David Silva: The Disappeared

The parking lot was empty, except for a pair of tail lights in the distance, on their way out the long drive. D.C. watched them momentarily, wondering whose car they belonged to, then he went back to the control room to check the monitors one last time.

Downstairs, in the basement, Jake had finally gotten the door open. A wall of smoke came pouring out and immediately filled the basement landing. The monitor flickered, this time inside the room with the two boys. They were huddled together, behind a gray screen of smoke, appearing for all he could tell, lifeless.

Another flicker and D.C. found himself watching the last few seconds of the fight between Mitch and Walter Travis. The two men, wrapped together like twine, went sailing out the third story window, a couple of idiot martyrs bent on giving themselves to the afterlife. Foolish men did foolish things.

D.C. hovered over the monitors, his arms braced against the console, and realized the end had finally arrived. He stood, and searched the surroundings, trying to recall if there was anything he needed to take with him. But there was nothing left but trouble here.

He turned the light off on his way out of the room, a habit that was strangely metaphorical. Behind him, the middle monitor flickered, and Jake showed up on the screen, carrying Cody Breswick in his arms. He carried the boy out of the room, over to the stairwell and set him down. Cody took in a spastic breath, then another, and his eyes opened slowly.

Jake went back to look for the Knight boy.

Teri was on her way down the stairwell between the first floor and the basement, when she encountered Cody. The boy had made it to the mid-landing and he was lying on the floor, too weak to go any further. His face was covered with soot, his blue eyes shining like diamonds in the coal.

“Cody?”

He nodded.

“Oh, my God,” she said. She knelt and gave him a hug meant for all the children just like him. Those who had made it. Those who had not. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you’re still alive. Are you all right?”

He nodded again, his eyes clearing.

“Where’s Gabe? Do you know where Gabe is?”

“Downstairs,” he said.

“You stay right here. And when I get back, I’ll help you, all right?”

“All right.”

She discovered Gabe sitting on the last step, just before the basement landing. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. There was the streak of gray in his hair that had seemed so devastating before, and now seemed only to signify that the circle had finally been closed. They were together again.

Teri shook him gently by the arm. He opened his eyes and smiled. An incredible rush of relief filled her lungs. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Think you’re finally ready to come home?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grinning. “It’s only been ten years.”

Sleep comes in cycles. It weaves in and out of your experience like a ribbon in the wind. Weariness, exhaustion, boredom, routine, all these call it forth and send it back again, hunkering in the corners of your dreams. Sleep is the way you rejuvenate your body, refresh your mind, change your perspective. It is a necessity, no less important than the food you eat, the air you breathe.

Death is the sleep of the soul. It is a necessity for your renewal, for your expansion. Do not cower in the shadows when death comes knocking. Greet it eye-to-eye with a hardy handshake and know that it comes like sleep in cycles.

Teri never saw D.C. again.

Several months later, after she had learned more about the Karma Project and its history, she called CIA headquarters in Washington. She asked to speak to an agent, any agent, and when one came on the line, she gave the man a brief background on the project, how it had unfolded, the people who had died, and how there were now some eighty-seven children scattered around the country, their lives permanently scarred by what the CIA had done.

It was when she brought up the name D.C. that the agent first began to protest. Until then, he had been patient with her, listening without comment, neither confirming nor denying anything she had said. But that tactic quickly shifted once she had tossed D.C. into the mix. The agent adamantly denied that any D.C. had ever worked for the CIA in any capacity whatsoever, past or present, and suggested several times over that she was obviously mistaken about the man’s connection with the agency.

Teri grew exasperated to the point of finally interrupting him. “Look, let’s not waste my time, all right? I’ve only got a few minutes and you need to know exactly what I have in mind. So pay attention.”

The man on the other end grew quiet again.

“If I don’t receive notice within one month that this man is no longer involved in the CIA or any CIA sponsored activities, I will immediately go to the press. I will sit down with them and I will share everything I know about the Karma Project and every piece of documentation I have in my possession. You following this?”

“Yes,” the agent answered quietly.

“You get notice to me within the next thirty days that D.C. is out in the cold and the issue becomes mute. My documents will be destroyed, and you won’t have to worry about Karma embarrassing the agency or the country. You got it?”

“If you’ll just let me—”

“Don’t waste my time.”

She gave the agent a post office box in Reno, Nevada, where he could contact her, and then she hung up. Her hands were shaking, her heart pounding. It was the most frightening thing she had ever done, and the biggest bluff she had ever played. Once the receiver was back in its cradle and she was out of the phone booth, walking down the street again, Teri felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. For eighty-seven children, it was already too late. Their lives had been shattered. But maybe it was early enough to prevent any future children from a similar fate. She could hold out that hope, at least. However dim it might be.

Four weeks later, a newspaper article arrived at the Reno post office. It was forwarded to another box at another office, and from there to another box, under yet a different name. By the time Teri held it in her hands, the news had been old: Malcolm Winters, a man in his late thirties who traveled and was often away, according to his neighbors, had hung himself from a chandelier two weeks before. He was survived by his wife of seven years and three children. He had been despondent lately about money problems, according to the article, which also went on to detail some four other women who were claiming to also be married to the man.

Across the top of the article, written in red ink, were the initials: D.C.

A red line had been drawn through the initials, diagonally, top to bottom.

Michael finally connected with Teri after she had rescued Gabe from the Devol Institute. He had spent that day staking out the offices where Dr. Childs ran his practice, and that night staking out the house where Dr. Childs lived. But Childs had never shown up at either place, and well past midnight, Michael had returned to his motel room, disappointed and wondering what to do next. The following morning, Lieutenant Sterns called and invited him back to the station under the pretense of another interview.

Teri and Gabe were there waiting for him.

Ten long years had passed, and their family was finally whole and back together again.

It was only for a short while.

The truth began to set in less than forty-eight hours later.

Michael and Gabe had spent most of the day miniature golfing and at the movies. Later, they stopped by the house to pick up Teri and the three of them went out to dinner together. After dinner, Gabe grew tired. He went off to bed late in the evening, and Teri and Michael sat across from each other at the kitchen table.