Blindspots Page 7

  It would be enough. Enough for what was to come. He had been dreaming lately, dreaming of a voyage he was meant to take. It would soon be time for him to leave the desert, his trials over, his preparation complete.

  He had seen the castle in the snow. And the hourglass.

  He turned on the sink to wash out the sticky cans, and a trio of big black flies buzzed out of the drain and flew up at his face. He shooed them away, and turned his head slightly – where he noticed the newspaper lying on the table.

  Nestor blinked. Once, twice. The flies returned and buzzed around his head. The water rose in the clogged sink and the empty tipped over. Somewhere, what seemed far away, a muffled moan sounded through the walls and a toilet flushed.

  But all those sounds were like distant rumbles of thunder, beyond concern, beyond awareness. Nestor's world melted away as he lurched forward, caught the paper in his shaking hands, and brought it close to his face. His eyes darted back and forth, up and down over the headlines, the blazing block-letters spelling out a name that reverberated in his skull like the feathery wings of a thousand angels.

  Monica Gilman.

  It seemed this angel's eyes sought out his, and her clear, focused features were like a lost memory, a comfort he had never known, but still understood as the deepest source of his strength. His heart. His soul, there before him – the connection, the first and only face untouched by the Scourge.

  Tears streamed down his eyes, his lips quivered and before he realized it, he was laughing… crying and laughing at the same time… holding that paper aloft, restraining himself from the urge to just kiss the woman's face, kiss Monica Gilman's perfectly-visible lips, her eyes, her cheeks.

  Monica…

  Still laughing like a little boy in front of his favorite cartoon, dancing from foot to foot, Nestor didn't hear the choking gasp or the creaking of the bedroom door until it was almost too late.

  "What the fuck…"

  The words barely resonated in Nestor's thoughts, and it wasn't until the officer had finished fumbling with his gun, unhooking it from its holster, bending his knees, working at the safety, his eyes whipping back and forth from the horror on the bed and back to Nestor, that he moved.

  Nestor turned, after first setting down the paper like it was a sacred relic. The officer tried to keep his weapon steady as he turned his head to the radio on his shoulder, attempting to call in for help

  Nestor saw the fear in the Scourge's jerking motions. It knew what it faced, and it was scared. Scared of the light and the purity in Nestor's heart. He took a step forward, calm. Certain of his fate, more certain now than ever.

  It was time. The signal had come with a trumpet-blast, heralding the advent of his true mission.

  The officer shouted, "Don't fuckin' move! Not one more step you piece of shit!" He glanced back to the bedroom and grimaced. "Son of a bitch, you're going to burn for this, you--"

  Nestor took another step.

  "I said stop!" the officer roared – and pulled the trigger.

  Nestor blinked with the gun’s deafening report, then he smiled. Something over his shoulder exploded and a piece of the ceiling fell behind him, clattering against the bottles and boxes.

  "Stop, motherfu--" The officer fired again.

  But Nestor had shifted, faster than even thought he could have. The cabinet door burst apart in a shower of splinters as he continued laughing, louder now, overwhelmed with a feeling of such utter joy and wonderment.

  This is what it's like to dance with Angels, he thought, spreading his arms wide and rushing forward.

  The officer shook the gun, aimed point-blank –

  But Nestor slammed his hands around the man's throat, and in one quick motion he twisted the officer's head around just as he'd wrung the neck of one of his chickens last night. He heard the satisfying snap, and then, with the faceless head gazing up at him through formless eyes, the officer's body slumped out of Nestor's grasp.

  In the bedroom, the woman whimpered.

  Nestor plucked the gun from the dead man's fingers, and then walked solemnly to the bed and pulled the trigger.

  Her cries silenced for good, he tossed the gun aside, and began to pack.

  11.

  Vermont

  Monica and Gabriel rode the last half hour in silence. Gradually, her numbness had worn off on the long drive from Boston. Interstate 89 was far behind them, and for the past sixty minutes Monica watched the hills and valleys give way to lush forests of swaying pines and sycamores, dizzying emerald mountains and sun-flooded branches. Route 100 had taken them north to Warren, skirting the edge of the Green Mountain National Forest. Something about all that natural land, so wild and untamed, had broken through Monica's shell; it called to her, whispering the virtues of loneliness and freedom.

