Blindspots Page 4

  What had happened last night? All she could remember was getting dressed up, staining her face with the angriest crimson flames she could paint, then highlighting her hair with red and blue waves, spiking it high and fitting herself with an exotic breed of metal nose-rings and the usual silver loops through her eyebrows.

  She had planned on it being a rough night for someone. Slider had finally set her off for the last time. Bad enough he had stolen the one hit song she had written in her short-lived career, bad enough that he had kicked her out of the band, broke up with her and started dating that flat-chested slut, Fennie, but then last night he had the nerve to invite her to the band's premiere at Crouch End. And once there, he and Fennie had proceeded to mangle every one of Kat's songs before an increasingly drunk and hostile crowd.

  At some point, when she couldn't take it any longer, she had hurled a bottle at Slider and then stormed downstairs, where she found a couple couches full of stoned-out teenagers; she accepted a joint and a glass of something foul from some boy probably still in high school, and then…

  Her flashback sputtered. She heard a sound she finally recognized as snoring. There on the couch – a young man, shirtless, with a black sheet over his waist, tangled around his bare legs. She crawled closer to him and took a look at his face.

  Of course she couldn't make out anything there. Just a blur of unrecognizable sludge. What’d I expect? His hair – buzz cut, of course – like ninety-percent of the blokes she met lately. Useless. She could never tell any of these losers apart. At least he seemed close to her age.

  After a moment's thought, she carefully took hold of the sheet and slowly pulled it down. Just taking a peek.

  No help there. Nothing memorable.

  She then fumbled through a pile of clothing – his pants and shirt; and there, in his back pocket – a beat up brown leather wallet.

  She opened the flap, dug around inside the jumble of cards – mostly VIP passes to various seedy clubs – and finally found his ID – just as his snoring stopped.

  "Lookin' for something, sweetie?"

  "Shit." She turned.

  The guy was sitting up. He let the sheet fall away. "I'd gladly pay you tomorrow for another tussle today."

  Kaitlin groaned. "Don't flatter yourself…" She glanced at the name on his ID, but no longer needed to confirm it. She had recognized his voice. "Roger. Jesus, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you…"

  Roger was PinkEye's drummer, and a good friend of Slider's; he was also Fennie's ex-boyfriend. So he and Kaitlin had something in common – they had both been fucked over by Slider. Dimly, Kat remembered Roger coming down the stairs last night, seeing her in the midst of all those punk kids, stoned out of her mind, immune to their pawing and groping; she remembered him pulling her free, bringing her back to his flat. A six-pack and several hits later…

  "Sorry," she whispered again, holding her head. "That was some night. I – we shouldn't have--"

  "Yeah, I know, doll. I know, I'm just your old bloke, Roger, but still – we have something, you and me, don't you think?"

  "Not while you're still with the band. Not while I'm still…"

  "Shunned?"

  "Whatever. Slider's a sodding prick, and one of these days…. I – I'm going to kill him."

  "Harsh, babe. Can you at least wait until we can find a new lead guitar?"

  Kat laughed. "Think Fennie will ever come back to you?"

  "Don't want her. No offense, but after Slider's had his paws on her…"

  "That didn't seem to bother you last night, if I recall."

  Roger smiled. "Long-time fantasy, doll. Couldn't pass up a chance to shag with StarKat."

  "Whatever." She grabbed her pants, slid into them, suddenly realizing she wasn't even wearing panties. Screw it. Got to get out of here.

  "You really have to go?" Roger asked. "I was thinking, maybe we could…"

  "I'm leaving. Thanks for looking out for me, Roger, but I'm… I'm just going."

  "Kat--"

  Her cell phone rang as soon as she buttoned her jeans. She pulled it free from her back pocket, grateful for the interruption and the excuse to check out, and glanced at the caller ID.

  "Trish," she said, as she waved to Roger and opened his door. Tricia McKinley was her flat-mate of three years. A decent friend, if a little stuffy. Not quite as trashy as Kat, or as pierced, or tattooed, or rebellious or anything else. But she never preached, never got in Kat's way.

