Blindspots Read online

  "There are six," came the dull voice.

  "Six?"

  "That's how many we're looking for. That's all I know."

  "Really? I doubt that."

  "Believe what you want."

  "Why are we special?"

  "I don't know."

  "WHY?" Indra pounded the table. "Why can I see Monica Gilman!"

  "I don't know!"

  He took a breath, trying to calm down. "Okay, let's start with easier questions. Do all of the Six have Prosopagnosia?"

  "Do you?"

  "You know the answer to that."

  "Then yes."

  "Who else have you identified?"

  "I can't say."

  "Are you trying to kill them all?"

  "No. Not yet. Not until they come to Daedalus and we can confirm their identities."

  "What identities?"

  "You don't know anything."

  "I know enough," Indra snapped. "But I need to know more. What are their names?"

  Silence.

  "Who are they?"

  "No. I can't… She would… She'd--"

  "I understand your fear. So, why don't we play a game? I will run some names by you, and you can say Yes or No."

  "What names?"

  "Just a few I came across in your encrypted file on the Daedalus mainframe."

  "If you already know, then why ask?"

  "Maybe, like you, I need verification." He took a deep breath, and read aloud from the list in his mind. "Jake Griffith?"

  "Yes."

  "Franklin Baynes?"

  "Yes."

  "Kaitlin Abrams?"

  "Yes."

  "Plus Monica Gilman. Plus me makes five. Who is the sixth?"

  "We don't know."

  "Why are there six?"

  "I don't know. She never told us."

  "How does she know there are six?"

  "She just does."

  Indra tapped his fingers on the console. Thinking, thinking. As soon as he'd come across the Gilman story and recognized her face, his life had been galvanized. For years before, he had been searching newspapers, surfing websites, reading magazines. Obsessed with faces, scanning everything and everybody, looking for just one thing – one person he could recognize.

  After the accident, Indra turned… paranoid to say the least. He began to see threats everywhere, coming from everyone. He became a recluse, locking himself in his apartment, building the panic room. His family, once close, started to keep their distance. Oh, his father still maintained Indra's bank account, indulging his son's expensive hobbies, but there was little else in the way of family bonding. His four brothers rarely spoke to him, but his sister, Virisha, continued to look in on him from time to time. He continued to help the family indirectly with various consulting jobs for their business – a firm that Indra, as the oldest son, would have inherited had he not had Prosopagnosia, or at least had he been able to hide it better. Face-blind cripples were not well-suited to run multinational corporations.

  So he became a recluse. And his obsessions – dubbed “paranoid fantasies” by his family – became his life. He was convinced, after the train accident, that someone wanted him dead. Before the accident he was only vaguely afraid. All the time. A disquieting suspicion surrounding everyday objects, people, unfamiliar places. Every day he was faced with thousands of faceless strangers jammed into trains and cars, jostling, fighting, almost trampling each other for space just to walk on the street. He began to think of them as sinuous entities bent on driving him mad and killing him slowly.

  Even after he learned of his condition, discovered it had a name, he knew he was different. Outwardly he was a crazed loner, living behind black windows, installing a Panic Room in his apartment, having his food and necessities delivered anonymously to his door. Never socializing. But inside he knew. Knew he had a higher purpose. He was sure of it.

  Returning his focus to the intruder, he turned up the volume. Heard raspy breathing. Gasping.

  "You do not have long left, sir." Indra turned the dial on the gas, reducing the flow to half-level. "A few more minutes before you are unconscious. Anything you would like to add?"

  "I'm not afraid to die."

  "Why not?"

  "What?"

  "There are many reasons not to be afraid. Which one do you subscribe to? Loyalty, honor? Duty to your blind master? Or maybe it is something else?"

  "Maybe."

  Indra let the silence drag, punctuated by the desperate sounds of gasping breaths. Then he had a sudden rush of inspiration. "Do you think you'll live again?"

