Blindspots Page 3

  "What now?" she hissed. Her nose wrinkled. "Nurse Stamers, is it?"

  God she is good. If Gabriel didn't know better, he might have speculated that Alexa had just been wearing white contact lenses and faking all this time. She was so quick – just from the nurse's perfume she could tell who had entered the room.

  "Ms. Pearl," said the thin brunette in white scrubs. "There's something on the news. You told us to keep an eye out. A case in Philadelphia. We thought you… and Dr. Sterling would be interested…"

  Alexa's head whipped around to Critchwell. She pointed a bony finger. "Search the Web, find it! Nurse Stamers, what's the name?"

  The nurse looked at the sheet of paper in her shaking hands. "Monica Gilman. And --"

  "That will be enough. Kindly shut the door behind you." In the regrouping shadows, Alexa stood, and her hunched silhouette lurched on the wall as she moved in front of the projector bulb. "Email me the link, quickly!"

  Critchwell tapped some keys and the story appeared on the wall, replacing the latest of the faces from the slideshow. Gabriel teetered uncertainly, caught between deciding whether to rescue his patient or to wait and see where this was going.

  Back at her Braille-equipped laptop, Alexa's fingers moved over a small wheel. A conversion program using ASTI code existed on most Web pages, and she had software that translated emails and documents instantly, feeding the output to a wheel-shaped device below her fingers. Her lips moved as her brain processed the translation from her fingertips. Faster and faster, her fingers trembled until they stopped and lifted off the wheel. "Find me a picture!" she ordered, jumping to her feet and standing in the path of the projector, which thrust her shadow onto the wall.

  "Put it on the screen. Now!"

  Critchwell scrolled down in the story and clicked on a picture, enlarging it. A clear news photo of Monica outside a courthouse, frightened eyes, red and puffy, looking out over a sea of reporters. Franklin moaned, a think line of drool seeping from his open mouth. His vacant eyes stared at a spot in the center of Alexa's shadow.

  "Ms. Pearl," Critchwell pointed out, "you're blocking it."

  Alexa cursed. She stepped out of the way and sat down precisely into her chair.

  Gabriel decided now was the time to get Franklin out of this, pull off the electrodes and kick these people out of the room. And then it's time for Ms. Pearl and me to have a long overdue talk.

  But suddenly Franklin screamed – a high-pitched, wailing howl. His brainwaves spiked, and the monitors flashed angry crimson lines and blinking numbers. Alexa's head spun sideways, her mouth open in muted surprise.

  "Holy shit!" said Critchwell.

  Gabriel froze. "Impossible." The word drowned in Franklin's still-trailing scream and the machine's insistent alarms. "It's got to be some kind of mistake." But then he saw Franklin – poor Franklin, who rarely seemed more animated than a dead tree – jerking in his chair, convulsing, pointing to the woman's face on the wall, to the dark, sad but magnetic eyes; the narrow chin, the haunted expression only too commonly seen within this institute's walls. Gabriel knew that face only too well. But Franklin–

  Franklin saw it. Saw her. It was undeniable. The test was conclusive.

  Somehow, impossibly, Franklin Baynes recognized this woman.

  #

  Alexa Pearl lunged forward, into the path of the projector, then stood there, arms wide in a messianic pose, facing the wall.

  "This is it!" She spun around, pointing. "Dr. Sterling, get on the phone with this woman's attorney. Now! And then, take the next flight to Philadelphia and bring her back here."

  "She's on trial for murder," Gabriel objected.

  "Get her acquitted! Given the facts, they're probably leaning that way already. Have them release her into our custody. We'll take full responsibility."

  "But--"

  "Dr. Sterling! Even someone of your limited influence should be able to manage this."

  Gabriel's mind was still reeling. He mumbled something as she continued talking, her monotone voice crackling. "This is your top priority, Dr. Sterling. And play it up to the cameras. Get on the news, talk up the condition – make it a grand and dramatic announcement, a chance to enlighten the world about Prosopagnosia. And to bring Daedalus to their attention."

