Blindspots Page 13
And yet…
Five more steps and he came to the wall. His hands sought it out, felt the cold concrete, then moved to the right and felt the outline of a metal door, cold to the touch. And there in the center, a raised imprint. Jake's hands backed away. He had no desire to trace out what he knew was there, the hourglass. Instead, he reached for the door.
Just as it opened on its own.
A stabbing light, a narrow crack at first, then an immense rectangular slab. And a large hand caught his shirt and a man's voice boomed out, "Mr. Griffith. You're not allowed down here."
Jake backed up, blinking, his eyes screaming, unable to focus. He could make out just the blurry shape grabbing him, outlined against the light.
"Sleepwalking," he muttered, thinking fast. "Got lost, sorry." Does everyone know me here?
"Get back to your room." The grip loosened.
"Yes, sir." Jake took a step back, allowing his eyes to adjust a little more. He peeked over the bald man's shoulder to see a room, red walls with all sorts of things hanging on them like museum pieces, and in the center of the room, a mass of electronic equipment, computer screens, servers and wires.
And then the door slammed shut behind the man who stood there in the resurging darkness like a nightclub bouncer.
"Go," he said.
Jake turned and headed for the distant pinprick of a light, following it like a lifeline.
What seemed like hours later, after an uneventful climb back to the third floor where he saw and heard no one, he eased into bed.
Eventually he drifted off, fighting the certainty that his dreams, if they came at all, would be anything but pleasant.
14.
Daedalus
Franklin Baynes woke just once, shortly after 5:00 a.m. It was his first moment of lucidity in nearly four years. The sedatives had worn off, and now he only felt a comfortable numbness, a little like sitting too close to a raging fire. He couldn't move, that much he determined at once. Straps holding him in place? He was lying on a bed with an IV hooked up to his left arm, and a tube up his nose. His ribs felt like he had been run over. Something was beeping.
The room was dark, but he could see a wall of windows ahead, exposed to a gloomy hallway.
And outside: a figure pressed up against the glass, looking in.
Franklin felt all the heat in the room leave at once. Shivering, he tried to raise his head, but couldn't move a muscle. Something was wrapped tight across his forehead, holding him fast. His wrists were bound. His legs too.
And with a rush, his memories returned. Memories of sitting propped in a wheelchair, a blur of changing faces on a screen or a white wall. One after another. Hundreds, thousands. Every day. Forced to stare at them as drugs numbed his body and clouded his mind. Unable to think, to dream, to remember.
Remember…
He could remember now, little things at first, tumbling into his thoughts and gaining clarity along with momentum.
A rolling series of smooth hills baking in the sun under a cloudless azure sky. The smell of grapes, the sound of bumblebees. Oh, sweet grapes. Each taste, a magnificent explosion of sweet and sour, blends of flavors so palpable, so potent. Bottles and vats, cases and more cases. He remembered it all. The meltdown at the awards ceremony. Checking into Daedalus. Meeting the woman.
He shuddered again.
The woman with the dark glasses. The woman with the voice that chilled his soul, flayed his thoughts and subdued his brain. She didn't need the drugs to keep him susceptible, they only augmented her already-indomitable control over his mind. He would do anything for her, at the slightest suggestion.
Even jump out a window. It was easy. It was what she wanted, and so it was what he wanted. He remembered the plunge and the impact: a wave of white, and a feeling as if he had been knocked out of his own body.
He had thought it was over, but now he was back. Needles and heating blankets, IV drips and bandages.
He was back.
But he couldn't move.
And someone was coming in, the same someone who had been silently watching him from the window.
At first he thought he recognized her, the woman with the dark glasses, the woman from his memories, the years of experiments, the years of drooling, the years of staring at faces. So many faceless faces.
He thought it was her, but now he realized he was wrong.
So wrong.
It wasn't a woman at all.
An old man hobbled towards him, cloaked in darkness and haloed in a crimson radiance – a man with receding red hair and searing eyes.
