Blindspots Read online

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  She followed Brian up the stairs, around and around, almost getting dizzy. Holding onto the ornate wood banister, trying not to look down, Kaitlin asked about the facilities. "How do you get supplies up here during storms like this?"

  "Oh, don't worry," he said. "We've got a large garage on the west wing, with an entrance to the lobby and a loading area that backs right up to the kitchen – and the basement. Trucks can pull right in there, and we load everything up a short ramp."

  "Then we won't starve."

  "No, ma'am."

  They rounded another flight, then headed into a corridor with paintings hanging just slightly crooked, and overhead lamps that seemed too dim for safety. A few patients were strolling around, some looking out the windows, others heading back to their rooms.

  "How many doctors are there here?" she asked on the way.

  "Three specialists, a couple interns and a whole lot of us orderlies and nurses." He smiled at her, his swirling face moving like a Mr. Potato head with the features all jumbled and jammed in haphazardly. "Dr. Gabriel Sterling is the head doctor. It was his father who founded this place. Atticus Sterling. That's him right there."

  He pointed to an oval picture at the end of the hall, just next to room four-eleven.

  Kaitlin couldn't quite see his face either, but with a start she recognized the hairline, the brown cross-stitched suit with the black vest and red bowtie. And something about his eyes. She never could pick anything out from a person's eyes, even Slider's. Other than color, unless it was something distinctive. But something about this man's eyes… The way they bored into her, flickering with a red glow; they seemed to follow her approach, looking at her with utter distaste, revulsion. And… was it – expectation?

  Like he knew she'd be back.

  Her mouth went dry.

  "Ma'am? You all right? You're room's right here."

  She shook her head, still locked in a stare with Atticus Sterling. She thought of a golden hourglass and had a stark vision: this man leaning over the desk, leaning towards her, telling her to watch the sands, imagine that they were moving upwards, and to watch – and listen to his voice.

  "My God," she whispered. "Is he--?"

  "Colorful guy," said the orderly, "from what I hear. But sorry, you can't meet him. He died, oh… thirty years ago at least."

  Thirty years… Kaitlin swooned. Impossible.

  What the hell was happening to her?

  She lurched into her room, mumbled her thanks, then slammed the door. Fell to her knees, and peeked back through the crack under the door, expecting to see another shadow coming towards her – maybe Atticus himself, stretching and ripping and tearing his way out of the portrait, dropping to all fours and clawing his way toward her with hungry red eyes.

  21.

  Daedalus

  Gabriel stood outside his office, pretending to fumble with the doorknob. He kept an eye on the cameras, then pushed through the door. He wanted to make sure they saw him going in; he needed them to assume, with his absence, that he would be working diligently inside. Elsa had confirmed that Monica had made it inside without notice – she and Elsa just appeared to be going in, delivering the morning reports.

  He had cancelled his morning appointments, a fact he imagined wouldn't bother too many of his patients. The storm had left them all out of sorts, more concerned with watching the news in the lounges, tracking the extent of the damage, or just drinking hot chocolate and enjoying what amounted to a snow day.

  Gabriel paused, thinking about the conversation down in the cafeteria. The hourglass. It was his father's signature hypnosis aid. Gabriel was only twelve but he remembered when Atticus came back from a trip to Hollywood, how proud his father was, showing off the actual prop used in The Wizard of Oz. Even then, Gabriel was unimpressed; the gargoyles and the red sand were nice touches, but otherwise it was nothing special. Later, Gabriel had to admit, it worked. Patients focused on the red sifting sands, and it worked to dull their mind, to correlate with a sense of time, the prospect of infinity and their own relation to it. And soon enough – they'd be under.

  But how were these new arrivals involved? How could they be? Gabriel opened the door, heard it creaking slightly on its hinges, then stepped into the supply room, and across, to the other side, to the door that was already opening.

  Monica stood there, a fire extinguisher in her hands.

  Gabriel stopped, giving way to a smile. "Where's the fire?"

