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  She had been thinking about the disorder that had, at least in part, been the cause of so much of her self-destructive behavior for the past decade. Since life had seen fit to give her this hardship, she could hardly be judged if she paid it back in kind. Anger and resentment had marched toward disassociation and then open rebellion – toward her parents, her schools, and more recently, even her friends.

  But her breakup with Slider and her subsequent expulsion from the band had changed all that. Just as she was settling into a place that had felt like home, everything had flown apart. Now, the idea that there might be a lifeline out there stirred up a touch of optimism.

  Back at her flat, she had just rounded the stairs, a slight bounce in her step, when she skidded to a halt. Her door was open just a crack, through which a man's voice seeped out.

  She must have a guy over. It wasn't that far-fetched. Trish was a sexy little thing when she wanted to be. People always said she kind of looked like Kaitlin – but without the attitude or the punk accoutrements. But something about the man's voice didn't seem right. It didn't sound like pillow-talk.

  They're sending someone over today…

  Could that 'someone' have come already? Kaitlin paused with her hand at the doorknob, not simply afraid of intruding, but suddenly desperate to hear what was being said.

  And why isn't Trish speaking? It was unlike her to let someone else go this long without butting in. Kaitlin peeked inside, tuned out the noise from the neighbor's blaring TV set, and tried to filter out the squealing brakes and the coughing engines on the street below.

  "…I told you already. She said she saw the Gilman woman, and that was enough… Well, I didn't think to… Yes, I know I'm not paid to think, but--"

  Who the hell is he talking to? Kaitlin gently pushed the door, knowing it would squeak if it opened all the way. She had been meaning to get on the landlord to oil the damn thing already – and to fix the leaky sink and the weak shower -- but she had never quite gotten around to it.

  "…look, it wasn't her. She wasn't one of the Six. I screwed up, but by the time I figured that out, I couldn't let her go. She'd warn her roommate. Listen, it's under control, all right? I'll wait around for Kaitlin to return."

  Committed this far, Kaitlin squeezed into the flat, pressed against the wall and inched forward. The air felt stale, motionless. The windows were closed, which itself wasn't odd given that it was November, but first thing in the morning Trish usually enjoyed a couple smokes, and she always cracked the windows for fresh air. They were closed now.

  She peeked around the corner and saw the back of a tall man in a black suit. Undertaker, she thought immediately. First impression. He just looked like one, tall and stringy, with disproportionately long arms and spindly legs, a narrow head and greased back hair. The kind of guy you might see at a wake, standing in the shadows while everyone lined up for their turn to kneel before the coffin.

  A set of gold cuff links in a starched white sleeve caught her eye, and she noticed the hand holding a black cell phone to his ear, but then she saw the torn nightshirt on the floor. The familiar garment, stained with some of that Pistachio ice cream they had polished off two nights ago, but also with streaks of red, matching the splotches on the faded Berber carpet. And the bare leg on the floor, the rest of the body out of sight behind the couch.

  Oh God, Trish… Move, please move.

  "… sorry," the undertaker-man continued. "I didn't think to look for the birthmark first. Thought it was just a final confirmation kind of thing. Yes, of course I looked afterwards. It's not there. Don't worry, I'll get the target."

  Kaitlin took a step back, hands to her mouth, a thousand frenzied thoughts scrambling in her mind, her heart seizing in her throat. The crimson stains… Trish.

  She peeked out a little farther, just to get another angle – she had to be sure Trish wasn't just tied up.

  She took a step inside – and the floor creaked.

  Shit!

  The man spun around immediately, snapping the cell phone shut and reaching inside his jacket for something.

  Kaitlin screamed, turned and fled back into the hall. Fueled by the shock of seeing her first dead body, her own roommate, she raced to the stairwell door and flung it open just as she heard thunderous footsteps following. Up or down? She bolted up the stairs. Two at a time.

  Why Trish? But then, as if her pounding footsteps had jarred loose the real question, she thought: Why me?