  The red blur of a head spun around. He tried to stand. "What do you—?"

  "Sit down. Conserve your energy. Is that your belief?"

  The man said nothing.

  "Or is it Alexa's?"

  Silence. Again, Indra knew he was on the right path. Just throwing out the name of Daedalus's chief had the desired effect.

  The intruder's color was bleeding out, violet turning to blue as he slumped in the chair. "It's her belief, but she has made it ours."

  "Thank you," Indra said, turning up the gas. "After you're out, I will switch control to my computer out there, and I will lock down everything in this room. When you wake in here, help yourself to the food and water, but try to conserve. And do not bother screaming. No one will hear you."

  The intruder, a mass of turquoise and swirling greens, slumped forward. "You won't… come back."

  "You are probably correct, in which case I am truly sorry for the manner of your eventual death, but still – this way, at least I leave you with hope." He turned off the speakers and shut off the monitors.

  He had much to consider, much to plan.

  He was going to America. To Vermont.

  To Daedalus.

  BOOK TWO – THE DAEDALUS INSTITUTE

  1.

  Indianapolis, IN – November 27

  Nestor Simms kept the gun trained on the Kwik Fill clerk while he dialed 411 for an operator. The clerk lay sprawled on a pile of Frito-Lay snack bags, scattered when Nestor had thrown the kid into the shelves, before smashing in his face and then duct-taping his mouth and wrists. After incapacitating the clerk—the store’s only occupant-- Nestor had turned off the pumps and shut off the exterior lights.

  The darkness was now pressing tightly against the windows. It was five-thirty in the morning, the sun still a good hour from making an appearance. Nestor had been driving all night, his third car since ditching the officer's stolen cruiser back in Nevada. Over a thousand miles lay behind him. A thousand miles from home.

  A home he would never see again. He would never look back, only forward. Nothing mattered but his mission. He was getting closer. And like the man in his dreams – the one holding that beautiful hourglass – the sands were running low.

  He put the phone to his ear. "Information," Nestor heard the operator say. "Directory assistance, what city and state please?"

  "Bakersfield, Vermont."

  "What listing, please?"

  "The Daedalus Institute."

  After a pause, the operator responded. "Hold for the number and you'll be automatically connected."

  The clerk struggled. Nestor couldn't see anything in his face – except shades of black and blue. Whimpering sounds came from behind the tape. Nestor turned to the window, looking at his reflection in the dark pane. A blurry face swirled over his broad, sweaty shoulders, the ripped t-shirt, the Rangers baseball hat on backwards. He peered closer, trying to resolve the space under the hat, but couldn't place it, couldn't sense anything familiar.

  The Scourge, still trying to break his will.

  The phone answered on the third ring. A woman's voice. Professional, young. "Daedalus Institute. How may I direct your call?"

  "I'd like to admit myself," Nestor said.

  "Very good, sir. What is your condition?"

  "I have that thing I heard about on the news. Proso-something."

  "Prosopagnosia."

  "Yes."
/>   "Your name?"

  "Nestor."

  "Nestor what?"

  He paused for a moment. "I can't say."

  "I see. Where are you calling from?"

  "I think I'm in Indianapolis. I'm driving to Vermont."

  "Good. Tell me, Nestor, why are you calling?"

  "I saw the newspaper story. The one with the woman who offed her husband."

  "Yes. Ms. Gilman. And you called because of this story?"

  "Because of her."

  Something on the other end clicked. "Hold please. I'm going to transfer you to someone who can better assist you."

  "Wait--"

  A moment, and then: "Hello, Nestor?" An older voice. Feminine, but raspy, dark. And strange.

  "Yes."

  "My name is Alexa Pearl. I'm the head of the Daedalus Institute. I need to ask you a few questions before you get here."

  "Why?"

  "So we can help you better. You said you called because of Monica Gilman. Can you elaborate?"

  "I saw her. I…" He stopped, not sure about the voice on the other end. Could be one of the demon's spies. Must not reveal myself too early.