  Dizzy, spinning with a sense of unreality as if he had just stepped into a disjointed dreamscape, Gabriel stumbled for the door.

  4.

  Philadelphia – November 26

  The arraignment began at 9:30 a.m. Monica Gilman was in the courtroom at nine, waiting, watching the clock over the empty judge's bench. Her lawyer sat at her side, trying to calm her, to assure her this was just an arraignment, that she wouldn't have to relive the incident. They were just entering the ‘not guilty’ plea and moving on, preparing for the trial – which, he also assured her, would not come to pass. She was a sympathetic defendant, a devastated widow.

  He told her this case had already become something of a sensation. Happily-married woman shoots her husband in self defense, believing him to be an intruder. A distraught woman, in obvious hysterics over what had to be viewed, even by the prosecution, as a monumental tragedy.

  Plus, she had a condition, albeit a strange and rare one. He had just heard from a specialist, and this doctor, a psychologist really, was on his way from Vermont. When he arrived, they planned to speak to the D.A. and the judge together.

  Monica listened, but she didn't care; the affairs of the trial were as distant to her now as the memory of her fleeting happiness, the sense of perfect belonging she'd had with Paul. All of it gone, forever out of reach.

  This at last, was real.

  Relive the incident? At this point, once more wouldn't matter. Her mind had been locked in cruel replay mode all week, forcing her to endure the same scene over and over, except now she noticed the obvious details: the roses, the sneakers he always wore around the house, the ring…. And yet, helplessly, she always pulled the trigger again and again, and with each shot her guilt struck like the bullets themselves, tearing into her heart, pulverizing it beyond recognition.

  She had been pushed past the limits of anguish over what she had done, and now, as if sensing all bets were off and the floodgates open, she had gone deeper, fishing for an earlier trauma to drag out in the open.

  A similar courtroom. Fifteen years old, she had been put on the stand, asked to identify her mother's killer, asked to relive another horrific trauma. Back one summer night from a double-date, she had walked past the open front door without even registering that the top hinge was broken. Her boyfriend was behind her, followed by Jim and Kelly, coming to drop off Monica. And maybe they would stop in and chat with her Mom over some apple pie before heading home.

  They almost knocked Monica over when she stopped suddenly, two steps into her house. A body lay in a heap, and Monica couldn't make sense of where her mother's familiar paisley nightshirt ended and the torn skin began; there was so much blood, so many loose flaps of intermingled fabric and flesh. It wasn't until her friend screamed that Monica even realized where she was, what was happening. All she could think was that same phrase, her mother’s words that matter-of-factly explained how anything in life could happen: that this was as real as could be.

  That scream jolted the figure standing over Monica's mother, a black silhouette melding with the hallway's deepest shadows. He had been just standing there like an artist admiring the quality of his work. But instead of a paintbrush, a straight-razor glinted in his hand, fresh blood dripping from its edge

  She saw him, and he saw her – then he saw her friends, the two big football players. He turned and bolted straight through the living room window like it was a paper wall, and raced into the night.

  Her three friends didn't get a good look at him; but Monica did; or at least, she had been in a position to see him. And when her father returned, minutes later, back from a well-deserved night out at a ball game, and he saw what had been done to his wife – his high-school sweetheart, the
only love of his life, and he saw Monica nearly comatose from the shock – he did the only thing he could think to do: he told Monica to be a good girl and help the police catch this monster and put him away forever; and then he went upstairs, sat in the bathtub and wrapped his head in a towel. He was always thoughtful like that, careful to pick up after himself and not create an undue mess for his girls to clean up. Then he put the barrel of a Colt .38 in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Monica had already picked her mother's killer out of a lineup – a minor triumph given that she had to guess; the five men they brought in were the same height, with the same hair styles and body builds. She had a twenty percent chance, and she went with her gut feeling – after a prayer to her mom for help.

  But while she had guessed right that time, and her selection had supported the detective's other corroborating evidence – a bloody shoe print match near his house – the bastard got himself a good defense attorney.