  The man – Trish’s killer – raced after her, matching her stride for stride, but she couldn't look back. She imagined him aiming a gun, waiting for a clear shot. Expected any minute to feel the ice-cold punch of a bullet in her back.

  She burst onto the fifth floor and slammed the door behind her, knowing it would only stop the man for a second. Running again, she headed toward the north end of the hall. There were four flats on each level, two on either side of the stairwell. She headed for the last one, owned by Niles and Benny, two standout blokes, punkers both, who had always showed up to cheer Pinkeye back when she was still with the band.

  She reached their door just as the killer rocked out of the stairwell. His momentum carried him into the wall, then he regained his bearings and bounded toward her. She risked a glance and saw he did indeed carry a gun, a long black-handled thing with one of those silencer-tips on the end. Fortunately, he hadn't seen fit to use it yet, perhaps confident he would catch her.

  Kaitlin turned the knob – and screamed. No…

  Locked. Kaitlin looked around helplessly. A fire extinguisher. Maybe that would work, she'd seen it in films before. About to make a move for it, the doorknob turned from the inside, and off-balance, she fell back inside the flat.

  She knocked someone over behind the door. A second later, she could tell it was Benny. Shorter of the two, crew cut, a lot of flab around his middle. Then she kicked the door shut, got up and bolted the lock.

  "Kat, wha-" was all Benny got out.

  Benny had just come out of the shower; he still wore a towel around his waist and was chewing on the end of a toothbrush. He grunted, staggered back and looked incredulously at the hole in the center of his hairless chest.

  Kaitlin turned and saw the matching hole in the door behind her. She tried to scream but couldn't make a sound; she managed to drop and roll to her left, scrambling into the hallway. Two more shots burst through the door behind her.

  "What the fuck?" Niles stumbled out from the kitchen, a pitcher of grape juice in his hand. He took one look at Kaitlin, curled into a fetal position against the wall, then he saw Benny topple forward. Niles dropped the pitcher and sprang for the phone. Fumbled with it as he dialed.

  At least he's thinking clearly, Kaitlin thought as she heard him yelling for the police.

  Something struck the door. She jumped up to her feet and ran away from Benny's twitching body, down the hall to a window which led out onto the fire escape. As Niles shouted into the phone, she shouted: "Run, Niles! We've got to-"

  "Go!" he yelled as the front door broke free, slamming against the inside wall. Kaitlin reached the window, unlatched it and flung it up. She stuck a leg out, then looked back. The killer rounded the corner. Niles leapt at him and bowled him over. Kaitlin paused, for a moment wishing she'd stayed back to help. Maybe she could have –

  A horrible, squishing sound, and then an eruption of red burst from the center of Niles’s back. The killer stood up, pushing Niles's limp body off of him. He dusted off his black tie, and turned toward Kaitlin.

  Scrambling out onto the fire escape, she slammed the window shut so hard it cracked down the middle. The frigid morning air enfolded her as she ran around and around down the metal stairs, stumbling, banging her knees against the ice-cold metal. Above her, the window exploded, releasing a black shape. The killer clattered onto the fire escape after her.

  Kaitlin screamed, as loud as she could, hoping to draw the attention of anyone on the street beyond the alley or in the other buildings. She reached the bottom le
vel, but was still one story up, and she knew there was no time to lower the ladder. She got up on the railing, then leapt off just as the killer spun around the last corner, his gun raised.

  She dropped, landed hard on her feet and felt the shock all the way up to her hips, but she got up, stumbling, and ran for the street. Three more steps and she'd be in the middle of traffic, three more steps…

  One. Would he fire?

  She could sense the killer crouching. Aiming.

  Two. His superior – whoever was on the other end of that call – seemed pissed at him, and he had to defend Trish's murder. So maybe Kaitlin was safe. Apparently, she was one of six – whatever that meant. Six what? Who else was there? And why were they being hunted?

  Three.