  "Hey Kat, you okay?"

  "Bloody awful, thanks for asking."

  "Sorry, love. Anyway, I was expecting you'd come home last night, but I'm just glad you're okay. If you ask me, you need a break from the band and all those assholes."

  “No one asked you." The door closed and she stood in the graffiti-scrawled stairwell, alone with the smell of urine and cigarette smoke. "Sorry, didn't mean that. Listen, I'm on my way home. Save me one of those scones if you haven't eaten them all."

  "You got it. But there's another reason I was calling. You know that one night we were stoned?"

  "Jesus. Which one?"

  "The time you told me about your problem – about recognizing people, how difficult it is for you to see--"

  "Yeah, yeah." Shit, I don't need this now. "What about it?"

  "Well, I think you're not as unique as you think."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" She had lived with this condition all her life, learned to cope early on, practicing on her father – on the rare events when he came home from wherever, seeing how quickly she could point him out as different from the other men Mom had over when he was away. Hair color, the way he dressed, the way he smelled – musky with a hint of menthol from his cigarettes. How he walked, slightly hunched over as if the weight of life had finally grown just too much.

  "I found an article online last night while I was waiting for you to come back. It was a news story from the States. A woman there – Monica something – killed her husband by accident. Couldn't recognize him one night when he came home early from a trip; thought he was an intruder. Shot him four times."

  "Jesus, that's fucked up."

  "Yeah, but she got off. Get this – a doctor from some special clinic spoke to the jury and told them she's got this condition, right? Sounds just like what you've got. So she's been acquitted, and she's going to this place up in the mountains, and--"

  Kaitlin swooned, and had to grip the handrail to stop herself from falling down the stairs. For a second, she saw, clear as the sun – the burning image of a castle in the snow-capped hills.

  "Save the link," she whispered, as a thousand faceless figures circled carousel-like in her thoughts, a thousand strangers coalescing into one constant adversary: an old man with thinning red hair, holding a gleaming hourglass up to her face and whispering something unintelligible.

  "I've done better than that," Trish said, and Kaitlin imagined a touch of pride in her voice. "I made a call to this clinic – it's called the Daedalus Institute."

  "No, you didn't. Trish!"

  "I did, and you'll thank me for it. I told them I was you, and I answered some basic questions – just about your age, if you had any distinguishing birthmarks."

  "Why would that matter?"

  "I don't know, but hey – I told them about that cute triangular mark on your inner thigh that I thought was a tattoo."

  A moment of strained silence when neither one spoke, then: "They said someone's coming out to interview you, to show you some pictures and stuff, and if you're a fit, they'd like to bring you back – all expenses paid. Plus provide a sweet stipend to be part of an experiment with others like you."

  Kaitlin groaned. "No thanks. I don't want to go, I'm not ready to--"

  "You don't have to go alone. I'll come too. I've got nothing going on, and it'll be a great little trip. Never been to the States."

  "Trish…"

  "I looked up the place on the Web – it's unbelievable, nothing but snowy mountains and trees. No one around for miles, and the
clinic's like this spooky gothic mansion. We'll have a blast!"

  "Bloody hell." Kaitlin held her head. "When are they coming?"

  "Soon. The woman said she had someone already here in England who could stop by, which I thought was odd, but whatever. So get your ass back here soon and get cleaned up. Try to look at least a little presentable. Maybe take out your rings, wash your hair and go back to being a brunette?"

  Kat flipped her phone shut and slipped it back into her pocket. She leaned against the stairwell. And she thought about Slider and Fennie, Roger, and a blur of faces and nights just as unmemorable. Her life, for more years than she could count, had been just as indistinct and forgettable as every face she'd ever met. What could be the harm in a little change of scenery? A chance to get away from this hellhole, from her old 'friends' – losers and pricks the whole lot.

  A chance to clear her head. And they'd pay her for it?

  She stood on the top stair, fidgeting, trembling. Her flesh broke out, her heart raced. Then her paralysis broke. She ran down the stairs, urgency finally overcoming fear.

  6.