  "It's okay, Nestor. Keep going."

  "Can you help me?"

  "I can, Nestor. Yes. In fact, I can cure you."

  Liar. Demon.

  "Now, Nestor. I want you to listen to my voice. Listen carefully."

  He frowned. All of a sudden, he felt dizzy. The room was swaying, the counter and the racks moving up and down like he was on a boat in a storm.

  "We're tracing this call. I can have someone there in a few hours to pick you up. We'll get you here safely."

  "No… No, I can come on my own."

  "But I think you need help. You're desperate."

  "Yes." The walls were tilting in the dark, shadows leeching the meager light.

  "You're on the run, but you can't stop."

  "No, I can't."

  "Let us help."

  "I can't stay here."

  "Why not?"

  "I just… can't."

  "I see. Nestor. Do me a favor. Find a hotel, the nearest one, then call back at the number I'm going to leave for you."

  Nestor shook his head. It seemed something had clawed its way inside his skull, burrowing into his brain. His palms were sweating, the phone felt wet, slippery. In his vision, that hourglass was spinning, taking shape. Red sands flying up and down uncontrollably.

  "No," he whispered, fighting against a nearly overpowering weight. "I'll… I'll make it there myself. I don't trust anyone else."

  "You can trust me, Nestor."

  He shook his head again, violently, whipping it around and watching the faceless man in the window mimicking his actions. The image freed his mind, cleared away the entanglements.

  The other end was silent for too long.

  "Lady? You still there?" he asked.

  "Yes, Nestor. I hear you. I wish you'd reconsider." Her voice had shifted. Lower, more soothing. The spider webs were reforming in Nestor's mind. She was powerful, her voice… something about it. He wanted to lay down, sit back and wait for her to send for him. Wanted to make her happy, whatever it took.

  "No, I have to make it there myself. I must… see the woman."

  "Monica."

  "Yes. And I promise you, if I don't see her as soon as I get there, I will be upset..."

  "You'll see her, Nestor. And others like her. Others you can see."

  "Others?"

  "Oh yes. Trust me, Nestor. Your curse will end. Come to Daedalus on your own, then. Hurry. Come, and I promise, you will be cured."

  Nestor hung up, blinking away the decomposing webs. When his head cleared, he was smiling again. He turned and walked to the clerk who was still sobbing in a heap of potato chips. Nestor sighed. He pointed his gun at the clerk's head, at the shifting features, the demonic, sliding expressions.

  The clerk grunted, shook his head.

  As the echoing blast rang in his ears, Nestor proceeded to fill a large shopping bag full of high-carb foods, snacks and water. A couple of boxes of NoDoz and Tylenol. A six pack of Red Bull.

  He would need his energy. He had a long way to go.

  2.

  Daedalus

  Her fingers sped over the Braille keypad, calling up information, sending orders to her people stationed around the globe, orders to prepare for the end. For their rewards.

  It was almost over. The Six would soon be home, and her unfinished business at last concluded.

  She shivered momentarily and pushed herself back in the chair. Atmospheric controls were kept tightly regulated down here, the temperature an even sixty-eight degrees, humidity at zero, soft lighting – only when necessary, when one of her brotherhood needed access. Like a cave down here, the vault perfectly preserved its contents, many of them already badly damaged before their rediscovery.

  Wall-length bookshelves, crammed full of books, esoteric and incomprehensible to all but the sharpest and most open minds. A pity she couldn't read them directly, but she had scanned their contents and converted them through Braille translations, and read them that way. Numerous times.

  She took a sip of herbal tea – a special Egyptian blend of lapis-infused Chai, still hot-- and then she got back to work. Her eyes, impenetrable and relentless as a grinding glacier, stared up at the darkness that teased with hints of revelation.

