Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Iwas so consumed by what happened in the MRF that I didn’t think to ask Barnes about the earthquake. But as soon as I walk into the parking lot, I halt in my tracks.
A giant crack zigzags through the parking lot, splitting the asphalt.
The moon is obscured by clouds tonight, making the crack look impossibly dark, like a bottomless void looms just below.
It extends from just outside the MRF’s doors to the front gate, where part of the wall has toppled.
The emergency response team is gathered around it now, working to construct a temporary fence.
No wonder Barnes had trouble getting here on time. The farther I travel, the lower my stomach drops as I see how far the damage spreads. Roads ruined by great rifts that opened up during Cain’s episode, toppled cacti and landslides in the mountains, clouds of dust thick in the air.
Thank God the MRF is on the outskirts of town, and the destruction didn’t reach the town proper.
The buildings and homes are untouched. Yet as I drive through downtown, I see people gathered outside, pointing toward the ruined roads.
Fingers aimed toward the distant silhouette of the MRF.
Maybe they aren’t placing blame yet, but it seems sure to come.
The way the damage spread out only makes it more obvious that it’s centered on the Facility.
Even if Ellis was bluffing about telling the cult where X-16 is, the quake has painted a target for them.
Despite Barnes’s instructions to get some rest, it seems impossible that I should simply go home and do nothing. I search for my whiskey, but the bottle is empty except for a few stray drops that I shake out onto my tongue.
I slam the empty bottle down on the counter and stand there for a few moments. Then I walk to my room and drop to my knees beside the bed. I press my trembling hands together.
“God,” I whisper to the empty room. “If you’re out there…”
But further words fail me. My tongue feels rusty and useless. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and reach for old memories.
“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I try again. “Hallowed by thy name. T-Thy…”
But I falter again, the rest of the prayer dying in my throat. I hoped for peace, yet the ache in my chest only deepens. I feel ashamed. I feel like a fool.
I climb into bed, wrap my shaking arms around myself, and cry into my pillow until sleep takes me.
I sleep for ten hours straight. But I wake full of renewed certainty that I have to do something.
I now have irrefutable proof that the Children of the Red Sun are linked to Cain, and that the preacher is still out there somehow, gathering his zealots for some dark purpose. If I can figure out what they’re planning, I’ll be better prepared to stop them.
Of course, my searches on the preacher, Samuel Ashford—even typing the words makes me grimace—turn up nothing but old news about the massacre.
They must be covering their tracks well.
Similarly, searching for Ellis’s name gives me nothing linked to the Children of the Red Sun; of course it doesn’t, or Barnes would have immediately known that something was off.
But I have one more lead to follow.
Cain giving me his name was a gift. As far as I know, I’m the only one in the MRF who knows his true identity.
He trusted me with it. And as I stare at my keyboard, chewing the inside of my cheek, I can’t fight the gnawing feeling that it would be wrong to delve into his history.
As someone with a past better left forgotten, I understand how invasive it can be for people to know things about me that I haven’t chosen to share.
Yet—he gave me the name. And what if there’s some hint in his past about his current state? What if I can help him, and I’m the only one he trusted enough to let in?
After a moment, I swallow my reservations and type: Cain Solomon.
The results are sparse. He has no social media, of course, nothing at all from the last several years, when he’s been locked up in the Facility of his own accord.
But there’s a link to a high school website in a small town in Texas.
Copper Canyon, the town is called. I click it and find an article from the school newspaper citing Cain’s name.
There’s a picture attached—but he’s in the background, sitting alone behind a group of laughing students.
There’s an odd distortion in the image where his face should be, rendering him unrecognizable.
With some searching, I can find the yearbook from the year he graduated. But there’s no photo, just a blank space. There’s no other information about him, no mention of clubs or athletics or school accolades. Like he barely existed at all.
But this yearbook at least proves that he did exist out in the world at some point. That he was a normal—relatively, at least—boy at one point. With more searching, I find a mention of his name at an elementary school.
I smile to myself at the yearbook picture showing a younger version of the man I know.
