Blindspots Page 9

  She dared to smile. "Good."

  "You will not see me coming."

  Alexa chuckled. "That should be obvious."

  "You know what I mean. Goodbye for now. Preparations to make, plans to finalize. Until then, for your own sake, I would not harm the other five."

  He's grasping at straws. He knows nothing.

  "I don't know what you're talking about. But by all means, my door is always open. Come, we'll chat."

  "Oh, we will."

  Click.

  Alexa pressed a button. "Ursula? Do you have his signal?"

  "No, Ms. Pearl. It's been deactivated. No trace."

  Of course.

  She snapped her phone shut and pressed it tight between her hands and against her lips. Then she stood and bowed her head.

  Now wasn't the time for anger. She was still in control, still had cards to play. Indra was paranoid, and that was her bad luck. He did his homework, trusting nothing. But still, he could only learn so much, only see so much.

  It was what he couldn't see that mattered.

  Alexa smiled in the dark, surrounded by the Egyptian gods and all their ancient words etched into stone. She walked four paces to her left, to the onyx table she knew was there, and reached unerringly for the sole item resting on the center of the table. Her hands touched the cold metal, the sculpted golden gargoyles, the smooth, familiar glass.

  She pictured it in her mind, imagined the contents shifting, sliding. She turned it over, listening to the gently sifting sands, then set it back down on the table, heavy side up, and listened to every grain that shifted and fell within the hourglass.

  When Indra came, she would be ready.

  In the meantime, five others demanded her attention.

  3.

  Outside of Bakersfield, Vermont

  Gabriel pulled over at the last stop before Daedalus, a scenic viewing area, with four snow-draped picnic tables near a quaint, icicle-crowned restroom. A row of spruces, heavy with old snow, guarded an edge where the land gave way to a deep, narrow valley. Ahead, at the valley's narrowest point, a suspension bridge crossed over and connected with a freshly-shoveled road leading to the institute.. Already the snow was building up across the ravine, coming down in thicker squalls, a blizzard in the making, further obscuring their destination.

  "Why are we stopping?" Monica asked. Gabriel saw that her attention was still caught by the distant turrets peeking from the snow-shrouded façade of Daedalus. Her hands shook, and her face paled.

  Gabriel peeled his fingers off the steering wheel. How to explain his gnawing fear? How to rationalize yesterday's events? Franklin's recognition of Monica, his indisputable reaction on a neuro-biological level?

  "Bear with me, Monica. Please, I need to test something out first." Reaching into the back seat, he took his briefcase and brought it up front. He kept his eyes on hers as he snapped open the lid. What does she see, he wondered, when she sees my face? He had heard the descriptions from countless patients on how they visualized faces; each one was unique, but he really wanted to understand Monica's condition, partly to better protect her from Alexa, but also because unlike any other patient, he felt compelled with the need to connect with her – in order perhaps to do the impossible and cure her. Again he was struck by the emotion he saw in her face, the haunting, lonely eyes bearing so much pain.

  "Test what?" she asked, turning her attention again to the snow-crested peaks, the swaying pines and the patient fortress looming across the ravine, retreating within the blizzard's shroud. "How crazy I am?"

  "You're not crazy. But I might be, for what I'm about to do."

  Gabriel found the file he had brought along to study on the plane down to Philadelphia. A thick file, everything he had on Franklin Baynes. After Alexa's last experiment, Gabriel was determined to find out what made Franklin so deserving of Alexa's focus. She had found something in Franklin, something she had been searching for. If she had a theory on Prosopagnosia, on its cure or cause, it was something she wouldn't share with Gabriel, and that infuriated him. She could have done those visual experiments with any of the patients, but she favored Franklin. Chose him for a reason that, Gabriel believed, was unrelated to the state of his disease.

  Gabriel thumbed through the file until he found what he wanted, a glossy color photo of Franklin Baynes and two other men, wine connoisseurs delivering a presentation. He took the photo and pressed it to his chest. "Monica, indulge me please. I need you to take a look at something."

  "Something?"