  One who did his homework. He had checked up on Monica's history, interviewed the right people at her school and on her track team; and then he hit paydirt, digging up some interesting nuggets, namely the one thing she desperately needed to keep hidden.

  And so, the defense attorney put her on the stand. The defense attorney in his blue pin-striped suit and power red tie asked her only one question. But it was a doozy.

  He asked if she would be able to pick him – the attorney – out of a group of three people. Amid the chuckles from the jury, of course she had to say yes. And she was reasonably confident. She was told to leave the room, then return. In the meantime, the attorney changed his outfit – took off his suitcoat and tie and sat in the second row. And from the side room they brought in three men, all the same complexion, body type and hair – and all wearing blue pin stripe suits and red ties.

  Monica was led back to the stand, and made to choose. She looked helplessly at the D.A., who only shrugged and seemed annoyed at the defense's stalling tactics. If he had been a little sharper on the uptake he might have objected and got the trial turned around. As it was, he demurred, and Monica had to choose.

  Thirty-three per cent chance this time, she had thought. Better odds than before. Surely, luck would be on her side again.

  So she made her choice. Again went with her gut—

  And knew immediately she had been tricked. The gasps from the jury, the shockwaves through the crowd, the delayed reaction from the D.A. demanding a recess.

  Then, back in the judge's chambers, she had to sit and nod and admit it all, everything the defense attorney had found out.

  She had Prosopagnosia. She'd been diagnosed with it many years earlier – after suffering with the condition all her life, believing into her teens that she was normal, that everyone saw the world the way she did – everyone had trouble seeing faces, making connections, recognizing anyone.

  Recent studies showed that five percent of the population had some form of Prosopagnosia, the defense's expert witness explained to the jury and the stunned courtroom at the trial of her mother's killer. Five percent. But only in the most extreme cases, like Monica's, was it this severe. She couldn't recognize even her closest friends. She couldn't identify her own parents at the morgue, for God's sakes. And for damn sure, she couldn't point out her mother's killer. Not accurately.

  Reasonable Doubt. No question. End of trial. Killer goes free. Smiling, grinning in that blurred-out hollow face, shifting pale eyes mocking her as he walked out of that courtroom.

  Prosopagnosia.

  She had coped all her life. Found methods of recognizing people. Training her senses in other ways. Memorizing hair styles, her mom's perfume, her dad's aftershave. Fashion tastes. But mostly, she relied on people's voices. Sometimes she had to wait until someone spoke before she knew who was coming toward her. But she coped. She managed.

  When she met Paul she had told him about her condition at once, believing she had to be upfront about it. And he had understood.

  At least, she thought he did. But, apparently he was too much the romantic. Old habits died hard. He wanted to surprise her for their fifth anniversary, but damn it, she had warned him time after time – don't wear hats, keep familiar, recognizable clothes and styles. Always, always announce yourself first if you think I'll be surprised.

  Of course, he had expected her to be asleep, and he had planned to sneak into bed with the flowers, wake her sweetly, and…

  And now the scene shifted, and the replay began again. Gunshots and a hot blast of blood, skull and brains.

  She bit her lip and suffered through it, trembling until it passed. I killed him. I killed my own husband.

  Forcing herself back to the present, she focused on the clock and stared at its face – so clearly defined, so precise, every Roman numeral stark, black on white. Her lawyer's muted words rolled past her like tumbleweeds as she watched the second hand mindlessly circle around and around the captive numerals.

  "…Dr. Gabriel Sterling," her lawyer said, raising his voice. "From the Daedalus Institute. Are you listening, Monica? He'll be here at noon. He's eager to diagnose your condition, and with his testimony, I'd say we have a good chance of…"

  Her lawyer droned on, but Monica heard only buzzing, a low hum that came from an awkward mouth in his blurred and jumbled face. She recognized her lawyer only by his voice, which was remarkable only for a sort of nasal quality, like someone with a perpetual cold.

