wonder, which was in a large clearing backed by a thick forest. It was so big that it could have been a hotel, and somehow, it seemed to be a mash-up of a grand Victorian mansion and a log cabin. The siding was dark wood and on the rustic side, but the design was elegant with a wide porch, numerous turrets, and lots of gorgeous period details. I’d seen pictures of it online, but they really hadn’t done it justice.
After we parked, we stood there staring up at the building for a long moment, and Andy murmured, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither.”
“It’s strange that the gate was open. You’d think they’d keep it shut to avoid getting inundated with sightseers looking for a photo op.”
Both of us jumped at a voice nearby. “Oh, I do. I’d opened it this morning to let in the maintenance crew. They’re here every other week to take care of the house and garden. I guess they forgot to close it when they left.”
We spun around and discovered a guy in his late twenties, with unruly dark hair, a slender build, and big, brown doe eyes. “There are wards on the property which deny access to anyone with bad intentions,” he continued, as he shifted a basket of cut wildflowers, “but you’re right, the gate’s handy for keeping out the looky-loos. They’re worst in summer at the height of tourist season, but a few trickle in year-round. I’ve had people knock on the door at all hours, asking for a tour.”
“That must get annoying.”
“It can.” He tilted his head and studied us carefully. “You two don’t look like tourists, though. And you’re obviously not here to rob me, or you would have bounced off the barrier like a rubber ball. So, what brings you to Pine Grove Manor?”
“You, I think. Are you Arden Harington?” He gave us a single nod, and I told him, “I’m Sam Miller, and this is Andy Chen. We work for SPAM, but we’re not here in an official capacity or anything. Can we please ask you a few questions? It won’t take long.”
A frown line appeared between his brows. “It’s been five years since I interned with SPAM. I left the field of genetics entirely, and I’m not interested in coming back.”
Andy stepped forward. “That’s not why we’re here. We’ve been on the run ever since we discovered one of Doctor Mercanti’s journals in the SPAM archives, because some criminals think we can tell them what’s in it. We had to leave our entire lives back in San Francisco, and we don’t know when we’ll get to return.”
Arden’s frown deepened. “That’s terrible, but what does it have to do with me?”
“We need some information about the journal,” I explained. “I don’t know if you heard, but Dr. Mercanti died about three years ago. So, you’re the only person we could think of who might be able to help us.”
“I did hear about that. It was awful.” It took a few moments to make up his mind, but Arden finally said, “Come inside.”
The interior turned out to be dark, gothic, and more than a little creepy. I’d gone to Disneyland once as a kid, and in a lot of ways, it reminded me of the Haunted Mansion—with the addition of an alarming amount of taxidermy.
The showy foyer and every inch of the long hallway Arden led us down was filled with portraits of sullen-looking people, along with countless stuffed creatures. These ranged from startled-looking deer and elk to snarling bears and cougars, along with a wide variety of game birds, frozen in mid-flight. It felt like the people in the paintings were on display in the same way that the dead animals were.
“Aw, man.” Andy indicated a small, black duck. “They got Daffy.”
The kitchen was a lot lighter and brighter than the rest of the house. It was painted a nice shade of pale blue, and the windows along the back wall provided a sweeping view of a vegetable garden, a wide lawn, and the thick forest beyond it.
Arden gestured at a long, narrow farmhouse table. “Have a seat. I’ll make us some tea.”
“This is some house,” I said, as Andy and I sat down side-by-side and I took his hand.
Arden put a kettle on the stove, and as he filled a ceramic pitcher with water and dropped the wildflowers into it, he told us, “It’s weird and creepy, especially the taxidermy. But when he left the place to me, my grandfather’s will stipulated that I couldn’t change anything on the ground floor. It was kind of like being put in charge of a zoo full of dead animals.”
Andy whispered, “Gross.”
“I know. Even though I grew up with it, the stuffed menagerie makes my skin crawl.” Arden set up a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of cookies. He poured hot water into the pot when the kettle started to whistle, and then he brought the tray to the table and took a seat across from us. “Okay, start at the beginning.”
His expression was unreadable as we filled him in on how we’d found the journal and everything that had happened since then. When I finished, Arden asked, “If I confirm the journal contains a scientific breakthrough, what are you going to do with that information?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. I just need to know what we’re dealing with here. Is the formula as dangerous as I think it is, or was Mercanti wrong? If it’s useless, that’s not exactly worth dying over.”
