Blindspots Page 12

  "Was she?" Kaitlin asked. "Adopted?"

  "She was not. But her father felt disowned all the same, and has been an emotional wreck ever since. He lost touch with her for years, until finally he brought in a private detective to track her down, which is how he found her at the Daedalus Institute."

  "How'd she get that gig, anyway?"

  Indra smiled. "That, as they say, is the million-dollar question. Why does a blind twenty-one year-old young lady with no degree, no prior experience in psychology or medicine, just waltz into a private research facility and become its manager overnight, displacing as I've found out, the reasonable alternative – one Gabriel Sterling, son of the original Daedalus founder?"

  Kaitlin stared at Indra again. "But still, I'm dying to get there, to meet Monica. The others. You don't understand. It's like suddenly I know I have family, and–"

  "Believe me, I do understand. The attraction is devastatingly powerful. Which is why I am being cautious." He studied the picture of Alexa Pearl again, the one of her poised like a high priestess on the grand stairway inside of the Daedalus Institute, with a flock of attendants below her.

  "Thank you," Kaitlin said, as tears welled in her eyes, emotions threatening to crumble her from the inside out. Finally, she wasn't in this alone any more. Finally, her life had a direction. She was headed somewhere. Somewhere dangerous, for sure, but that didn't bother her as much as the curse of stagnation, the lack of a future.

  She was about to ask Indra what else he knew, or what she could do to help with his research, when she heard him gasp, drop the folder and stare over her shoulder. She turned, and it was as if the air had just been knocked out of her lungs. On the TV – another face she recognized without knowing how or why. But this one… it was even more powerful, and she reacted as if thousands of volts were ripping through her bones.

  She stared at the man in a red jumpsuit, his hair long and wild, eyes hardened yet touched with an unfathomable sadness – the hint of young boy who had never had the chance to grow up.

  "Turn it up," Kaitlin whispered, but Indra was already reaching for the remote control.

  "Meet Jake Griffith," he whispered, and for the next minute they listened to the report about a manhunt up the east coast for an escaped convict who had murdered two guards. He was believed to be heading north, past Philadelphia and could be trying to reach Canada.

  "Not Canada," Indra whispered. "Daedalus. He's headed there too."

  12.

  Daedalus

  Gabriel burst into Monica's room. In the darkness, for just a moment, he was sure he saw the outline of a spectral shape bending menacingly over Monica's sleeping figure.

  He flicked the lights and the shade vanished. Monica slept on her side, eyelids trembling, her breathing deep and relaxed. Gabriel scanned the room, looked inside the closets, behind the door, then back to Monica. On edge. Seeing things.

  He gently pulled up her covers and nudged the hair back from her face. He stopped. What was he doing? Don't get emotionally involved. Not with patients. Wasn't that his rule?

  But where did that leave him? Forty-eight years old already, a family life passed over in pursuit of finding a cure for Prosopagnosia, an obsession that had consumed his youth, his relationships and his future.

  All for what?

  He stood staring at Monica, at his trembling fingers inches from her face, thinking about the lost past. He lowered his hand slowly back to his side.

  Turning off the light, he edged out of the room and eased the door shut. He took a deep breath, steeling his thoughts, and headed for the staircase. The lights flickered and the hallway seemed to glow in a blue haze, as if a phosphorescent fungus had overrun the walls. Three flights up, past his office on the top floor, past the records room and the conference room. He strode past the library, past more patient rooms, to the last door on the eastern wall. Again the lights flickered, and he suddenly worried the power would fail tonight, the heat would die and the lights would vanish. They had an auxiliary generator, like most care facilities, but with everything going on tonight, with everything seemingly going Alexa's way, it would only be fitting that the lights went off so she would have an even greater advantage.

  Alexa. Just her name got his blood boiling. He had to confront her. No more waiting, no more digging through records, no more speculations, rumors and gossip. This had gone too far. A nurse had almost died, and one of his patients had needlessly been placed in danger. There would be an inquiry, and he would make sure Alexa burned for this.