  She blinked away sudden tears and embraced the rising guilt – guilt that she dared to feel liberated; free of Paul, free of anyone, really, that cared about her. Free to disappoint no one but herself.

  "We're close," Gabriel said, as if sensing her growing distraction and trying to bring her back. "Only twenty minutes."

  Monica nodded, staring ahead at a log truck wobbling toward them. As it rumbled by, she glanced at Dr. Sterling. Keeping her gaze away from his blurred face, she focused on his hair: a lustrous silver, almost blue-gray in places; thick waves of it covering his head and smoothed back with hardened gel that seemed more suited to a hot-shot lawyer than a psychologist.

  He was preoccupied too, she guessed, by his silence, by the way he had been avoiding even small talk the whole ride. He had his own problems, and whatever they were, he was heading back to face them with more than a little trepidation.

  Heading back to Daedalus.

  She didn't have any hopes, any feelings at all about her future. Maybe Gabriel could help get her to a better place, but she wasn't counting on it. Whatever awaited her, she didn't care anymore. She would just go along for the ride, a bitter and reluctant passenger.

  She had been silent up until now, but felt it was time to say something. "Thank you."

  His eyes darted sideways, met hers in a lost, yearning reach, then pulled back to the winding road. "For what?"

  "Helping me. Saving me from jail."

  "You weren't going to jail. No jury would have convicted you."

  Monica shook her head. "I killed my husband. I belong there."

  "You don't. Trust me, nothing would be served by locking you up. You're not a criminal, just a victim of genetics."

  "Is that what this is? This 'Prosopagnosia'? Just genetics?"

  "In your case, yes. Other patients have developed the condition after trauma – blows to the head, car accidents."

  "The lucky ones, I suppose. At least they had time to be normal."

  Gabriel took a slow breath. "Yes, but they have more to miss, while you, depending how you look at it, are fortunate that you never had full sight to begin with. You learned to cope from the beginning."

  "Yeah, but didn't Shakespeare say it's better to have loved and lost, than… you know?"

  Gabriel smiled. "But there's a big difference. Being born with it makes you stronger, gives you an edge."

  "I don’t know."

  He gave a little shrug. "I promise you, we can teach you to think of this as a very manageable condition. You're different, but it doesn't have to limit you, prevent you from anything you want to do. In fact, it can open up new doors, new trails. In time, you might even see Prosopagnosia as something that makes you special."

  "Special." The trees hurled by, each so different from the next; every trunk a different shape, with thick bark or gnarled stumps, the branches varied and definable. "Are these the kind of pep talks I can look forward to from now on?"

  "Only if you'll agree to listen."

  She forced her first true smile in a week. "Maybe."

  “‘Maybe’ is a good start." He slowed and took a sharp turn as the car started climbing a steep hill while dark clouds gathered ahead, edging towa
rd the sun.

  Miles away in the dazzling acreage, where the lush evergreens gave way to a watercolor of snow-tipped pines, a dim outline drew her attention: a somber collection of red-brown walls and towers, of ivy-covered arches and glinting windows. It was set back in the woods as if retreating into a cave, avoiding the sun and the elements, withdrawing into the darkness where it could breathe.

  For some reason, Monica felt it tugging at her insides, filling her lungs, quickening her pulse, sending shivers across her skin. Those towers, that outline – familiar somehow, like a childhood dollhouse rediscovered in the attic after so many years. It just crouched there, with snow suddenly falling around it as if the rumbling of Gabriel's SUV had sent tremors on ahead, shaking up the atmosphere like a snow globe.

  Shivering, Monica tried to reach for the heater controls, but her hands were too heavy to lift.

  "What's wrong?" Gabriel asked, slowing.

  She could only shake her head.

  "I've been here before."

  12.

