Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

“Not some abstract reference? Something specific and concise?”

  “Yes.”

  “A two- or three-word summary?”

  “I’ll give you a whole sentence,” Pascal said with a wink.

  “You’d really do that—for me?”

  “I might. But it’s definitely not going to happen if your act falls short of spectacular.”

  “I believe that’s what they call détente,” Vicky said, putting verve in her voice to camouflage the nervous tension. “Finish your drink, then come join me in the bedroom.”

  76

  One Word

  THE FIRST THING Vicky did in Pascal’s bedroom was confirm that her second cellphone had been capturing the output from her mind-reading barrettes. If it had not, all that good thought she’d coaxed would be lost like the sound of a tree that fell when no one was around. And given that this would be the last opportunity to learn the details of his devious business, she’d have to go further than planned in the bedroom.

  The thought repulsed her. The idea of being with any man other than Chewie brought tears to her eyes. She wouldn’t be ready for that for a long time to come. But tonight, she would bite the bullet for king and country if absolutely required.

  Vicky tried to psych herself up as she scanned the text on her phone, knowing that her next act needed to be completely convincing. Pascal was exceptionally intelligent, powerful, and intriguing. She forced herself to focus on that, while walling off his arrogant attitude toward others and utter lack of respect for women.

  The transcript was there! She scrolled through it to the point where she’d said, “A sensible move, given that you’re guilty of the charges—and many more. Wouldn’t you agree?” His mental response followed. Three magic words, and a window to his soul: That I am. Does that bother you? Or turn you on?

  Knowing that time was tight but needing to confirm that she’d obtained the main mission objective, Vicky skimmed on. An odd, repeated word caught her eye. Lexi. The code name for his billion-dollar idea was Lexi. Or LEXI. Or Lecksi. Vicky’s software converted the mental voice to text, so the spelling of unfamiliar words was just a guess.

  She wanted to read more, but couldn’t risk being caught with the phone and eyeglasses. Even in his sedated, inebriated state, that sight would likely raise a big red flag. One that might result in his yelling for a bodyguard. So she tucked her mind-reading tools away and turned to her toys. She set the headphones and massage oil on the nightstand, then shot over to his closet, in search of accessories.

  A minute later, Vicky was sitting seductively on the puffy white duvet. Four of Pascal’s silk ties were draped around her neck, and her burgundy dress lay like an invitation on the floor. She wore a come-hither look and lingerie designed with alluring optical illusions in mind.

  But Pascal didn’t come.

  She found him on the couch with an open mouth and an empty vodka glass still in his hand. The second tablet had been too much.

  Tempting though it was, Vicky couldn’t leave him there. Not only did she need Pascal to look like he’d made it to bed, but now she wanted to ask him about Lexi.

  One tug made the task appear Herculean. His arm was like a heavy rope, and his body an anchor that had sunk into the couch. That image made her remember the first rule of holes: when you find yourself in one, stop digging.

  She called Chase.

  “Yes, I’m here. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. He passed out on the couch.”

  “Well done. We read the transcript. It’s good, but insufficient. He has amazing mental discipline. Do you think you could wake him up and ask a few more questions?”

  It took Vicky a second to orient. She’d forgotten that Chase had made himself a clone of the second phone, which synced with hers in real time.

  “About Lexi?”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s what I was thinking, but I need to get him into bed before beginning the next phase, right?”

  “Definitely. It won’t look right if he’s found clothed on the couch. Oh,” Chase said, catching on. “That’s why you called.”

  “Yeah. He must outweigh me by fifty percent. I figure I can probably haul him to the bedroom if I focus my rage, but even picturing Chewie I don’t think I can lift him onto the bed.”

  Chase responded with a speed that told her he’d been down that road before. “Use the ironing board as a ramp. Pull him up it by bracing your feet and using your legs.”

  Vicky pictured the process. She should have thought of that. “Okay. Hold on.”