A grinning man clutching an hourglass.
15.
Daedalus
Monica woke before dawn to the sound of someone prowling around her room. She sat up straight and reached to the side of the bed, expecting to find the nightstand, and the 9mm. But then she blinked in the light filtering through the iced windows. Floodlights from outside… she remembered seeing them once in the night, when she awoke and saw that strange woman studying her hungrily.
This wasn't her room. She was somewhere else, somewhere unrecognizable, yet still familiar.
She remembered now. There was no gun here. They had taken it away before the trial. After… Paul. She felt suddenly weighed down with a crushing despair. One mistake, brought on by a lifetime of fear, a setback from a disease she never asked for. Was this it, all there was to life? One chance, one roll of the dice, and then live with the consequences? No opportunity for a re-roll? It was too unfair – the universe couldn't be that cruel, could it? But there was hope, perhaps a light at the end of this dark tunnel. A photograph, someone she recognized…
Again, something moved in the room.
She blinked, shook her head, tried to get the shadows to cooperate and stop moving. Then she finally caught a glimpse of gray hair, someone coming out of the darkness.
Gabriel. Dr. Sterling. Relief surged and memories fluttered back to her, as if returning after a long winter. The snowstorm, the long drive. He had brought her here, to the Daedalus Institute, had given her sedatives that put her out. He had been worried. Terrified.
And by the look in his eyes, nothing had changed.
"Put this on," he whispered, holding out white nurse's outfit. "I'm moving you, and you can't attract attention."
Monica frowned, pulled the sheets up, realizing her nightshirt had come undone. "Where? What time is it? What--"
"No time for questions. I'm moving you to a safe place." He helped fit the sweatshirt over her head. "At least, I hope it's safe. Next to my office is a supply room, and in the back there’s a utility closet."
"You're putting me in a closet?"
"No one will think to search there for you. And it's big enough."
She tried to squeeze some humor out of it. "Color TV? Private shower?"
"Sorry, strictly fourth-class this time around. But let's get through this and I promise I'll put you up in the Ritz."
"Do I have to? I'm…"
"Scared, yes I know. But there's no alternative. Trust me."
Monica tried to smile as she swung her legs out over the bed and then she remembered something. The picture he had showed her before she took the pills. "Can I see that man first – the one I recognized? Franklin Baynes?"
Gabriel looked away. "Sorry… I just learned…it's why I'm moving you. He's dead."
"What?"
"It might have been accidental. They're saying it was an overdose of his pain medication, but I can't take that chance with you."
She backed away. "What's going on here?"
"I don't know, not for sure."
"Isn't this your place? Your clinic? You're the head--"
"Not really." Gabriel’s voice was pained. It seemed like he wanted to say more but failed to find any words. He turned around and looked down as she changed, and then he led her to her a pair of comfortable slip-on shoes, warm and spongy just like the pair Paul had bought her for her birthday last year.
"Are there
others?" she asked as he reached the door. "Others like me? Like Franklin?"
"Yes. Two others just arrived. They came looking for you."
"Oh my God." She felt dizzy again, the room spinning. The winds battered the windows and the hardening ice creaked along the panes like nails on a blackboard. "I've brought them here to die."
"No. If there's any blame, I should shoulder it. I've let this go on, failed to protect my patients. I won't let it happen again. And I've got to…" His voice hitched. "…make this right."
She gripped his wrist as he opened the door with his other hand. I don't want to go out there. Out with them… with the faceless ones, the strangers. Nurses, other patients. She wanted to stay in her room, hide in the closet or under the bed, and continue to believe in the darkness where nothing was necessarily real.
"Come on," Gabriel whispered. "Let's get moving." The door opened and a heavy-set black woman in a white uniform stood there. "This is Nurse Elsa," Gabriel said. "She'll take you to your hideout. Stay there until I return."
Monica backed away. "You're not coming too?"