  She lowered it, set it down against the wall. "Sorry, doctor. Old habits. Heard someone coming in, and I--"

  "You were right. Don't take chances."

  She looked down, breathing heavily. "And another thing – to help me recognize you, if you don't mind, please keep the same clothes on for a while."

  "Sure, no problem – at least as far as I'm concerned. My other patients might start complaining about the smell around me, but otherwise I'd be happy to not change for you.

  "At least that shirt, the white collar and blue stripes are distinctive. And your hair."

  "Yeah, my gray. Happened at twenty-two. I should color it, but…"

  "No. It's…" She stared for a moment, then looked down. "Perfect. For your position, that is. Lends respect."

  Gabriel laughed. "Thanks, I think. Now, come on out, have a seat. There's little time, and we've got a lot to do."

  Gabriel had her sit on the couch, a leather recliner with deep cushions.

  Monica said, "Wait, did you meet the others?"

  "Yes, just now. Two men."

  "Who are they?"

  Gabriel held up a hand. He had taken off his suitcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and now sat in a maroon leather studded chair in front of her. "Who they are can wait. It's what they told me that matters now. It's got me baffled. Just when I think I'm understanding, I'm thrown for a loop."

  "So what do we do?"

  Gabriel leaned forward, his silver curls falling over his eyes. "With your permission, I'm going to try hypnosis. It's something I rarely use, but I don't know what else to do."

  "What's it going to prove?"

  "I don't know. We've got a kid from Florida who's never left the south, a guy from Nevada who lived in a motor home for half his life, a winemaker from California, and then… you. It's possible some of you came here years ago and then repressed the event, but I remember all my patients, everyone who has come through these doors. I would have known." He took a breath, then continued. "I'd like to try this. The only way we're going to find out the truth is by taking you back, freeing your mind and seeing if I can uncover what you've forgotten.”

  "If anything's there."

  "Something's got to be there."

  "And you've done this before?"

  Gabriel nodded, suppressing a shiver. And I've seen it done – enough sessions watching Dad at work. Gabriel had tried it on some early patients, when conventional procedures weren't working. He had some success, at least in overcoming patient's paranoia, allowing them to cope a little better, adjust and function in society.

  Monica looked nervous. "So what do we do? Do I follow a candle's light? A pocket watch on a chain?" Suddenly her eyes glazed over, her lips trembled, her teeth chattered. "…an hourglass?"

  Gabriel leaned in. Her, too? "Why did you ask that?"

  "I… I don't know." Her fingernails were digging into her legs, and Gabriel reached over and took her hands, steadied them, tried to soothe her.

  "I know where to start, then," he said. "Now, I need you to relax. Forget about where you are, forget about everything. Just think about the snow falling outside, and the wind, and then listen to the sound of my voice."

  He got up, dimmed the lights, and returned to his chair. "Comfortable?"

  "Getting there," Monica said, her breaths coming out deeper, more subdued.

  "Good. Here we go."

  #

  "Go back to the last time you were here at the Daedalus Institute."

  It had taken nearly fifteen minutes to get her under completel
y, and she had struggled, her mind wandering, her thoughts resisting. Gabriel had to try a couple different tactics of distraction and relaxation before succeeding.

  "Tell me where you are."

  Monica shifted, frowned. Her eyes were closed. "In an office," she whispered. "Dark, a few candles on a desk, and one glowing on the wall."

  "You're at the Daedalus Institute?"

  "Yes."

  Gabriel put aside his shock at the confirmation that she had indeed been here before, somehow without his knowledge. "Do you know why you are here?"

  "Yes. I came. I volunteered."

  "Volunteered?"

  "Yes," she said, her lips curling into a smile. "I fit the profile."

  Gabriel scratched his head. He had no idea where this was going, but most times it was best to follow where the patient led you. It often ended up at the source of the problem. "What was the profile?"

  "I had a birthmark."

  "You did? Okay, where?"

  "My back, just under the right shoulder blade."