  Daedalus

  The intrusion alarm – a shrill series of pulses – was like a shotgun blasting in Alexa's sensitive ears.

  Sensing that Maria Eduardo was at her station, she shouted, "Shut that off! And then tell me what's happened?"

  "We've been hacked!" Maria scampered to another terminal, scanning the screen. "Firewall breach."

  Alexa was prepared for this, set to defend her secrecy from outside authorities, journalists or disturbed relatives, but for some reason, the timing of this attack, coming as it did, spoke of a different culprit. "Trace it."

  "Already on it," Maria said, even as she turned off the alarm. She was a twenty-seven year old tech whiz who lived for computers, code and online games. An easy hire, a perfect fit – especially after Alexa had given her the first round of treatment, probing her past and finding her susceptible, eager even, to Alexa's compensation plan.

  "What did they get?" Alexa asked, afraid of the answer.

  "Shit. They found the encrypted folder."

  Alexa lowered her head, and when she spoke, it was barely over a whisper. "You told me that file was undetectable."

  "I'm sorry. It was – it should have been."

  "You were supposed to be the best, Maria."

  "They got lucky, found it by accident…"

  "Or else," Alexa countered. "Someone was better." She shook her head. She'd deal with Maria soon enough. "Find this hacker. Can you at least do that?"

  Keys tapped, followed by short heavy breaths. "Yes. There – got him. He might be good at breaking into places, but not so hot at getting out."

  "Where is he?"

  "India," Maria said. "Northern India…"

  Alexa sucked in a breath. Despite this intrusion into her sanctuary, she was excited. This breach, coming so soon after Monica Gilman's publicity – and the mention of the Daedalus Institute – indicated someone was interested. We may have just found one of the last two.

  Now… to reel him in. "Get Malcolm Byers on the phone. Maybe he can redeem himself."

  Alexa allowed herself to smile. She was one step nearer to victory, to the end of the Grand Experiment. If this lead panned out, she would have identified five of the Six.

  One more to go.

  13

  Jaipur, India

  Pursued by the brazen intruder, Indra Velanati steered himself through the narrow doorway, stopped his wheelchair, and punched the door's close button just in time. A shining metal wall roared across the threshold, slamming shut just as the man lunged for him.

  In the reverberating echoes, Indra looked up at the indicator lights.

  The Panic Room was secure. He was safe.

  #

  Safe for now.

  Leaning back, he spun halfway around and drove to the main space, beside shelves full of canned goods, bags of rice, a water tank, an airplane-style latrine, and a gas-powered generator. Four small TV screens sparked to life over the counter. On the second one, Indra could see the man pounding his gloved fists against the door. A tall man, lanky with long arms and legs; dressed in a black suit.

  Who was he? Indra didn't know, and right now it didn't matter. He knew why the intruder was here – because of what Indra had done earlier today. That much was certain – and confirmed again as he watched the man turn and head to Indra's desk, where he began rummaging through the mess of printouts, papers and folders, treading around the tall stacks of periodicals from around the world which teetered near collapse.

  Indra was a collector of sorts; he spent every day, sometimes twenty hours without sleep at a time, poring through the world's news outlets. He was fluent in eight languages and could speed-read them all. He had an iron-clad mind with mental and intellectual skills that more than compensated for his physical disability.

  He was barefoot as usual, and dressed in a relaxed white kurta, made of Khadi silk, and fastened along the side with gem-studded buttons. His hair was thick and unkempt, his beard ragged but not too long for a thirty-one year old man. When did he last eat? He couldn't remember. Not today, and most likely not since before the Philadelphia incident – before the sensational murder that made all the headlines. Before Mrs. Gilman.

  Indra returned his attention to the room outside – his seven-hundred square foot apartment on the top floor of the Siddhartha Tower. His windows were painted black on the inside, so the only light came from a desk lamp and some track lighting along the far wall, above his mattress and a lone feather pillow. A golden statue of Nataraj, three-feet tall, stood beside the bed; she stood on a tortoise shell, her four arms extended in a spiritual pose – a transcendent dance willing the observer to part with the illusion of reality.

