Blindspots Page 23

  She's right, Monica thought. This was important. This was real.

  That's what it came down to. This task of hers, it was real – maybe the only thing that was real. Everything else was just a trick of her imagination.

  So then, what's the point? It was a familiar voice, but still it took a moment to place it. Her mother's. Monica shut her eyes and pictured her childhood bedroom, an open book, and her mother's touch.

  Why become real, if only to end like this…?

  She started to climb.

  Slipped backwards, but pulled herself up and slung her leg over. It was time.

  A soft, smoky laughter obliterated her mother's voice. Time, it repeated, louder, and Monica heard what sounded like sand striking the bottom of a glass bowl, each grain booming, echoing in her soul.

  TIME!

  She got to one knee on the top, her weight shifting forward. Opened her eyes to the yawning chasm of welcoming space, wobbled forward, back, forward…

  And heard thumping footsteps…

  Another woman -- a girl really, with short hair and pretty brown eyes – came dashing up the stairs.

  Monica knew this girl, recognized her. Once more she dropped down and backed away from the railing.

  Get back there! Do it--

  Monica was about to call out when a gunshot exploded, the girl on the stairs crumpled and her scream tore through the air.

  #

  Ursula fired low, the bullet bursting through Kaitlin's thigh. Monica screamed and jumped farther from the railing while Kaitlin struggled to pull herself up the stairs.

  "Stay out of this," Ursula said, turning the gun on Monica. "Don't you have something to do?"

  Monica shook her head, trying to disperse the insistent humming that began as soon as she left the railing. It quickly became a chanting, rising in pitch and urgency. Ursula aimed at Kaitlin again. The girl had crumpled on the top stair, clutching her bloody leg.

  They need her alive, Monica thought quickly as she inched closer to Ursula and Kaitlin.

  "Stop," Ursula said, seeing her approach. "Or I kill her."

  "You won't kill her," Monica whispered, barely hearing herself over the chanting that had now become a roar. "Not yet."

  "True," Ursula said, steadying the weapon at Monica's face, "but I can kill you."

  "Your master won't like that."

  "Shut up." She took a step, closing the gap. "Why aren't you jumping?"

  Monica shook her head again, dislodging chunks of sound, flinging away clinging whispers and urgent rumblings. The gun in Ursula's hand was only a foot away, aiming right at her. In the corner of her eye, Monica noticed motion… Kaitlin getting up, a look of pure determination on her face. Monica smiled, an action that caused Ursula to pause. Kaitlin tensed, and then jumped up with her good leg, launching herself into Ursula.

  The gun went off, the shot sailing wide of Monica's head. Reflexively, she lunged, caught Ursula's wrist and held on, spinning with the momentum of Kaitlin's collision. Both women held on to the struggling nurse. Kaitlin tried to lift Ursula up, and then Monica tugged at her wrist, spun her around and helped Kaitlin slam the nurse back into the railing.

  Screaming, Kaitlin still had Ursula's waist in a bear hug. She heaved up, lifting her feet off the wet floor. The gun went off again, and a section of the glass ceiling exploded. The winds roared inside and Ursula howled as a jagged wedge of blue glass speared her shoulder and lodged there like a broken wing.

  Monica struggled. The voices urged, jump, jump… She pushed against the words, batted them away and projected all that energy -- all that fury and purpose – and helped Kaitlin shove the nurse up and over the side.

  Ursula's long, trailing scream echoed grimly past each level. So did the ensuing thump on the lobby floor

  Kaitlin hoisted herself up on one leg, still leaning on Monica, taking deep gasps of air. "Thanks."

  "Your leg…" Monica started to say.

  "I might live," Kaitlin said with a grunt. She pushed off, limping toward Gabriel's office. "Come on, we've got to get to Jake."

  Monica watched her go into the crimson-hued shadows. Then, she turned back to the railing.

  Reality check time. No more delays. No reprieves.

  The sands had run out. But she wasn't terribly sad. She had done something, made up for her crime, in a way. Given someone else a chance to make it. Another couple would have an opportunity because of her.