  Gabriel frowned. What did having a birthmark have to do with anything the Daedalus Institute did? This wasn't helping.

  "Back to the office. What else can you see?"

  "There's… someone sitting there, behind a desk, someone – no, I don't want to look at him. I won't."

  "Okay, relax. Tell me something else."

  "I won't look at him."

  "Don't. Just look away." Who was she talking about? Just where the hell was she? He decided to try something else.

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty," she answered promptly, tension easing from her voice.

  "No, not now." That was Monica's age, or at least close to it. Was she rounding? He dismissed the inconsistency. "I mean, how old are you back in the past, when you first came to the Daedalus Institute?"

  "Thirty."

  That's impossible. Could she have come here just last year? He would have known it, would have seen her, even if Alexa had some secret project on-site. Daedalus just wasn't that big a place.

  "Tell me, when you were here last, did you see a woman – a blind woman?"

  "No." Monica swayed slightly, like a tree in a light wind.

  "Think carefully. In the room, or greeting you when you arrived. A woman with dark glasses?"

  "No."

  Gabriel scratched his chin. "What time of year did you arrive?"

  "July. The fifteenth, I think."

  Last year, in July or four months ago? Impossible.

  He rubbed his hands together. Time to work in the others. "Are there more volunteers? Like yourself?"

  Monica smiled, nodding. "Yes."

  And now, Gabriel thought, the million-dollar question… "How many, including you, are in your group?"

  "Six."

  Gabriel blinked. Six? He knew of four, but also suspected Alexa was still expecting more. Two more?

  "What do you all share in common?"

  "Just birthmarks."

  "The same kind, the same place?"

  "No. Just a birthmark, something noticeable."

  "Okay. Are these others in the room with you now?"

  "No… he sees us one at a time. But afterwards, we can meet and talk and eat together. Some of us…" She smiled. "We're making friends."

  "Friends?"

  "Yes. We've been here awhile. I think two of them are hitting it off."

  Gabriel frowned. "How long have you been here?"

  "Two months."

  What the hell? That was impossible – she would have missed two months of her life. A huge gap like that – and so recent? And if she were here for two months, he would surely have remembered it – there weren't many patients as striking as Monica.

  Damn hypnosis. So unreliable. He sat back, shaking his head. This wasn't working… or else he was just bad at it. False memories. Had he been asking leading questions? This was why hypnotized people were so often reporting alien abductions and obscene sexual experiments or early childhood abuse.

  This was all just a waste.

  Like him.

  Gabriel kept running his hands through his hair, tugging at it. He got up, started pacing. What else to ask? Just take her back. Go into her childhood, see if there was something traumatic buried there. Maybe she was juxtaposing dates, confusing the past with her present situation. That had to be it.

  But why did she say July? Age thirty he could understand, but she wouldn't have misplaced the date, not when the snowstorm was so prevalent.

  "Tell me, Monica, is it snowing outside?"

  Monica sat there, swaying, eyelids flickering as if dreaming.

  "Monica?"

  Her lips were sealed tight.

  "Is it snowing where you are?"

  "No."

  Gabriel frowned. Why the delay in answering? He thought back over the questions, replaying each one, and her responses, in his mind.

  No, that couldn't be it.

  His lips dried up, his heart started thundering in his chest. "Monica?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Monica, if you're hearing me, say 'yes'."

  She said nothing.

  Gabriel tapped his fingers together. Time for 'Simon Says'.

  "Okay… say 'yes.'"

  "Yes."

  "Monica, how old are you?"

  Nothing.

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty."

  Oh Christ. Here goes.

  "What is your name?"

  She smiled. "Elizabeth. I prefer Lisa, though. Lisa Ellison."

  22.

  When Jake returned to his room to wash up before running back down to meet with Nestor, Alexa Pearl was waiting. He saw her, froze and tried to back out, but the big bald guy was there behind the door, along with the nurse, Ursula. The man slammed the door and hauled Jake inside.