  At 9:30, a large man in a black robe ascended to the bench as the bailiff and the crowd of reporters and spectators rose to their feet. Monica followed her lawyer’s lead, but felt like she was the last to move and everyone was waiting for her. She kept her head down, intent on not looking up, hoping to avoid the usual trauma of seeing a room full of faceless strangers, of having her mind wrestle with the shifting, unfocused images, the features that just wouldn't stop drifting. Chimeras all, each and every face she ever saw.

  It was the same every day.

  Her whole life.

  #

  The plea entered, bail set and made, Monica was escorted out by her lawyer and a deputy. At least she didn't have to stay in prison. But the prospect of going home was intolerable; heading upstairs, walking over the spot, the bloodstains that would never come out, somehow making it past all those photos on the wall, feeling the recriminating stares from people she couldn't even recognize.

  She decided she would get a hotel room. She didn't have anywhere else to go; no other relatives, no one else to help. Monica doubled over as she left the courtroom, feeling like someone had kicked the wind out of her. Flashes went off over her head like anti-aircraft missiles. Cameras and reporters swarmed toward her, everyone jostling for a shot, a quote, or just an up-close look at what a Prosopagnosiac looked like. Microphones were thrust in her face, and her lawyer pushed them aside as the deputy cleared a path.

  Still the cameras followed – news teams rushing toward her from their vans. The sun, intense for such a cold day, bore down on her as the crisp wind bit through her sweater and sent a chill deep into her lungs. She swooned, and the world spun as people shouted and called out to her. Blurry faces bent around flashing lights and probing microphones. Somewhere above, a helicopter hovered, its blades rumbling. She smelled winter in the air – dead leaves, brittle twigs; and she thought of Paul.

  Pushed into their waiting car, Monica sat while her lawyer stayed outside, giving some kind of remark to the press, something about her condition, promising to release more information after speaking to a specialist.

  As Monica sat in the back seat, she risked a glance into the crowd. The reporters were still scrambling to get close. The sun dipped behind a cloud, the world flickered and turned a sepia-color, like old photographs, and she froze. She saw someone staring at her between the jumble of bodies in the way.

  An old man, with thinning red hair and steel-rimmed glasses. He was wearing an ill-fitting brown suit with a midnight-black vest and a faded red bowtie; he alone remained motionless in the bustling crowd,
gazing intently in her direction.

  The hairs on the back of Monica’s neck stiffened and her forehead started to sweat.

  Oh my God.

  And then he vanished – blending in with the onlookers, but not before Monica got an unobstructed look at him, and she saw his face, his clear face.

  It wasn't the first time – she had seen it before, in the only place she ever could truly see someone: in her nightmares.

  She heard a mumbling sound, rhythmic like a chanting, and in a delayed reaction she realized the man had been holding something – a gold-plated antique hourglass, another recurring image in her nightmares. For a moment it was as if she had slipped back into one of those horrific, inescapable dreams: the world shifted, turned gray, then menacing and full of shadows. And there was the old man, leaning out of the darkness toward her, whispering something incomprehensible, something she had to hear. And there was that hourglass, glinting in the dark.

  But just like in her nightmares, it was at this point she jolted out of it, shrieking awake and desperate to convince herself that it wasn't real.

  Only, the vision remained, fading slowly: that hourglass, red sand inside, flowing the wrong way, sifting back up.

  5.

  London

  Kaitlin Star, known to her few remaining friends as 'Kat', and until recently by her fans as 'StarKat', lead singer and songwriter for the London grunge band, PinkEye, rolled off the couch, clutching her head with both hands. She landed on a pile of stained clothing, cigarette butts, pot-pipes and beer bottles. She felt like she was lost on the moors, trekking in a fog, surrounded by a blurry landscape.

  Where in bloody hell am I? was her first thought, quickly overrun by: What did I do last night?

  She checked her hands, relieved to find them free of blood, then looked down at her body – the lean, if too-thin figure, the ribs peeking out from her half-shirt below the still-perky breasts. She was only twenty-four, but this morning she felt more like sixty.