  "Okay, someone."

  The wind whistled around the car, icy flakes tapped the windshield, and the roiling clouds approached.

  "Why?" she asked, still lost in the scenery, as if caught in the swirling blizzard, her blindness complete, the wind whipping around her. "What's the point?"

  Gabriel turned the picture around. "Just look at this. One of the men here is a patient of mine, and that patient…"

  Monica grudgingly turned her head to meet the photo. She blinked several times, then leaned in, peering closely, her eyes widening as Gabriel finished his sentence.

  "…that patient, he somehow recognizes you."

  Monica made a sound like a grunt; she snatched up the photo, ripped it from his hands, tearing it along the edge. She brought it to her face and stared. Lips quivering, hands shaking. "How is this possible? These other two, no, but him," she pointed at Franklin, jabbing the photo with her finger, "I know him!"

  Gabriel's heart was thundering, and despite the cold, his skin was wet with sweat, and he was burning up. "What do you see?"

  Monica kept shaking her head, blinking rapidly. "His face, his eyes, everything, crystal clear. And…I don't know, I'm sure that I know him, know him so well. Jesus. Take me to him now!"

  "Hold on." The fierceness of her reaction should not have surprised him, but still, he needed to proceed with caution. "Tell me, have you ever been to wineries in Napa Valley, to--"

  "California? No, never."

  "Any occasion to visit wine shows, or do you read those kinds of magazines, trade journals?"

  "No."

  He had to rule out other possibilities. Maybe she had associated some trauma with meeting Franklin, and, despite her Prosopagnosia, his face had stuck somehow. This was an idea he had been toying with years ago, a cognitive-associative mechanism: tie the viewing of someone's face with a strong trigger, and maybe that could be enough to force a bond. It was a variation on the concept of how people force their minds to remember people's names at a party. Association.

  Otherwise, what was happening was impossible. Gabriel felt as if he'd been hit by the same hammer that had just whacked Monica. He'd read her doctor's report, and he'd analyzed her himself. She had the most severe type of Prosopagnosia, just like Franklin – a total inability to resolve facial features, to recognize anyone by sight. She should not be seeing anything comprehensible, nothing that registered. Nothing. It was just…impossible.

  Suddenly, she opened her door and a blast of icy wind rushed in, along with a barrage of snowflakes. Monica staggered out, falling to her knees and stumbling back up, still holding that picture. Gabriel went after her, nearly slipping on the ice on his first step, but he caught up by the time she had reached the chained edge at the lookout point. The wind bit hard, stinging and chilling him right through his clothes. He caught her by the shoulders and tried to steady her.

  She spun and sunk into his arms, sobbing against him. Her fingers clenched his shirt, her nails nearly tore through it. A gust suddenly snatched Franklin's picture and whipped it high in the air and over the ravine.

  She turned her face to the sky and whimpered: "Who is he?"

  Gabriel held her back, awkwardly at first, then a little tighter.

  "Franklin Baynes. Prosopagnosiac. One of the most desperate cases I've ever seen. He's completely withdrawn into himself, in a state of shock. We showed him your picture two days ago… and it was the first reaction he's given in over six years. He saw you, saw y
our face just like you recognized his."

  Monica pulled away, looking ashamed suddenly of her weakness. "I swear I don't know where I would have seen him before…"

  "I know." As she backed away, Gabriel stuck his hands in his pockets. He blinked against the furious snow as it started hammering down in thick chunks like exploding plaster. Already Monica's hair had turned white, and the car's windshield was covered with a heavy blanket of fluffy snow.

  "Let's get back in the car," he said.

  "And then what? Will you take me to him?"

  "Not yet."

  "Why not?" Her eyes brimmed with a sudden fury.

  He took a deep, icy breath, and the stinging cold jarred his mind into gear. Alexa.

  He could picture his blind boss, flanked by her thugs, waiting in the lobby, all of them hungry for her arrival. He thought of the tests done to Franklin. The drugs… The way Alexa had been operating all these years under a shroud of secrecy. What does she do in that vault? What's so special about Franklin? And now Monica?