  He stormed toward her office as the lights dimmed again and the windows on the east side trembled, rattled, and spear-length icicles swayed from the roof. Reaching her door, he turned the brass knob and stepped in. Two large flat screen monitors sat on her enormous oak desk, and Alexa sat between them, arms spread, hands working both keyboards simultaneously while she stared straight ahead as if expecting him.

  One of her aides – Critchwell, the bald man in a black turtleneck – stood on the right side of the large office, the office that used to be Gabriel's, and before that, his father's. Behind Alexa's chair, on the wall above a glass-enclosed bookshelf, hung a six-foot tall framed portrait of Atticus Sterling. His father's visage looked down on Gabriel with an expression that seemed to be an eerily similar match to Alexa's own glowering look.

  "Dr. Sterling" As if reading his mind, she said, "Who else would be so inconsiderate to barge into my office unannounced? And at such a late hour? Don't you have a bed somewhere?"

  Gabriel fumed, took two more steps to the desk, but then felt his legs withering under his father's scowling face. That portrait – he had stored it in the basement, in the back of the archive rooms, but Alexa had found it, brought it up and hung it back in its old place where Atticus used to stare at it every morning, as if in awe of himself. That same damn suit in the portrait that he always wore – the brown striped jacket with a black vest, and the red bowtie clumsily secured around his neck.

  Making two fists, aware of Critchwell's tense stance, Gabriel said, "Why did you send Monica's nurse away?"

  "Why did you drug Mrs. Gilman?" Alexa snapped back.

  "Because she was hysterical."

  Alexa cocked her head. She reluctantly took her hands away from the keyboards and folded her arms over her chest. "Did she have this reaction when she saw the Institute?"

  "Yes, she did and--" Gabriel frowned. "What are you saying? Has she been here before?"

  Alexa sat motionless, not responding.

  "What have you done to her? Why did Nurse Stamers just try to kill herself?"

  Alexa opened her mouth. "Ah, Nurse Stamers. How is she?"

  "Resting in the infirmary. Sedated. We'll get her to the hospital tomorrow."

  "If the roads permit."

  Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You didn't answer my question. What did you do? I demand--"

  Alexa cut him off. "You're in no position to demand anything. As I said, you're only here for appearances sake."

  "Fuck you."

  Alexa stood up, placed her palms down on the desk. "This is my institute. You… you're nothing but a waste."

  Gabriel paled, took a step back. Looked up at his father's painted eyes, burning at him. A waste. That's what he used to call me. He could never please his father, never. No matter what he had done, how well he excelled in his studies, none of it made an impact. And after his father's death, nothing changed. What had Gabriel really accomplished? No cures, no progress, nothing. He was a waste. His efforts were never good enough: not then, not now.

  "Something to say, Dr. Sterling?"

  His voice cracked: "I want to know."

  She shook her head, the twinge of a smile on her lips.

  "These are my patients," he said. "I will protect them."

  Alexa shrugged. "You have your treatment methods. I have mine."

  "We'll see which of ours the Board of Ethics approves. I'm calling them, having my staff document each and every violation. They'll be here at the fir
st chance."

  Alexa held up her hands. "I have nothing to hide. Now, if you don't mind, I'm very busy." She leaned over the desk and began scanning again with her fingers.

  "Doing what?" Gabriel asked.

  But the man with the snake tattoo was moving forward, coming to usher him out.

  "Get some rest, Dr. Sterling," Alexa called without looking up.

  Gabriel made a decision. He would not cave in to her again, and he wouldn't wait for the Board and their long process of investigation. Monica needed help now. He was sure that any further delays could be fatal. He had to act.

  But before he could move –attempt to get around Alexa's associate and rush the desk…turn the monitors…see what she was doing – the door at his back flew open and slammed against the wall.

  A nurse barged in. Celia Woods, from reception. Her face was red and snowflakes were still melting on her hair.

  "Ms. Pearl… Dr. Sterling – there's been an accident. Franklin Baynes…"

  "Yes?" Alexa said, without a note of concern.

  Gabriel couldn't move. He was rooted to the spot, staring at Alexa, at the unmistakable smile on her face.