  Cape Canaveral

  After forty-eight hours, Jake Griffith finally emerged from the 'Pit' – what the guards and inmates of the Cocoa Correctional Facility called the four-by-six steel room with one vent, a disgusting toilet and a dirty sink. As soon as the door opened, he got off the floor where he had been doing sit-ups in the dark. He smiled to the two faceless guards and to the massive, unmistakable shape of Officer Fenrik waiting in the hall.

  "Top of the morning to you all."

  "It's 6:30 at night, you dumb-fuck." Fenrik glowered at him and clenched his fists. "Have a nice time in there?"

  "You bet, and you know what – I thought about your wife the whole time. Figured in the dark is probably the way she likes it, anyway, right? Doesn't have to look at your ugly--"

  Jake quickly retreated behind the guards who sprang into action, restraining Fenrik. He was sure he'd catch shit later, but right now it was worth it – and essential that he didn't give this weasel a chance to gloat.

  "Welcome back, Griffith," said the shorter guard. "Hurry up. Your goddamned dinner's getting cold."

  #

  In the mess hall, the second shift of inmates was just finishing up their meals and heading out to the yard for evening exercise; a few hours later and they would be herded back for the night like sheep into their pens. Jake got his tray and trudged down the buffet line, looking over the cardboard-thin turkey slices, the dry mashed potatoes. Starving, he took a heap of everything, trying not to look up at the balcony where Fenrik was strolling, watching his every move, hoping for another slip up.

  Don't mind me. Just the model prisoner down here.

  He sat by himself after nodding to two inmates from D-Block who were just cleaning up. He did a quick scan of the ID numbers on their shirts, although he could tell who they were by other methods. Charlie Benson – two counts of armed robbery, a tattooed pair of dolphins under his rolled up sleeve; and Nickie Simmons – assault with a deadly weapon and drug possession, bald with a raggedy gray goatee; each doing five to ten. Jake started eating and looked up to the small color TV hanging from the ceiling.

  Jake spooned the dust-flavored potatoes into his mouth as he watched the news. On the screen, a faceless reporter stood in front of a courthouse in what looked like a bitter wind and a light snowfall. Suckers. Should move down here with the gators and bugs.

  The reporter was talking about a murder case and a defendant who had just been acquitted, and now her doctor was addressing the media, explaining that whatever malady the woman had was the cause of her temporary insanity and had resulted in this horrible tragedy.

  Jake was barely listening, glancing up only occasionally. The doctor – a distinguished gray-haired man who could have been Richard Gere for all Jake knew – stood there looking comfortable in his suit like he was used to the cold. He backed up and pointed to his patient, motioning for her come forward.

  Jake looked down at his food. All that time in solitary – it had affected him far more than he let on to Fenrik and his goons. It was like a sensory deprivation tank in there, and he had seen too many visions in the dark, in the long waking hours when he couldn't tell if it was day or night.

  Of course, he had seen the hourglass: that antique-looking golden-rimmed object with gargoyles on the sides, and filled with red sand. It had haunted his dreams all his life. He remembered when he first saw The Wizard of Oz. The evil monkeys and the Wicked Witch he could handle; but it was that hourglass, the one the Wicked Witch used on Dorothy, giving her until the ruby sands ran out, that set him off. Six years old, he went screeching from the room and his parents never let him watch it again.

  He figured it was just something about that movie, the reason he kept seeing the hourglass in his nightmares.

  Those dreams, he was used to. Those he could handle.

  But while in the darkness in solitary, he had also seen something he had spent years trying to repress, something that made him cringe every time he saw it, even on a TV commercial: the familiar castle at the entrance to Disney World. That awful skyline, the menacing cartoon characters strolling around, Mickey, Minnie. Goddamned Goofy.

  Helpless to avert the images swirling in the dark theater of his mind, he watched as the memories flooded back. Six-year-old Jake Griffith ran with his older brother to the front of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, only to be split up at the last moment. Jake rode with an overweight, sweaty couple while Mikey went with two cute teenage girls. At the end of the ride, wet, thrilled and exhausted, the tide of people swept past Jake, swallowing up his brother and spitting everyone out on the other side.