  She was out. Still keeping her head down, she ducked and slipped behind a parked VW beetle, expecting a bullet to rip through the window. A double-decker bus approached, and as it passed, she sprang up and leapt into the open stairwell, clinging to the arm rail and ducking down. After another block, sure she was out of range, she climbed up, gave the driver a coin then took the first open seat.

  She fished out her cell phone, and was about to call the police when she thought better of it. . Three murders of people she knew... No other witnesses... She'd be questioned for days. And, with her in jail, whoever was after her would know just where to look. Besides, the police were probably already on their way because of Niles's call. But she couldn't go back there, couldn't remain and wait – not with the killer around.

  No, she had to get out. Away from here, maybe even away from London, until she could sort everything out.

  She was trembling, her breath coming out in ragged gasps.

  What the hell just happened?

  She closed her eyes and saw the killer again… and what had he said before he saw her? That mysterious comment about the 'Six'.

  Her eyes flew open. What was she a part of?

  What else had the killer said? That Trish lied about seeing 'the Gilman woman'…

  Gilman – was that her name? The woman from America who killed her husband? Why was it important that Kaitlin 'see' her, and more to the point – how could she?

  Kaitlin pulled out her phone and opened the Internet. Thought for a moment, then quickly Googled ‘Prosopagnosia’ and ‘Gilman’. A couple of seconds later, a list of articles appeared. She picked the first, a link to the Philadelphia Daily News. Impatiently, she started scrolling through the story, glimpsing mention of the break-in and the subsequent court hearing. The words, ‘Daedalus Institute’, and then…

  As luck would have it – there was a picture.

  A picture of Monica Gilman.

  Kaitlin swooned. The blurry-faced passengers on the bus spun with her, the walls and seats melted and the roof dissolved, and all of Trafalgar Square swirled into a tangled tapestry of color and sound, compressing until she was sure her senses would explode with revelation.

  Staring back at her from her phone, for the first time in her life, was a face Kaitlin could see.

  8.

  The Daedalus Institute – Vermont

  Alexa Pearl snapped her phone shut. The Braille keypad's tactile sensations lingered on her fingertips, giving off ghostly after-effects. Sometimes, she thought of her skin as a sponge, soaking up numbers, letters and words, storing them close, permitting her to revisit and spend time with the images they provoked in her imagination.

  So unfortunate, being born with this condition. But she had made the best of it, moving onward, learning, adapting to the latest technologies, utilizing new inventions, always keeping in mind the prize at the end of the dark tunnel.

  Now, however, Alexa fought back a rising buildup of rage.

  Fool! How could Malcolm botch such an easy assignment? Malcolm Byers, her liaison in Britain, was a thug at his core, a throwback to the gangster era. She had recruited him because he displayed a shred of intelligence to complement his muscle. Not enough to question orders while being paid so well and promised so much, but she had hoped he had enough brains to think for himself when circumstances deviated from the plan.

  But he’d let Kaitlin Abrams escape.

  Because of Malcolm's impatience, Kaitlin was not only still free, but alerted to the fact that someone – possibly from this clinic – wanted her dead.

  Things were now going to have to get messy. And costly. The authorities had to get involved. Malcolm was already planting evidence to pin the roommate's murder on Kaitlin. Once the girl was in custody, locked behind bars somewhere, it would be far easier to get to her.

  The same way they could get to the one in Florida. Funny how synchronized it all seemed; two of those she'd been searching for – two of the Six – behind bars. And both of them younger than Monica and Franklin, younger than she had expected.

  Alexa stroked her chin, thinking, lost in the past. Their age difference was interesting, but she'd dwell on those implications later.

  It was nice of Jake Griffith to call the Daedalus Institute and identify himself, to alert Alexa to his startling recognition of Mrs. Gilman. Maybe he was hoping for some of the leniency that Monica received, praying the State would allow him to come up to Vermont and receive treatment.

  Jake had made the call, and others would soon be doing the same. Alexa smiled. Jake Griffith, Kaitlin Abrams, Monica Gilman, Franklin Baynes. Four of the Six.

  Two more to go.