  "Dr. Sterling?"

  He held up his hand. It was too dangerous. Franklin's condition had worsened only after Alexa came on board, after she had taken an interest in him. And now she was switching her attention to Monica Gilman. Gabriel couldn't let anything like what had happened to Franklin happen to Monica. She was his patient, damn it, and he wasn't going to lose control this time.

  But he could only do so much, only protect her for so long. He would have to move fast when he got back. Put everything on the line and find out exactly what Alexa was doing, what danger Monica was in.

  He was tempted to put her in the car and just turn around, run to another city and start over – or hide out-- but the police would be on them in days if he didn't check in tomorrow. And he couldn't run from his responsibility. From his legacy.

  No, there was only one way to go.

  The snow swirled in miniature cyclones around their car, spinning around Monica and Gabriel. She huddled near the car, shivering, waiting for him to speak. She trusts me, Gabriel thought. Trusts me to keep her safe. There's only one way.

  Back in the car, the heater competing with the cold, Gabriel told her a lie. The first and only lie he hoped he'd ever have to tell her.

  "Take these pills now," he instructed, after opening his medical bag. "They’ll help you sleep. We'll see Franklin in the morning, but now you need to rest."

  She looked at him strangely, and Gabriel believed, for just a moment, she could actually peer through his blurry exterior and see the truth: that he wanted only to help her. Her intensity softened, melting like the flakes in her hair. She drank the pills down, finishing her water bottle, then gave him a look like she knew he wasn't being honest, but trusted him nonetheless.

  Fifteen minutes later, Monica was out. Fast asleep. Twenty milligrams of diazepam could be very effective, Gabriel thought as he drove slowly back onto the access road and across the slippery bridge. The SUV had to work hard, but in twenty minutes, the lights of Daedalus burned through the swirling flurries. A row of floodlights shone from the main façade, making it glow with a ghostly aura.

  He parked outside the main entrance, where Ursula Markoff and another of Alexa's brotherhood, Gregory Stoltz, waited, bundled in scarves and long coats and trying to get in a quick smoke. Gabriel called for a wheelchair. He ignored their frowning looks as he pushed Monica into the garage and up the access ramp into the lobby. Far above, five flights up, the domed stained-glass ceiling loomed in mockery of a painted blue sky. The iron door slammed shut behind him.

  Alexa glided out from the shadows.

  Has she been waiting here for us all this time?

  Alexa cocked her head, listening to the wheelchair's squeaking movements. "What did you give her?"

  Gabriel shook himself free of snow. "Nice to see you too."

  "What did you give her!"

  "Just a sedative. She was hysterical. I thought you'd want her relaxed and rested."

  Alexa slammed her cane against the floor. "I want her awake and alert."

  Gabriel shrugged. "You'll have to wait until tomorrow for that. I'm taking her to her room."

  Alexa made a face, a wolfish snarl, then withdrew into the shadowy corridor, just as three nurses took her place.

  Gabriel spoke in a low voice to the head nurse. "I want her under observation all night. No one is to disturb her."

  "But, Dr. Sterling--"

  "No one."

  4.

  Heathrow Airport, London

  Kaitlin handed the cashier her roommate's credit card and passport. People were always saying how alike the two of them looked, once you got past the hair and the spikes and the rings. Now was the time to test it. She had gone back and taken Trish’s car from the parking garage two blocks from their flat. Originally planning to try to sneak back into the flat for her identification, she had been relieved to find that Trish, a frequent traveler, had left her passport in the glove compartment.

  She knew how it would look – her running-- but she had no choice. She'd heard the murderer. They were going to pin this on her. If she stayed, she was either going to get killed, or go to prison. Neither outcome seemed particularly exciting.

  The airline attendant studied the picture on Trish's passport, and compared it to her driver's license. She frowned, then looked up at Kaitlin. "You really did a job on your hair."

  Kaitlin shrugged. Being a punker had its advantages. "Sue my hairdresser. I did."