  It was still a struggle, given that she didn’t have firm footing during the critical parts. Halfway through she started laughing at the irony of how tough it was for her to get Pascal into bed. The giggles gave her the boost she needed to get him there. Two minutes later, Vicky had his clothes off. She considered hanging them up, but decided it would look more natural if they were left discarded on the floor.

  “Done,” she said, while returning the ironing board to the closet. “Should I tie him up as if for sex games, as planned?”

  “Better safe than sorry. Just make sure you can untie him when you’re done.”

  Vicky bound the billionaire to the bedframe with his own silk ties, then gave him a few face slaps and a vigorous shake. “He’s not waking up.”

  “Clamp his nose between two fingers while pulling his mouth shut with your thumb. Hold it until his eyes pop open. Call me back if it doesn’t work.”

  Vicky returned the phone to her bag, then did as instructed. It didn’t take long to achieve the desired reaction.

  “What happened?” Pascal asked, his voice at once rattled and groggy.

  “Looks like I was just too much for you, big boy. But to be fair, you were nearly too much for me too.” She stroked his face while he struggled to remember her body and his performance. “Now fair’s fair. Tell me more about Lexi.”

  “Ask Lexi,” he said, closing his eyes with a smile. “Just ask Lexi,” he repeated, drifting off.

  Was Lexi a person? His Cassandra? Was Pascal’s big idea repeating what she’d already done, but bigger? Not just a live show, but a phenomenon? Like the Oracle at Delphi? A brand? That would be ironic. And a relief. Vicky slipped on her glasses and pulled out her phone, knowing that he was too zonked to recognize them for what they were. “How does Lexi make money?”

  He didn’t reply.

  She gave him a shake.

  Nothing.

  She clamped his nose and mouth again.

  He reacted, but slower and groggier than before.

  “Hey, Archie. How does Lexi make billions?”

  The corners of his mouth moved, more like the start of a smile than speech. He said nothing, but his mind managed a one-word answer. Advertising.

  77

  The Show

  FREDO WAS NOT the kind of guy who’d daydream or listen to baseball during a surveillance op. For him, it wasn’t a waiting game. He’d use the time for reflection, analysis, and planning. He’d plot contingencies and prepare countermeasures. Since he’d studied the Cathcart Hotel’s architecture prior to placing his cameras, Fredo was already familiar with its entrances, exits, service areas, stairwells, and security systems. Therefore, his first move while waiting for Victoria Pixler to emerge was to identify which room she had entered.

  Ironically, Pascal made that easy, particularly for a Latino dressed in a generic gray janitorial uniform. Fredo simply took the stairs to the top floor, confirmed the presence of a bodyguard by the elevator, then noted the number of the room where the second dark suit was posted.

  With that information in hand, the white elf set about figuring out how long he was willing to wait, and what he would do if and when that time expired. He ran those calculations from a curtained perch on a scaffolded building across the street.

  The how-long question was one of assumptions. In this case, Fredo assumed that if Vicky didn’t emerge within two hours of entering—looking like the kind of woman with whom most g
uys would love to spend an intimate hour—then she was likely staying the night. In that case, she’d either be planning to make her escape in the wee hours while her mark was supposedly still sleeping, or first thing in the morning, while he was assumed to be showering. If her assassination attempt failed for whatever reason, then she’d likely leave with him in the morning.

  That last scenario was unacceptable. Departing with Pascal meant exiting via a secure route in the presence of bodyguards.

  Fredo decided that he’d wait until 1:00 a.m., then take action.

  The what-then question was answered during his second hour on watch by a combination of location, luck, and personal experience. Fredo had found that the easiest way to force a stranger from a crowded building was to create an evacuation event. Luck and location lent a hand when the fire station down the street noisily dispatched a hook-and-ladder along with a smaller engine and command vehicle.