  Nurse Woods continued, "He jumped. Found an unlocked window on the fifth floor in an unoccupied room. We heard the sound from the lobby. He landed in a snowdrift, and it took time to find out what the noise was – I'm sorry, we thought it might have been a clump of snow falling from the roof, but we went out and finally found him."

  "How is he?" Gabriel asked, not taking his eyes off Alexa.

  "We took him to the infirmary. Severe hypothermia. Broken collarbone and some ribs. Internal bleeding, it looks like. He needs to be in a hospital."

  "We can care for him," Alexa said, and Gabriel noticed that her smile had faded, replaced by a darker expression he couldn't quite place.

  "No, we can't," Gabriel said. "We're nurses and psychologists, researchers. Not surgeons."

  "We have a well-stocked infirmary," Alexa countered. "And no one's getting out in this storm. He can wait."

  "It's not your decision," Gabriel said, reaching for his cell phone. "I'm calling 911. Both he and Nurse Stamers need hospitalization. Now."

  He looked down at his cell phone, where the words 'No Service' blinked back at him.

  "Shit." He looked up to Nurse Woods. "Are the phones--?"

  "Out," she said. "A few minutes ago. Wires are down everywhere. Cell phones having trouble finding service, more so than usual out here."

  He stomped out into the hall, pulling Nurse Woods out with him. The door eased shut, and the last image he saw was his father looming over Alexa, both of them wearing matching smirking faces.

  13.

  Daedalus

  They were almost there. And as Nestor ground up the last mile and toiled up the last hill, his passenger slunk in the seat, huddled and looking shell-shocked.

  Nestor couldn't worry about him now. Maybe Jake would rise to the challenge and become a valuable ally, but Nestor wasn't counting on help from anyone. Nothing else mattered but his mission. Finding and defeating the Scourge.

  And finally he was there, sliding to a stop as the snows parted to reveal the gothic spires, the crimson-eyed windows, the icicle-draped rooftops, and the great iron door opening before his headlights.

  Welcoming him to Daedalus.

  #

  "Come this way, I'll show you to your rooms."

  Jake stepped onto the marble staircase first, holding onto the polished brass rail, while Nestor followed him. He was in awe of the view up from the lobby: the impossibly high, tower-like stained-glass ceiling overhead, the outer railings of the five levels above each one overlooking the marble floor below. Dizzy, he lurched after the woman in the tight black v-neck sweater and black pants.

  "I'm sorry," he said, "Nurse –?"

  "Markoff. Ursula Markoff." The lights dimmed and flickered suddenly. The nurse's face, the usual mass of blending features, seemed even more blurred somehow, as if that quarter-sized tattoo of a snake eating its tail on her neck was shedding its skin, further obscuring the nurse's face.

  "Can't we take the elevator?"

  "No, not during a storm. Can't risk a power outage. Don't want to get trapped in there all night, do we?"

  Jake was about to say something clever about not minding being stuck in a small room with a hot nurse, but decided it wasn't appropriate. And besides, Ursula creeped him out, and Nestor… It was unnerving to be in the presence of someone he could actually see.

  He followed close behind Ursula, watching her hips, the nonchalant movements of her arms that didn't quite mask the fact that she was tense.

  A few steps behind him, Nestor quickly caught up and moved ahead of Jake. "Where's Monica?" he demanded as they rounded the second level. "We came here to find her."

  "You'll all meet in the morning," Ursula said without turning.

  "All of us?" Jake asked, stopping, out of breath. "Who else is here?"

  Ursula turned up to the next flight of stairs. The third level was dark, doors in each direction shadowed and murky. "There are others. As I said, you'll all meet tomorrow."

  Flashing Nestor a look, Jake shrugged. "Don't you just love meeting new people?"

  #

  Nestor's room was down the hall, the last one before the stairs, next to a small sitting room. Jake's was in the opposite wing. Nurse Markoff lingered in the doorway for an uncomfortable moment, as if expecting a tip, before she bade him good night.

  "Get some rest, and we'll see you in the morning."