He was even skinnier back then, his eyes brown and huge in his pale face.
Normal, by all appearances, though there are shadows beneath his eyes and a troubled set to his mouth that suggest something was off, even then.
There are no other hits on Cain’s name. Like he disappeared straight out of high school—which I suppose he did, in a sense. But it’s clear he had some semblance of a normal life before then, and I now know where he was located.
I type: Solomon Copper Canyon.
That leads me to another hit. Rachel Solomon. It gives me a jolt of surprise when I see an image of an older woman and recognize Cain’s cheekbones, the slant of his eyebrows.
Of course, Cain has—had?—a family. Or at the very least, a mother. He mentioned her before. She’s fair-haired, pretty, with huge, dark eyes. But even when she’s smiling, there is something haunted in her expression that reminds me of her son.
As I stare into her eyes on the screen, I wonder where she is now. If she’s out there somewhere, wondering the same about her son. There was no record of visits to Cain at the MRF. They didn’t even know her name. Any mother would miss her child at that point, wouldn’t she?
I think, unwillingly, of my own mother. Her soft arms around me. Her gentle smile as she fed me a cup full of poison.
I shake it off with a shudder and resume my internet sleuthing.
Privacy really is dead these days. As soon as I have Rachel’s name, I find a slew of other information.
A mention of working as a nurse at Copper Canyon Community Hospital, a handful of years ago.
She’s not listed on the website now, but it’s a starting point. Maybe she never left that town.
Luckily for me, Copper Canyon is only an eleven-hour drive away. And I’ve got nothing but time.
I drive all day, sleep briefly in my car on the side of the road, and arrive in Copper Canyon with the dawn. It’s a tiny town in southern Texas, startlingly reminiscent of Ash Valley, without the quirky personality or the menacing silhouette of The Melsbach Research Facility on the horizon.
I wash up in a gas station bathroom and head to Copper Canyon Community Hospital.
It’s an unassuming brick hospital, smaller than I expected, though I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise for a town this size.
I stare at it from my car for a few minutes, working up courage and figuring out my story, before walking inside.
It’s quiet. Empty except for me and the tired-looking receptionist. I walk up to the desk and clear my throat.
“My name is Willow Hawkins,” I say. The woman behind the desk is barely paying attention to me as she types on her computer, but I carry on anyway.
“I’m here to see Rachel Solomon.” She looks up from her computer at that, and I try to keep my expression innocent and hopeful as I launch into my practiced lies.
“I’m her niece. I’ve been out of touch for a long time, so she might not remember me, but I recently reconnected with her son Cain, and we’ve been trying to find her for—”
“What did you say your name was?” she asks, interrupting me.
“Willow. Willow Hawkins. And if you could mention her son’s name too, Cain Solomon…”
She turns away from me without answering, speaking into a phone in a low voice for a few minutes.
It goes on long enough that I fear I’ve been found out, and security will be here any minute to haul me off the premises.
But then she hangs up, turns to me, and gestures toward the double doors on the other side of the lobby. “That way. Follow the signs.”
I try not to betray my surprise as I thank her and head that way. It seems Rachel Solomon is indeed still working here—and for some reason, she agreed to see me. Maybe it was her son’s name that did the trick?
After heading through the doors, I realize the receptionist didn’t mention which signs I should follow. I’m staring up at them, confused, when a woman in scrubs approaches.
“Willow?” she asks. I nod, and she smiles warmly before gesturing for me to follow, leading me into the ward. “Welcome. You’re her niece? I’m glad you came. She hasn’t had visitors the entire time she’s been here, and her health has been on the decline lately…”
I barely register the rest of her sentence as the truth sinks in. Rachel Solomon doesn’t work here. She’s a patient. Guilt gnaws at me over the lie, but it’s too late to back out now, so I smile and nod as the nurse brings me to her room. I hesitate in the doorway before stepping inside.
It’s small, white, and sterile. A single hospital bed sits next to a window, and there, propped up by the pillows, is Rachel Solomon.