  Maybe now, Paul would forgive her.

  She hauled herself up and prepared to follow Ursula over the edge.

  14.

  Reaching for the ornate brass handle of the basement door, the handle she knew was right in front of her, Alexa stopped suddenly as a sickeningly violent thud behind her rocked the lobby's marble floor, sending vibrations up her legs.

  Alexa smiled.

  Goodbye, Monica.

  #

  Almost done. Her business was nearly finished.

  Good riddance to this life.

  Alexa kicked off her shoes and walked in her bare feet, descending into the basement. The cold was exquisite, an intense tactile sensation, causing shivers on the soles of her feet, even her toes. Her cane in her left hand, finger on the blade release, and Indra's fully-loaded pistol in her right, she moved soundlessly across the dusty basement floor.

  Whatever or whoever Indra has in there, I'll be ready.

  But would she? What if he had brought along a squad of marines with AK-47s? She wished Nestor was still around, that impatient fool, or Critchwell or one of the others; but when she actually thought about it, it was better this way. On her own. Going to meet her destiny alone, one shining, daring mortal who had managed to run off with the gods' secret. Taking a bite from the apple, scraping the bark off the Tree of Life.

  She'd beaten them, slipped outside the game board and stolen the prize.

  But there was still unfinished business she had to take care of. Maybe she should go back up first, deal with Kaitlin, then come down here with Ursula as her eyes, and let the nurse spring any traps the head-case Indra had left for her.

  But Atticus would not have waited. And neither will I. This was her institute. She had the home-field advantage.

  She pressed on, striding unerringly toward the vault door, having committed this route to memory after so many daily visits throughout the years. She sensed a dim light probing around her occluded eyesight, growing slightly brighter as she approached. The door's open, she thought, and stopped, listening.

  A voice inside.

  A familiar voice, talking in shocked tones, stupidly broadcasting his position – and his defenselessness.

  Just like a cockroach, she thought. Gabriel survived, after all. Alexa hefted the gun. Oh Indra, this was the best you could do?

  #

  She waited outside the vault, staying in the darkness, the shadows that had always been her ally, her lifetime associate. Who was Gabriel talking to?

  He did have a habit of muttering to himself. Annoying brat. The way he would study as a teenager, reading aloud, quizzing himself. As if anyone wanted to hear him babbling all that textbook nonsense. Atticus had wanted to shake him silly and pry open his eyes and force him to see the truth, but… it wasn't worth the effort. Not after what Atticus had found out about himself. About his true lineage. Tracing back to Silas, and before… long before that. He lamented all those lives wasted, the years spent wandering in the dark in the search of the same truths, over and over again.

  She knew many of the pharaohs has done it, had come back again and again for centuries, maybe millennia before either tiring of it all or just disappearing into the mountains somewhere, enlightened beyond all the mortals below. Wherever they were now, it didn't matter. She was making her bid to follow in their footsteps.

  People said it was the quest that mattered, not the prize. That was rubbish. How much stronger... how much better would we be, if born into complete possession of all our lives' previous labors? Then, we could truly advance. Evolve. A
ccomplish something! Anything we desired.

  It was enough to make Alexa's blood seethe. She was so close; she would not be denied.

  No more delays.

  She burst into the room, aiming the gun toward the sound of Gabriel's voice. The cane in her left hand was held across her body, supporting her firing hand, and ready for a sideways slash if necessary.

  "Finally made it in here, Gabriel? After how long?"

  The room fell silent but for the humming of the emergency lights and the server equipment and the rumbling generator. "Doing any good reading?"

  She didn't really care to hear a response. It was time to finish what Nestor should have done. She was about to squeeze the trigger when she smelled something odd. Something familiar. A moldy perfume smell and the toxic scent of old age. She cocked her head.

  And heard Gabriel's whisper, ever so quietly: "Shoot."