  #

  Alexa was in the basement's vault room, impenetrable and unassailable, and converted to suit her purposes. The room sat back in the shadows, past the dust-heavy gloom permeating the pillared basement.

  She set down the cane she had been absently twirling, passing from hand to hand. Made from smooth, polished oak, it was rounded and thick at the handle, like the hilt of a Viking's sword, and when she tapped it on the floor, the steel blade concealed inside made a subtle rattle that only her ears could hear.

  She opened her laptop, feeling the immediate warmth from the screen, knowing the bright light was dispelling the vault's gloom and illuminating the treasures within. She could only imagine what the room looked like: the hieroglyphic carvings hanging on the wall; the ancient figurines, urns and statues dancing in her plasma screen's flickering light; the glass-enclosed papyrus; the stainless steel file cabinets with all of Atticus Sterling's most treasured notes and research from a lifetime of study. In the center of the room stood computer servers and three workstations with 27-inch monitors and desks for her trusted personnel.

  Her seekers, her Brotherhood. Besides the five of them here at Daedalus, she kept in close contact with sixteen others, scattered around the world, including Malcolm Byers.

  The five members she had here at Daedalus had just been sent off for a few hours' rest. They had been at their stations for close to forty hours straight after the Gilman story broke, checking the news outlets, sifting through international reports, hospital records, alerting the others to be on the lookout.

  Despite the London situation, Alexa still felt confident. Finally, the last chapter in the grand plan was about to begin. It was really just the tying up of loose ends, now. But still, it was important, crucial in fact.

  So many factors depended on each other, so many random elements needed to click together. But now at least, it felt like it was not so much a matter of If, but When.

  Unfinished business.

  She detested unfinished business, especially something of this magnitude; it ate away at her, as it had every day for the last eight years. But she wouldn't have to wait much longer. Soon, very soon, she would finish what had been left undone.

  The Gilman woman's public exposure and Alexa's quick thinking to capitalize on the situation ensured that the others would take notice. More Prosopagnosiacs would inevitably follow, but Alexa didn't care about them – they were extraneous. Only the Six mattered. The others would make their way here, and then she could use Franklin, whose brainwaves couldn't lie, to identify those who hadn't already given themselves away by re
vealing their ability to see Monica. Was it a stroke of luck, Franklin being here already when she arrived? Or was it just further evidence of her destiny?

  Alexa snapped open her phone again, and used the walkie-talkie feature to call Lance Critchwell, who despite her orders to rest was no doubt parked at one of the nurse's stations. Alexa wondered if she should just have the man neutered; he might actually become reliable. The Pharaohs had the right idea with their eunuchs – for efficient service you had to rid your lackeys of distractions while simultaneously instilling them with mortal fear.

  "Critchwell!" she called.

  The receiver crackled. "Here, Ms. Pearl."

  "Where is Dr. Sterling?"

  "He's returning with the Gilman woman. He called a few minutes ago from Boston. Their flight just landed. They should be here before dark."

  "Good. Prepare Franklin for a visual confirmation."

  "Why? He already ID'd her picture."

  She fumed, hands clenching. Wasting time, and he’s questioning me? "Just do it! I want multiple confirmations for everyone."

  "Okay, okay. What about the Griffith kid in Florida? How do we get him out?"

  Alexa thought for a moment. Could she afford another mistake? Trust this most vital of missions to mercenaries? "Is our man inside yet?"

  "Yes, we got him a few hours ago as a new guard, assigned to Jake's ward."

  Alexa sighed. "I want to be sure, first, before we do anything. London exposed a potential flaw in our plan. Kaitlin Abrams' roommate claimed to have the disease. She answered our set questions about recognizing Monica."

  "The questions weren't specific enough to root out fakers?"

  "Obviously. Interviews alone can never guarantee accuracy. Someone calling and telling us what we want to hear is insufficient. We need empirical evidence – an observable reaction."

  The other end of the line was quiet for a moment, and Alexa thought he had cut out, or fallen asleep, until he coughed. "So, what do we you want done with the Griffith kid?"