  That got a hint of a smile. "Okay, you're all set. Gate twelve. You'll be in seat 15A. Enjoy your flight to Boston."

  Kaitlin popped her bubble gum and snatched the ticket. She went on her way toward the inevitably long security line, and groaned when she saw how long it snaked back and forth with people jostling each other and shuffling ahead inches at a time.

  Goddamn terrorists. Make it so hard for the rest of us to sneak out of the country when we really need to. She set her bag down, a silver backpack stuffed with only a few gift shop items: t-shirt, sweater, and a mindless romance novel to help pass the time, to get her mind off of what just happened. She was trying not to think about it, keeping at arm’s length the horrific and circling guilt that her roommate had just been murdered because of her.

  She kicked her bag forward, put on her headphones and cranked up her iPod, but suddenly became aware of a disturbance behind her. People started making way for someone. The police – two men in blue escorting someone she couldn't quite see. Cutting in front of people, moving and replacing the dividers as they brought the other guy up to the front of the line.

  Special treatment? Kaitlin stood on her toes and tried to see. The cops held papers in their hands, papers they passed out to the checkpoint officers.

  Oh shit.

  The credit card. She'd used it at the store, as well as the airline counter. By now they had to know Trish was dead, and the killer would be the only one using her card. Shit.

  And that man they're bringing up there, in the acid-washed jeans, the Mohawk and the earrings, and… those tattoos.

  Shit again.

  I'm fucked. They know I'm here.

  They had brought Slider to identify her.

  She thought about getting out of line. Turning back. But four policemen stood at the end of the line, holding those same papers. My face on each one, she presumed.

  Better odds that way, though, rather than run the gauntlet and try to get past Slider. Bastard. He probably volunteered. Gladly doing his part to screw her over once more, without bothering to hear her side, without caring.

  The line pushed ahead again. Turn back, she thought. Slip out of line, head for the rest rooms and hope you don't draw attention. Yeah, like a girl with spiked blue hair skipping out of line, avoiding the police and trying to sneak into the restroom wouldn't attract attention.

  The music blared, a cacophony of scathing drums, heart-drumming bass and screeching vocals. I used to sound like that, she thought. Now I can't stand it. It wasn't just the betr
ayal by Slider and her former band members. She had changed in the past few months, and now, with the brutality of death staring her in the face, her previous interests seemed so trivial.

  Inching forward with the others, she wished she'd brought a hat. But really, when she got up there, what would it matter? Her earrings were out, true; she'd been concerned about the metal detectors exploding, but Slider had seen her up close without her adornments more than any other guy. He'd seen her bare face even though she had never seen his.

  The boy and girl behind her started pushing each other, and the boy stepped on Kaitlin's foot. She bit her lip to hold back firing an F-bomb at him in front of his comatose parents. Instead she glared at the boy’s mom, and then dared look ahead.

  Slider was no longer there.

  He was walking through the line, weaving past the travelers, escorted by the detective. Taking the aggressive approach, searching the line before it got to the checkpoint.

  He was only two bends in the line ahead, closing in.

  Stay or run. Damned either way.

  Heart thundering, biting her lip, she decided.

  "Sorry." She pushed through the family behind her, then as nondescriptly as possible, ducked under the rope and started to head for the rest rooms. If she could make it that far, she'd try another change – cut her hair, bleach it maybe, put on glasses, a hat, something. There was no way she was making that flight.

  Walking briskly, head down, pretending to be lost in her music, she got halfway to the rest room, across a crowded floor, before she felt strong hands on her shoulders. Two men in blue. She was turned around, the earphones removed.

  "Sorry, miss, we need to ask you some questions."

  "What?" Try to appear shocked, outraged. She pulled herself free. "Don't touch me!"

  "Stay right here, ma'am." The taller one pointed somewhere behind him and motioned with his hand.

  And here comes Slider. Her shoulders slumped. She took a deep breath and looked down at her pink shoes, and she tried not to give in to the rising dread, the tide of lost opportunities and wasted chances. She had been careless, too impatient.