  To Alexa, darkness and light were imaginary figments, wispy unrealities. Visionary senses, lights, darks, grays – they were all meaningless. Touch, taste, smell and sound – these alone were the conduits of reality, and blindness was not the deterrent it was made out to be. In fact, she felt she was at an advantage. Eyes could fool you; shadows and light played games with normal people, creating blind spots, causing complacency, false trust. Reliance on vision fostered a foolhardy belief in what you could see.

  Alexa knew better. Reality could only be confirmed by what you couldn't see.

  She tapped again on her keypad with one hand while the other rested on the spinning Braille wheel, its dots and raised bumps adjusting and changing instantly to the output.

  When the latest transmission stopped, she swore and lifted her fingers into the air, silencing the flow of information. Her eyes shifted their attention, unerringly seeking out the panel on the eastern wall, the passage from the Book of the Dead.

  Alexa flipped open her cell phone. The direct line was immediately picked up by Ursula, who was on the lookout in the lobby for any of their returning sheep. "Route me to Malcolm Byers, immediately."

  "I've been trying," Ursula said. "No response."

  "Try again."

  "But--"

  "Try again!" This was infuriating. Alexa was unused to her staff’s hesitation and incompetence of late. She would have to use other means to deal with this inefficiency. Time was running out, and she didn't have the luxury of coddling her help.

  "Okay, it's ringing," Ursula said, "but he's not going to answer. Something's wrong."

  "Just put the call through to my phone." If something had gone wrong in India, she would have to act fast. The next nearest operative was in Germany. He'd have to be rerouted quickly, but he could be spared now since the Six had all been accounted for.

  On the eighth ring, the call picked up.

  She waited, hearing only faint breathing, then said: "Malcolm?"

  "Sorry." The voice had a thick Indian accent. "Mr. Byers is… indisposed."

  Alexa stopped herself from spinning. Leaned forward as if she could focus and send her essence through the phone. "Ah. Apparently you are not as helpless as we assumed."

  "You will find I am full of surprises."

  Alexa nodded. "Mr. Indra Velanati. A pleasure to speak to you."

  "Alexa Pearl, I presume?"

  She bridled. This was unexpected. She had to play this game close to the vest. India. This outcome was unfortunate perhaps. Perhaps his country of origin gave him an edge the others didn't have.

  Nothing's ever easy.

&
nbsp; "I apologize for my associate's errant introduction, but I assure you I merely wanted to confirm your identity."

  The other end was curiously silent. With her acute hearing, Alexa listened intently for any telltale noises, but it was as if he was in a soundproof box. Nothing else, no cars, no background noise, nothing.

  What did he know about her? Too much, she guessed. Indra had Malcolm's phone but hadn't answered the calls before; most likely he was waiting to get somewhere safe, somewhere she couldn't easily track him. She wondered if, with his technical savvy, he had managed to block the GPS signal on Malcolm's phone.

  She hoped not, but didn't put the odds too high. While she listened, she typed on her laptop and sent Ursula a command to access the satellite system and begin a GPS search.

  On the other end of the line, Alexa didn't like the deep and confident breaths she heard. It spoke of control and power, a power she didn't like her enemies to wield.

  "So, Indra. I commend you on hacking into my system. I suppose I should thank you for pointing out security loopholes, which I've since corrected."

  "Glad to be of assistance. Now why don't you tell me something?"

  "Haven't you learned enough?" And just how much did you find out?

  "There is always more to learn," Indra said. "Such is the nature of life. We only stop at death." He breathed out calmly, then added: "And sometimes, not even then."

  Alexa's free hand clenched into a fist. Damn. Time to try another tack. She concentrated, drew up her strength, focused her energies. "Indra, I want you to listen to my voice. Listen closely…"

  "No." Suddenly, on the other end, music sprang into life. Flutes and drums, Indian melodies. Hammering, discordant, jarring.

  He had a stereo ready for distraction? How much does he know?

  "Ms. Pearl, you listen to me." She could barely make him out over the pounding notes, the thumping drums. "I am giving you what you want. I am coming to you."