  And Jake stood there outside the ride, waiting. His brother was nowhere to found. Jake waited. Waited and waited, searching the faces of everyone in the crowd, seeing the same cloudy, unresolved features, the same unfamiliar looks.

  Mom and Dad had ordered Jake and Mikey to stay together. But Mikey was gone and Jake was alone, terrified. He had to stay put, didn't he? Or should he go and find someone in charge, someone who could put out a call for help, alert his parents to come and get him?

  He decided to stay and hope they'd come back for him. He sat on a bench near the front of the ride, and he waited. And waited, until a man came up to him and stood there looking down. Jake stared at him, and the sun was behind the man's head, obscuring his face – not that it mattered. He was about the right height, he had the same slouching shoulders, full of heaviness and exhaustion, the same stoop to his stance, as if he'd been running all over this park, looking for him.

  "Dad?"

  The man seemed to tremble, the aura of blazing sunlight shuddering around his outline, and when he moved, quick and catlike, he seemed like an angel. A rescuing angel. He didn't speak, just took Jake's hand in a familiar, fatherly grip, a tender but firm grasp.

  Jake knew he was in trouble, knew Dad was angry that he got lost, that he didn't stay with his brother. He knew Mom was probably at her wits' end. That was why Dad was quiet, why he just led him away in silence, dragging him through the crowds towards the exit. Jake had his head down, somberly watching his scuffed-up Reeboks the whole time.

  He was led right out into the parking lot, to the farthest end, much farther than Jake remembered parking, but in all the excitement that morning, he couldn't be sure. He was taken straight to a lone red pickup truck with clumps of dirt lodged behind the wheels like cookie pieces stuck behind molars.

  That was when Jake at last realized something was wrong. That was when he looked up and saw the bushy blond hair under this man's hat, so much lighter than his father's.

  And that was when Jake screamed.

  But it was too late, and no one could hear. Suddenly, there was tape over his mouth, his hands were bound with some kind of twine, his feet secured with a chain, and he lay on a mattress of potato sacks in the flatbed, covered with a heavy tarp.

  He lay there, sweating, crying, trying to sc
ream, until they got to a houseboat, until the motor started, and they sailed off into the tributaries and the dank reeds and the festering swamps.

  Bad luck, he'd think later on. Just bad luck – not just his problem with faces, but the whole series of events at Disney World.

  Now, Jake shook off the memories and pulled himself free just as he heard a woman's voice on the TV, the reporter again mentioning some disorder, Proso-something. And the words 'Daedalus Institute' – the second time she had said that. And then – a view of a woman being led into a waiting black Lexus by that suit-wearing doctor.

  Jake frowned. A lump of thick, dry potatoes fell from his fork and landed unnoticed on his thigh. He stood up, wobbling, dizzy. Incoherent sounds came out of his open mouth.

  The screen froze, capturing the woman's face – the haunted eyes full of a strange mix of fear and relief, the frazzled hair, the lines on her face from drying tears.

  A face that was somehow completely familiar. Crystal clear, almost blinding in its brilliance. A beacon Jake couldn't place, but couldn't deny.

  He knew her!

  The screen went blank, then went to a McDonald's commercial. Jake shot a glance up at Fenrik, still glaring at him from the balcony, but now leaning over, tensing.

  Relax, Jake cautioned, trying to regain composure. Act natural, think clearly. Think – who is this woman? How can I recognize her?

  He thought to his recent years on the beaches, in and around Melbourne, Canaveral and Cocoa Village. A steady stream of faceless women, but not one of them recognizable. He sent his memories further into the past, but as always… there was no one he could see, no one that he could see as clearly as that woman on the television.

  How was it possible?

  One and only one possible answer came back; one thought, one hope for salvation.

  He had to find her. See her. He had to get to the Daedalus Institute.

  But first, he needed to escape.

  7.

  London

  Kaitlin returned to her flat around ten. One of the few Brits that never really cared for tea and made no excuses about it, she stopped first for a double shot of espresso at the corner before catching a bus uptown.