  Of all the religious beliefs and icons from his strict upbringing, this one symbol was all Indra retained. All he believed in.

  But since the train accident, he had spent his days learning, practicing to truly see. To peer beyond the veil of illusion. Maybe it was the blow to his head on the railroad tracks, maybe it was his shattered lower vertebrae and the severing of his potential for sexual pleasure, paralyzed as he was from the waist down. Or maybe it was the way his co-passengers that day – swarming like insects on a carcass – had ignored him completely and just moved to fill his place on the roof as others leapt onto the sides and hung onto the windows, all while he just lay there on the tracks, gasping, sure he was dead, watching the train ride off into the haze.

  Indra shook his head, clearing the stubborn memories. He flicked a switch, then held down a red button and spoke into a microphone. "Hello there."

  The intruder froze. Looked up, scanning the ceiling, looking for the camera. Indra pressed another button and the lights went out. The screens all went black, then surged again, this time in an infrared view. The intruder was the lone subject on each screen, caught from four different angles, a mass of red and yellow, outlined in blue. Colors swirling.

  Indra saw him turning, stumbling back to the wall, then feeling along for the front door.

  "No help there, I’m afraid. The front door is bolted shut. Everything locked up tight, and controlled from in here."

  The figure slumped. Turned and walked in an erratic line back to the panic room door.

  Indra cleared his throat. "I am speaking in English, assuming that is a safe bet. My guess is you were ordered here from, let me think… Vermont?"

  The intruder's colors sparked, pulsed a brighter red.

  "Oh good. I see I'm not far off. Listen, from in here I could wipe my computer's memory and incinerate the hard drive. I have all my information backed up in here anyway. I could call the police…"

  "You won't," said a voice picked up by the outside speakers. The intruder stood up straight, arms at his side like a statue.

  "No," Indra said. "You are correct, I won't. I do not wish to involve them. Instead, why don’t you tell me why you are here?"

  "You tell me. If you think you know so much."

  Indra smiled, stroking his chin. "Fine. You are
here because I was sloppy."

  The intruder said nothing.

  "I did not cover my tracks well enough when I went snooping in your servers."

  Still silent.

  "You traced me back here, and for that, I am impressed. It could not have been easy hacking backward through my aliases and firewalls."

  "I don't know about that."

  "Of course not. You're just the muscle. Not paid to think. Still, you came faster than I expected." Indra leaned back, pressing his fingers together, deep in thought. "So, will you talk?"

  "About what? I only know so much."

  Indra sighed. He was afraid of that. Just a lackey sent on a blind errand. "Okay, start with what you know."

  "Why don't you come out of there?"

  "Because you will kill me."

  "Maybe not."

  "I am in a wheelchair and no match for you. You will kill me like you killed that girl in London."

  The red image flared again. Two for two, Indra thought. "Got the wrong one there?"

  "How do you know all this?"

  Indra leaned in, adjusting the microphone. "How did you know about the girl? Are there others? How many are you looking for?"

  "Can't tell you that."

  "Can't or won't?" Indra pressed another button. "The door is locked. The windows unbreakable. In a few minutes you will hear a hissing sound, but you will not smell anything, since carbon monoxide is odorless. As you are learning, to your misfortune, I am a rather paranoid individual, prepared for the worst. I assure you: I will flood the room with gas. The vents have been calibrated quite specifically. At full strength – sixty-four hundred parts per million – you will feel light-headed and dizzy in two minutes. In ten, you will pass out. In twenty, you will be dead."

  The man outside fumbled around in the dark, found a chair and sat down.

  Indra grinned to himself. "Then, I will flush the vents, open this door and come out and dispose of your body down the trash chute." He waited, watching the red-hued silhouette carefully, imagining what the intruder was thinking. "You have ten minutes to talk. Tell me what I want to know and maybe I will stop the gas after you pass out. I will tie you up, and then leave you in here. After, of course, deactivating all the controls inside. Not to worry though, a man can survive in this room for two months if he is not wasteful."