"Too dangerous if anyone sees us together. She'll be looking for me. There are cameras, and--"
"She?" Monica staggered forward and had to lean on him. "I saw a woman in the night – thin like a ghost, wearing sunglasses in the dark."
Gabriel shot a glance to Elsa, then gripped Monica's shoulders. "Alexa Pearl – she was here? Did you talk to her, did she wake you?"
"No," Monica replied. "She tried to wake me up, but I couldn't rouse myself. I sensed she was really angry – pissed off that my drowsiness – I don't know, it upset her somehow."
"Good, you should be okay then." He released his grip. "Keep your head down and move quickly. Any other orderlies that approach you, beware of them – look for a mark, a tattoo." He touched the side of his neck. "A snake, eating its tail, right here. Anyone with that tattoo is part of Alexa's personal guard. They don't work for me, so don't trust them."
"What will you do?"
Gabriel tried to smile. "I do have other patients, you know."
"The other two?"
He nodded. "I've got to make sure they’re safe as well. And see if there are any others coming, anyone else Alexa is expecting."
"How can she be expecting others? Have you figured out why I could see Franklin?"
"No, I haven't. Not yet. Listen, I need to check on the roads. If the storm lets up, maybe we can all get out of here in the morning."
Monica felt a nervous pit in her stomach. "Why do I have the bad feeling that tomorrow's too late? What about trying to leave right now? Got one of those snow-treaded all-terrain vehicles?"
"A Sno-Cat? No, sorry."
"Snowmobile? Skis? Snowshoes?"
"Sorry. We’re a little remiss in our winter survival gear. A fact I'll remedy for next year. Assuming I have another year left."
"You will," Gabriel said after a moment's pause, speaking with such an abrupt shifting of conviction that Monica couldn't object. "And I promise we'll leave at the first chance. I'll get you all somewhere safe while I return with the authorities."
As he eased her out the door, Monica dared to hope. But as soon as she let go of his arm and followed the nurse into the shadowy hallway, she had the sudden, sinking feeling that there were no second chances, no re-rolls. No fresh starts.
The blizzard had her sealed inside Daedalus, heaping snow over her like dirt over her casket.
16.
Logan International Airport, Boston
Kaitlin helped Virisha put their bags in the back of the Hummer, which had pulled up to the curb around the line of buried cabs, police cars and maintenance vehicles. The storm hadn't abated, only taken a small respite, but in the window of opportunity, flights were landing and ten plows were busy on the exit ramps and in the parking area, industriously moving aside the heaps of crystalline ice and snow.
Her hands were numb within seconds, her nostrils frozen and her lungs burning, but she did her best to assist Indra out of his wheelchair and into the backseat while his sister folded up the chair and set it in the back.
"All set?" asked the driver – a Mr. Hank Bristle, associate of Virisha's. As soon as Kaitlin slid into the backseat on the other side of Indra, and Virisha took the passenger seat beside Hank, the Hummer lurched forward and a blast of warm air blew across her face.
The snow began to fall again. The flakes trickled from the purple-black haze of the sky, glimmering and sparkling in the predawn gloom. An army of snowplows and salters preceded them on the roads.
"Highway's opened just now," Bristle said. "But the state is still under a 'no unnecessary travel' order."
Indra grinned at Kaitlin. "Doesn't apply to us. Special privilege."
"How?" Kaitlin asked, again wondering at his resources. "What exactly does your family do?"
"A little of everything," Indra said. "Contract work for various governments."
"Jobs others don't like to do," Virisha said.
Indra continued rubbing his hands together for warmth, and Kaitlin wondered if his legs felt cold, or if they were completely immune to sensation. "My father's company specializes in obtaining knowledge of systems, security and defenses – and especially people. Lucrative. But not always ethical."
"For someone of my brother's high standards," Virisha amended. "Believes himself a little farther advanced than the rest of us. Isn't that right, brother?"
He shrugged. "Believe what you will. Progression is not a matter of heredity."
Kaitlin blinked.