  Dressed in his anonymous gray coveralls, Fredo simply slipped into the nearly empty station and stuffed his go-bag with a few items that the firehouse had arranged for fast access, namely a uniform, helmet, and boots. All were a bit big, but the smallest among them would do. He ignored the implication of the residual floral scent on its fabric.

  Before returning to his perch to watchfully wait out the clock, Fredo bought a few additional supplies at an all-night pharmacy. When the clock hit 1:00 without a sighting or electronic alert, he launched Plan B.

  He toted his heavy bag around back to the Cathcart’s service entrance, where his bump key quickly defeated the mechanical lock. Once inside, he took the service elevator to the eleventh floor, then hit the stairwell, where he donned the firefighting garb atop his janitorial uniform.

  Fredo liked being a firefighter much more than a cop. In his experience, people had mixed reactions to police uniforms. While most were deferential and a bit fearful, a decent percentage were less than respectful to a lone officer of Fredo’s size. They attempted to feed their frail egos with lame displays of pseudo-bravery. Usually the assault was verbal, but occasionally it presented physically, with the rebel blocking his path or some other quasi-passive move.

  Firefighters, by contrast, got nothing but respect. Going that route made operations more efficient and led to less collateral damage.

  Fredo found the maid’s closet, which was conveniently located next to the stairwell. He tested the door. Locked. He then listened at the doors of five surrounding rooms. All quiet. As was the hall.

  He pulled a 32-oz bottle of 91% isopropyl alcohol from his bag, and tipped it so that the contents ran under the closet door. He did that five more times with the surrounding guest rooms, then walked the circle again to collect the empty bottles.

  Once they were all back in his bag, Fredo again listened for signs of life by cupping an ear to each door.

  He again heard nothing. No snoring, no television, nobody asking, “What’s that smell?” It was the middle of the night, after all.

  Satisfied that circumstances were ideal, Fredo pulled a wedge from his bag and propped open the stairwell door. He dumped everything he didn’t need down a trash chute, then extracted the first of six matchbooks from one of the uniform’s big pockets. “Let the show begin.”

  78

  A Million to One

  RATHER THAN ATTEMPT to wake Pascal again in hopes of learning more, Vicky decided to leave well enough alone. She didn’t want him calling out or creating abrasions by pulling on his bonds. Hopefully his one-word clue would allow them to decipher the Lexi question.

  She removed the neckties binding Pascal’s ankles and wrists, then returned them to his closet. She tucked him in, arranged the bed, and pulled her dress back on. Once she’d zipped up, Vicky walked to the main room and, using a tissue, took Pascal’s martini glass to the sink where she thoroughly rinsed the inside before adding a few drops of vodka and setting it beside hers on the counter, with his fingerprints still intact.

  Returning to the bedroom, she adjusted the duvet and pillows to improve the post-coital vibe, then slipped the headphones over Pascal’s ears. At that point, Vicky froze. Should she do this? Could she do this? She’d killed Rogers, but that had been an accident. The direct result of one of his attempts on her life.

  This would be intentional. Premeditated murder. And Pascal had not tried to kill her. He had assaulted multiple women. He did deserve life in prison and he would get it if justice was served. But this was the death penalty, and it was for a crime he had yet to commit. Preemptive punishment.

  She considered calling Skylar and Chase, but that wouldn’t be fair. It would add to their guilt without lessening her own. Instead, she thought back to their earlier conversation. “Do we zap Pascal too?” She’d asked.

  “Not good enough,” Chase had said. “The man’s an entrepreneur. If he loses the ability to use the glasses, he’ll surely sell the technology and idea to someone else for a percentage of the take.”

  “That’s even worse,” Skylar had concurred.

  “So, what? We kill him?” Vicky had asked.

  “Aside from rendering him an idiot, literally frying his brain, there’s no other way.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “I understand,” Chase had said. “But consider this. Governments train their citizens to kill all the time. It’s been the way of the world since the dawn of humankind. And it’s accepted, because it’s for a cause. It’s for the greater good. For the innocent.”