  "Not too rough, Mr. Critchwell," said Alexa. She stood up, motioned to the desk chair which had been set out in the middle of the room, and Critchwell set Jake down in it.

  "Thanks for not keeping me waiting," Alexa said.

  Jake struggled as Critchwell held him down and Ursula secured his arms behind the chair with duct tape. "What the hell are you people doing? Seriously, now's not the time for this kind of kinky shit. Really, I--"

  "Quiet," Alexa said, gliding in and placing a finger against his lips. "Don't scream, this won't hurt."

  "Wha--?" A needle slid into his arm. Ursula’s tattoo seemed to revolve in his vision, spinning around and around, the snake devouring its tail over and over again. And then he realized the snake wasn't moving at all: the room was. Spinning faster and faster.

  His head lolled back, and Alexa's dark glasses seemed the only constant in the whirling room. They pressed in close, and he could see beyond the lenses: twin pinpricks of white, watching with cold impatience.

  #

  "Are you with us, Jake? All better now?"

  Alexa leaned in, lightly slapping his cheek. Smoothing back his hair. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a wash towel.

  "Yes," he murmured, eyes glossy, body limp, hanging forward.

  She nodded to Critchwell and Ursula. "Wait outside."

  When they had gone, Alexa sat on the bed, crossed her legs and leaned forward.

  "Listen to my voice, Jake Griffith. Listen good. Trust me, we're going to some interesting places, you and I."

  He nodded, his head lolling from side to side. "Mikey," he whispered.

  Alexa flashed him a look of annoyance. "Who?"

  "My brother… Mikey… I lost him. Didn't stay with him. Mom, Dad… I'm sorry."

  Alexa nodded. "Oh, such a sad tragedy. So your brother… you want to see him?"

  Jake nodded.

  "It's why you've come here, right? To be cured, to see again. To find your brother, maybe your parents?"

  "Yes."

  "Poor Jake. Poor, poor Jake." She took a deep breath. "Don't worry, you'll see him again."

  He tried to lift his head to the sound of her voice. "Promise?"


  "Cross my heart," Alexa whispered. And hope to die. When I'm done here. "Are you ready to be cured?"

  #

  Too easy. She brought him under without any setbacks. Between the relaxants and her skill with the Voice, it was simple. And given his willingness stemming from his guilt about losing his family… Too easy. More difficult was navigating the labyrinth of his mind and finding the exact route to the vault. The core of his consciousness, which had been constructed to resemble this very basement vault. The room with the symbol over it.

  And inside… the root of all his problems. And the lingering obstacle to her plans.

  She had already done this for Franklin Baynes and Nestor Simms -- eliminated the danger there. Two down, four to go.

  "Jake, are you there?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you see?"

  "A door, with… with an hourglass on it." He shuddered. "I don't want to go in."

  "I know," Alexa said, suppressing a grin. I bet you don't. "But trust me, we have to. So you can be cured, so you can see your brother. Do it for him. For Mikey. Open the door."

  "Okay."

  Almost done.

  "Are you in?"

  "Yes."

  "What's in there, what do you see?"

  "Just a table, and that hourglass. A big one, gold trim."

  "The sands – which way are they going?"

  "Up," he intoned. "Always up."

  "That's right." She smiled, proud of that image. "Now, Jake. Listen carefully. Look down at your feet. There's a sledgehammer there. A ten pound sledgehammer with a long handle and a silver head. Do you see it?"

  "Yes."

  "Pick it up."

  "Okay."

  "Both hands low on the handle. Approach the table, bringing the hammer behind your back."

  "Okay."

  "Now… swing!"

  Jake's legs tensed, his arms twitched. His head rocked from side to side. His torso swung as far as the restraints would allow.

  "Is it done?" Alexa asked, leaning close. In her blindness, she imagined the scene in his mind. "Destroyed?"

  "Yes," Jake whispered, his voice taking on a note of awe. "Shattered. So many pieces… the sand everywhere. Dissolving, and the pieces… they're fading."

  "The room?"

  "Empty now."