"What he's saying," Virisha told her, "is that the family bond isn't really that meaningful once you get right down to it. It's more about who you are at a spiritual level."
Kaitlin shrugged. "What does it matter? Someone's trying to kill us."
"It matters," Indra said, "and someday you will learn why. But you are of course, correct. For our current situation, we need only simple practicality, and for that – my family's resources are going to prove useful."
"So we've got permission to travel. What else? What do we do when we get there?" Kaitlin tugged at her ears, still thinking about London, about her dead friend, about the hunt that must be raging across England for her.
"Actually," said Indra. "We are not going. Just you."
"What?"
"Too dangerous for me, just yet. They will be on the lookout for me, and despite my family's resources, nothing can be done to get me out of this wheelchair." He patted his legs. "No, I would only be an impediment. And besides, there is something I must do first."
"So what about me, then? I'm just going to march in there? They're looking for me too, or did you forget they want me dead?"
"I remember." He reached into the front and took a black briefcase from his sister. Tapping open the locks, he studied Kaitlin. "As I said, my father's company is good at information. Not only obtaining it, but… modifying it where necessary. In here lies your new identity. You've already disguised your appearance enough, I believe, to get past their initial scrutiny."
"Lucky for us," Virisha said, "your appearance was quite… eccentric before. No one will recognize the real you."
"Great," Kaitlin said. "All those years of trying not to look normal, and now I've got to embrace it."
"You'll go in," Indra said, holding up a folder, "as Abigail Freise from Marlboro, Massachusetts. You've got Prosopagnosia, and you saw the news program and heard about Daedalus. Get yourself admitted, but don't answer questions about Monica in any way to tip your hand. And try to lose the British accent."
Kaitlin grinned. "What, you mean no 'gits' or 'buggers'? Or 'bloody hell'?"
"Exactly. Guard your expressions," Virisha added, "in case they show you her picture. Or Franklin's."
"Or Jake Griffith's," Indra said.
"Or the other one?" Kaitlin put her hands to her forehead. "There's one more, too that I might be able to see. You know what it's like. I don't think I can control my reactions around them."
"I know," Indra agreed. "But you will have to try. Avoid doctors at all costs. And do not trust anyone. Appear as normal as you can, just another Prosopagnosia-sufferer seeking relief. Get settled in – and learn what you can."
"Snoop around, you mean?"
"Exactly."
Kaitlin tried to smile. "Snooping I'm good at. Singing, not so sure. Running, escaping, not at all."
"Oh, I don't know," Virisha said. "I think you've done a pretty good job so far."
"And," Indra said, "I bet Pinkeye is a complete loss without you."
"Maybe. But I feel I'm only free, and alive – thanks to you," Kaitlin pointed out. "I'm lucky you saw me."
"There is no luck," Indra said. "Good or bad. There is fate, and there are spiritual connections, but no luck."
"Okay, Mr. Fortune Cookie. What else should I do?"
"We'll give you a satellite phone. Security-issue. Boosted. Untraceable and scrambled. You can call me at any time, and I'll need to contact you when I'm ready. Find the lay of the land, and determine a way I can get in, wheelchair and all, if I have to. Myself – and possibly a guest."
Kaitlin glanced at his sister.
"No," Virisha said. "No cloak and dagger for me. I'm the geek in the server room, doctoring up passports and playing video games. I've got to keep up appearances at the state offices."
"Who, then? Police?"
Indra shook his head. "Too early to involve them. Someone else. Someone I need to see, someone who may hold the key to all of this."
"Where?" Kaitlin asked, feeling the vehicle slide slightly, then correct as they took a turn onto the Interstate.
"In St. Claire, not far from Daedalus. A nursing home." Indra closed his eyes and leaned his head back. "She's eighty years old, and I only hope – still lucid enough to talk. That her memories are intact – or at least still reachable."
Reachable? Kaitlin shuddered, and again she had the image of a man holding out an hourglass, whispering to her, reaching into her soul, into her memories.