  “But I’m not a head of state. Nobody elected me.”

  “No, you’re not, but as the world’s leading expert on the issue at hand, there is no better judge. What happens to human civilization if Pascal unleashes mind reading upon it?”

  Vicky knew that answer by heart. “Disaster. Social unrest. Wars. Likely the temporary breakdown of civilization itself.”

  “So lives will be lost?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thousands?”

  “For sure.

  “Millions?”

  Before answering that one, Vicky had reflected on the thoughts she’d heard while wearing her Pradas. The insults, slander, and lascivious musings. The inadvertent confessions of crimes, slights, and infidelities. Then she had imagined what might happen when an inadequate ruler with an army or a nuclear button experienced the unfiltered truth. “Yes, probably millions.”

  “And all just to make one rich man even richer. There’s no doubt about it. Serving justice means stopping Pascal—by any means necessary.”

  “But what if his plan really would keep it secret?”

  “What are the odds of that? One in ten? One in two? What if there’s only a ten percent chance that he’ll blow it? What if it was your life? Would you sacrifice your life for a ten percent chance of saving millions?”

  Standing there in Pascal’s hotel room, Vicky reflected on her answer. “I would if I could find the courage.”

  She hit the power button.

  Vicky had returned the headphones to the setting she’d used with Rogers. The lethal setting. Pascal jolted as they powered on, a bit less dramatically than the lawyer had, but he too went limp.

  This time, she knew what was going on inside the skull. The capillaries in Pascal’s prefrontal cortex were rupturing, leaking blood into his brain while depriving it of oxygen. She didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t help it. This was a car crash. A train wreck. An unnatural disaster.

  While Vicky stared at her victim, a cellphone began vibrating wildly, causing her to jump. She checked her smartphone screen. FIRE FIRE FIRE FIRE. The hotel’s fire alarm was sounding. A signal from Chase. She needed to flee like the building really was ablaze.

  She pulled the headphones from Pascal’s ears and shoved them into her bag. She gave the room one last glance, then ran for the door. It burst open before she got there and both bodyguards filed in. She said, “He’s passed out in the bedroom,” as they brushed past like she wasn’t there.

  Vicky ran for the elevator. At least she
started to. A fireman blocking the hallway directed her toward the stairs. She wanted to reply, “No worries, it’s a false alarm.” She needed to make her escape before the bodyguards behind her determined that their charge was dead rather than drunk or sleeping. Before they could detain and accurately identify her. Before they could arrest her for murder.

  How fast could she run down twenty flights of stairs in high heels? Should she get off on some random floor and wait for Chase, hoping the bodyguards would run past?

  She nodded to the fireman, who was now holding the stairwell door open. “Thank you.”

  While the words passed her lips, a question crossed her mind. How had he gotten there so quickly? Chase had pulled the alarm only seconds earlier. She met the fireman’s gaze and her blood went cold. She knew the eyes concealed by the shadow of that yellow hat. She would never forget the face of the man who had killed Chewie.

  Conclusions came quickly. Chase had not pulled the fire alarm. Fredo Blanco had.

  The man before her was not there to fight the fire.

  He was there to kill her.

  79

  Defied Expectations

  FREDO THOUGHT he caught a flash of panic crossing Pixler’s face, but she didn’t scream. She didn’t reverse course and retreat into Pascal’s suite. She didn’t call for his bodyguards. Instead she did as he asked and hustled toward the stairs. The sight of his uniform must have sparked her fear of fire.

  “The bodyguards will take care of Pascal. My job is clearing the top floor and getting you to safety,” he said, pushing open the stairwell door. It was a quasi-preposterous proposition. A concierge-style escort for penthouse guests, brought to you by your local firehouse. But who was going to resist assistance from a fireman during a fire?

  All Fredo needed to complete his job and get away clean was a few seconds alone with her. The top of a stairwell was the perfect place—as long as he could act before the bodyguards evacuated Pascal.