  Without thinking, completely by reflex, Alexa leapt backward, dropping at the same time and switching her aim. Another gun went off and Alexa immediately zeroed in on the shot's origin. Crouching, she fired. Three times in succession.

  She heard two high-pitched cries, then something slumped to the floor. The other gun clanked down after it. And Alexa crawled, crablike, to her left, swinging out with the cane until it contacted a soft body, then she reached out, felt for a thin, bony wrist. Searched for and found the weakening pulse.

  "Son… of… a… bitch," came the choked, familiar voice.

  Alexa stood up, training the gun now on the scrambling sounds from behind the desk. She heard Gabriel stop, and he made a gasping sound.

  "Mom, no…"

  "Unbelievable," Alexa said, fighting back the laughter. "Some things never change. Didn't you resort to taking mom to your senior prom, too, when no one else would go with you?"

  Alexa heard his sharp intake of breath. "So… now you're sure. Before you only half-believed it. But how else would I know that disturbing little morsel?"

  "Dad. You…"

  "Yes, me." She had enough of this. No more unfinished business. She aimed at the sound of his voice, and squeezed the trigger.

  Alexa listened, but after the resounding echoes – no scream, no crumpling body. Nothing.

  She narrowed her eyes, turned her head. He's holding his breath. Crouching, no doubt. Close to where he was. She aimed the gun a fraction lower. It didn't matter. She had eight bullets left.

  About to fire, she heard something. Only, it came from beneath her.

  No – that bitch…

  A hand circled her left ankle, holding it fast and then – stabbing pain. Alexa screeched as teeth sunk into her flesh. A laughing sound, then a gnawing like a dog ravaging a rawhide bone.

  "Goddamn you!" Alexa cried, kicking free finally, after two tries. Then she aimed down, and fired. Again and again left and right, strafing Darcy's body two more times. She followed up her shots with a kick into the now-immobile form.

  And then something slammed into her. With a shout, Gabriel pounded her into the wall. Alexa dropped the gun, and it went flying somewhere, clattering against a far wall. It didn't matter. She got up, shook herself free. She flicked the button on her cane, switched it to her right hand, and swung out in a fierce arc, feeling it connect with something soft – and rip through.

  Gabriel screamed.

  Where did she hit him? She swung again – and missed. Too high. Stabbed lower, like a fencer, jabbing here, then there.

  She heard him scrambling, kicking and rolling, grunting in pain. She had him. Just push him to a wall and finish him off.

  Something metallic scraped along the ground. To her right. She swung – and missed again, then reflexively ducked just as a gunshot roared.

  Bastard picked up Darcy's gun!

  Alexa rolled, feigned one direction, then darted, head down, back toward the darker patch in her vision. The open door. Another shot whizzed after her, another miss.

  He's still such a waste, she thought giddily, and then she burst through the door. Scrambled to the right now, plunging into the deeper darkness. Racing ahead, then making a right angle turn. With her back against the big pillar she knew was there, she held the cane's blade up before her face, inhaling the scent of his blood. She held her breath, and listened.

  Listened for the tentative footsteps that came slowly, inching out into the gloom.

  Into her element.

  Come and get me, son.

  15.

  Nothing to live for. That was it. The answer to the question she had been asking herself for almost two weeks now.

  After Paul, there was nothing left.

  Or was there? She did have this new family. Gabriel, and the others. Bound up together with a shared past, a terrible crime done to them. But who was left? For all she knew, those two in the next room were it, and Alexa Pearl was surely coming back to finish them off. And Gabriel… he was probably dead by now.

  Nothing to live for.

  She balanced once more on the railing. This, she promised the voices, would be the last time. She hefted herself up amid their thunderous clamoring, all of them encouraging her, urging her on; promising pleasures of all kinds at the end of her descent.

  Just jump…

  But mixed in with the voices were two others. Clearer, sharper. Laced with urgency, desperation. "Monica!" A woman's voice. Then a young man's: "Don't!"

  In answer, the diabolic host of voices rose, rumbling over the interlopers. Monica wanted to tell them to relax, to reassure them of her steadfastness. She was going, damn it, she was going. Pulling herself up now to her knees.