  Jake took a peek at the digital clock by his bed. "So, in a few hours." He glanced around the room, tiny by most standards, but still like a hotel suite compared to his jail cell. "Is room service still open?"

  "Breakfast is served between 7 and 10 in the morning. I advise getting there promptly at 7. We will be coming for you at 8."

  Coming for me? The door closed and he held his breath, expecting to hear the sliding of a deadbolt, locking him in or maybe some creepy organ music coming from some other floor?

  Best not to waste time even trying to sleep. He waited a few minutes, then opened the door. Out in the hall, he stood, wavering. Should he go to Nestor's? See if he was up for talking, try to figure this out together?

  No, there was something about the big man that made Jake uncomfortable. Better to stay on his own right now. Without another thought, he headed for the stairs.

  #

  A few moments later he saw the cameras. Blinking red lights on each floor, in the back corners of every hallway. Tight security, he thought. Am I back in prison? He supposed the patients needed to be monitored so they didn't hurt themselves or anything. Insurance.

  But it raised a red flag, and suddenly he felt vulnerable, in danger. He moved quickly, silently on the soles of his bare feet; his sneakers were back in his room, drying on the radiator. The floor was cold, but served to sharpen his senses, kept him alert and awake. He stuck to the shadows, hoping that whomever was watching the monitors was either asleep or otherwise too busy to look carefully.

  He scouted out the next two floors down, finding only more of the same – twenty or so patients’ rooms, several sitting rooms and conference areas, snack machines, linen closets and shared rest rooms and showers. Then he crept down to the lobby level and paused, still out of sight of the main desk. It was too quiet down there; he couldn't go exploring the lobby, not yet.

  Jake followed the stairwell down to the lower level. One flight up, the nurse Ursula was talking excitedly with someone, and Jake thought he heard the names, 'Nestor' and 'Ms. Pearl', and something about arranging a meeting. Then he was out of earshot, rounding the bend and descending into the darkness.

  Might as well explore down here, he thought. He turned, rounded the corner, and then suddenly felt as if he were stepping into a marsh, dragging his legs through thick, swampy water. His chest seized up, his throat tightened. All at once, he started to sweat.

  The feeling crept over him, nearly as intense as t
he sensation in the pit of his stomach when he first looked up from the lobby at all those winding stairs. Or when he first saw Nestor, and Monica.

  He'd been here before.

  Shaking, grabbing the rail for support, he went down slowly, needing to regain his will before proceeding. Then the stairs ended and he was at the entrance to a large area, lit sparsely by a few domed lights on a low-hanging ceiling crawling with pipes, air ducts, wires and cobwebs. Deep shadows lurked in every corner and congregated around concrete pillars spread out like a maze around the floor.

  From somewhere he heard the echoes of a slow, steady drip, drip, drip. Jake moved carefully, imagining black-clad guardians poised behind the pillars or masked in the shadows, ready to pounce and silently slice his throat.

  Steel doors glimmered, almost glowed, every so often on the walls, with small plaques on them. He got close enough to read the series of dates, 1950-1960 and 1960-1965. Archives. Jake tried the first door but it was locked. He kept walking, heading deeper into the room, where the lights were sparser and the shadows the thickest. He couldn't tell if the basement ended there or continued, but he knew… He just knew that there was a door up ahead.

  A silver door. A thick door, like a bank vault.

  How did I know that?

  A door with something on it… a carving.

  An hourglass.

  He froze at edge of the light's meager reach. Ahead lay only thick and soupy blackness. He reached out a hand, waved it around in the inky gloom to make sure there wasn't a wall or some immediate obstacle, and then resumed walking.

  Five steps. Ten. He was in complete darkness now.

  Still that dripping sound, getting closer.

  Fifteen.

  He glanced back. The light seemed an impossible distance away, a dying star in the black void.

  But he knew where he was headed.

  He'd been here before, he was sure of it.

  How? When?

  His whole life had been spent in Florida, most of it in seclusion aboard the houseboat. Every year since his escape was either spent on the beach or in jail. He had never been here.