  I'm coming, Paul. She opened her eyes and looked up to the muted remnants of the stained glass overhead. What remained was still so beautiful, and what it revealed beyond – even more crystalline and kaleidoscopic. So heavenly, so Real. I'm coming. I—

  Something jolted through her body, an electrical pulse thousands of volts strong. Two small barbs punched through the back of her sweater. . Her muscles seized up, her legs gave out, and she slid backwards.

  Landing on the wet carpet, she looked up as the stained glass whirled around the faces of two angels bending over her.

  And then everything went dark.

  16.

  Gabriel slid on his knees in his mother's blood; felt for her pulse and choked back a cry. He closed her wide-open eyes. He couldn't help but stare at her face – at the huge, lingering grin and Alexa's blood still glistening on Darcy's teeth.

  Forcing himself into action, he reached over her and grabbed the bag Indra had given him. Zipped it open, rummaged inside and found what he was looking for. He slipped the night-vision goggles over his head and flicked the switch. Raising the .45, he stood, kicked off his shoes, lowered his head, and with a burning in his heart, for the first time in his life truly wishing death upon someone, he strode out into the green-tinted darkness.

  #

  Alexa heard him coming. She gripped the cane with sweaty palms and tried to control her breathing. This was where her lifetime of practice would truly pay off. Every other sense was on high alert, acutely aware of every sound, touch, sensation. Every smell. Even the taste of the air betrayed its currents, the movements of someone scurrying about.

  He was coming.

  Coming right for this pillar.

  How?

  Flashlight? She doubted it. She had moved quick enough, weaving and blending into the shadows, sliding from pillar to pillar, having them all memorized.

  Lucky guess? Probably. Although…

  Her bare toes flexed on the floor, digging around in the grime and dust.

  The dust…

  Damn.

  #

  Gabriel followed the footprints, so clear in the green-tinted haze. The little toes, the arches and small heel marks. A living roadmap pressed into the blurry dust. God bless her fanaticism for secrecy down here, limiting access to only her select few, excluding even the janitors.

  Picking up his pace, he followed, looking ahead, watching the trail. Around thi
s pillar, jogging to the next. Large strides here, baby-steps there. Weaving in and around and then…

  He stopped. Studied the tracks below him. It seemed these were different somehow. Heavier, like two feet had been pressed into each print.

  He looked up. Listened. Looked down again, staring at the marks.

  Was she that smart, that precise? Thinking ahead, expecting him to be able to see with a flashlight? Could she have so precisely recreated her steps? And done it while walking backward? And blind?

  Impossible. But…

  He backed up suddenly, hearing a very slight sound, a low, barely-audible breath.

  Something flashed in his green-tinted lenses; it whistled through the air, a swipe that would have slashed open his throat. But Gabriel had turned, spun and saw Alexa, crazed with those bulging white eyes, snarling face, her mouth open in a silent death-cry. She had come bursting out of the shadows. The cane above her head, bearing down on him again.

  We can't kill her...

  His own words came back at him. But he had no chance to think. He squeezed the trigger. The recoil knocked him back as he cringed, expecting Alexa's downward thrust to skewer him anyway. They would both die together; father and son, their blood filling one pool, their hands at each others' throats until their lives ebbed away.

  But the impact knocked Alexa off her feet and sent her reeling back. She slammed into a pillar and slid down slowly, as if in slow motion. Finally, she just sat there, legs open, mouth wide. She said something Gabriel didn't catch in the echoing gun blast.

  He crawled toward her, keeping the weapon pointed at her face.

  The cane rolled away from her fingers, and her head tilted until he was sure she was looking right into his eyes.

  She grunted, coughed up something dark, and felt along her breast for the neat hole above her heart. "Nice shot, boy." She coughed again. "But you haven't won."

  Gabriel slid closer. He put down the gun. Reached for her. Could he try CPR? Close the wound…?

  "Goodbye, son." Another cough. Voice getting weaker.