by Tim Tigner
Again the man spent a few seconds studying each of them. Again Scarlett felt as if she were being violated with her clothes on. She was not enjoying her first experience negotiating as a non-mind-reader. A deep sense of dread sank in as she realized that this was what the rest of her life would be like—if her condition had no cure.
“Now, I’m going to point out that I have bested the four of you, along with two of your assassins. I can beat you again, if need be. But I’m hoping we can come to an arrangement.” Pixler paused there, allowing her words to register.
The imposter seized the opportunity to speak for the first time in her presence. “Before Ms. Pixler offers you anything, I’m going to have to insist that you apologize, and you better sound like you mean it. Quinten Bacca was my friend.”
His voice did the trick. St. Croix! The witness from the Porter case. The killer hiding out under a false name. Hughes or Hayes. How had he connected with Pixler?
This was too much information for Scarlett to digest at once. She turned to Colton. He’d had a bit more time to process their sudden reversal of fate. She could see him calculating, a master negotiator’s mind at work, albeit without the aid of his trusty tool.
“What are you offering?” Resseque asked.
With clenched jaw, the imposter pulled a phone from his pocket. When Trent tensed at the sight, the man turned to Keller. “You recognize it. The burner phone you supplied Fredo. He didn’t actually use it, you know. He had it forward calls to his cell. The man nodded to the laptop where Pixler momentarily held up an iPhone before pressing a button. “I’ll do my best, but if kidnapping is not possible, do I let Pixler go, or kill her?”
Scarlett recognized Fredo’s voice, and she remembered the conversation. She’d also never forget the two words that had ended their last call with him. Words that she and her partners had all spoken. “Kill her.”
The man she’d met on St. Croix gave them a few seconds to adapt to the gravity of their situation, then said, “Fredo gave us everything before he passed. His recordings. His notebook. The man was meticulous when it came to record keeping, did you know that?”
“What do you want?” Scarlett asked. She wasn’t going to play games with a killer who had them cold. And she wasn’t going to further antagonize the one person on the planet who might be able to save her from stroking out.
The man turned her way. “I told you, I want a sincere apology. I want you to look in Ms. Pixler’s eyes and beg her forgiveness for sending Vance Panzer and Fredo Blanco to kill her. Then I want you to get down on your knees and tell her how sorry you are that your assassin killed her fiancé.”
Scarlett could hear Colton’s thoughts, even if she couldn’t read his mind. He was asking: “Or what?” She didn’t need to ask. The answers were obvious. The meeting would end before they learned the cure. And then Pixler would take the recordings and the notes to the FBI. Soon, the psychic would somehow arrange to depose them as part of an attempted murder investigation—with her glasses on.
“I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “I’m sorry we sent Panzer and I’m sorry we sent Blanco and I’m mortified that your fiancé was killed.”
“Because of you,” the man said. “Quinten Bacca is dead because you sent an assassin to Pasadena.”
“Because of us. Because of me,” she said, dropping to her knees. “I apologize, wholeheartedly. Please, forgive me.”
85
The Revenge
COLTON RESSEQUE ROSE to his feet with the taste of bile in his mouth, having swallowed his pride for a shot at the cure, and groveled to avoid going to prison. Lawyers negotiated plea deals all the time, but he’d never expected to be making one for himself. Certainly not for contracting murder.
Convicting him and his partners would be tricky, even with all their voices on tape and the meticulous notes Fredo had allegedly made. But Colton knew better than to go up against an adversary who could read minds. That was the mistake many of the country’s top attorneys had made when facing him and his partners. He wasn’t foolish enough to follow their footsteps over a cliff, now that he was on the other side of the lenses.
His colleagues had clearly come to the same conclusion. And they were undoubtedly also anxious to learn if the Caltech grad knew anything about their neurological condition. Particularly, how to cure it.
“Thank you,” Pixler said when Colton was back in his seat beside the other three. “Here’s the deal. In order to avoid incarceration, the four of you must immediately retire. Not just hang up your glasses, but destroy them. Do that, and the FBI will never learn of your attempts to kill me. Do that, and you won’t have to experience a humiliating fall from grace or endure the indignities of life behind bars.
“You’ve had a great run, but it’s over. I’m sure you were considering retirement anyway, given the brain damage you’ve been accruing these past twenty years.”
So she did know about the condition. Had she just learned of it by reading their minds, or did she discover it during her own research? Colton was dying to know and atypically helpless to find out. Life on the other side of the lenses was rough!
“How is it that you didn’t know about the neurological degradation?” Pixler asked. Then a second later, “Oh, wow. You’ve been hit. But you didn’t connect the dots? Well, I guess that settles the MIT versus Caltech debate. I’d say Go Beavers, but I know that’s your mascot, too.”
“Tell us about the neurological degradation,” Colton said. “If you please.”
“I’ll please once we’re agreed on your retirement. Are we? Will you hang up your glasses, forever? Will you close RRS&S—tonight?”
The robotic Fredo imposter studied each of them in turn.
Colton, like the others, agreed.
“Say it out loud,” Pixler said.
“We agree to retire,” they said. “We agree to close the firm.”
“Good. Now, before we discuss neurology, there’s just the matter of restitution.”
“Restitution!” Colton blurted along with his partners.
Pixler said nothing in response. Instead, her steely eyed messenger pulled copies of a contract from his backpack.
Colton scanned the document with the speed of a pro and felt his blood run cold. “You want us to sign over the ownership of our apartments to the Innocence Project?”
Between Bernie Madoff and Colton’s assumption that the music would never end, he had very little in the way of liquid assets. That apartment represented about ninety percent of his net worth.
“As a block, they’re worth hundreds of millions of dollars,” Sackler said, practically choking. Colton knew that Walter shared his financial position. They all did. They’d all been living like people who’d be making $2,400 an hour until they chose to retire.
“The majority of our net worth is tied up in that real estate,” Scarlett added, her voice also dry.
“Are you looking for pity? For mercy?” Pixler growled. “For yourselves rather than for people who’ve been wrongly imprisoned?”
Nobody replied.
“After spending decades living decadent lives financed by thwarting justice, helping to fund that charitable effort is the least you could do. The least!” Pixler practically shouted, daring them to say otherwise. “Now sign and notarize the contracts! Then we’ll discuss your medical condition.”
The document was expertly written, Colton noted. No wiggle room. The apartments would essentially cease to be theirs the minute the ink was dry. This would make him a much less wealthy man. Given what he knew after decades of practicing law, however, he’d gladly go bankrupt to avoid even a single year in most prisons. In any case, at that moment, he was more concerned with health than wealth.
He met his partners’ doleful gazes, then signed.
Once her messenger had collected the executed contracts, Pixler said, “Thank you. I’m pleased that we could keep this civilized. You have until the end of the month to be out of your apartments, but I expect the Innocence Project g
ift to be announced tonight along with the firm’s closure and your retirements.”
Normally, at this point in a negotiation, Colton would be calculating the steps required to turn the tables. Today, however, he stopped short. He’d spent twenty years winning literally every negotiation based on one simple fact: he could read minds, and his opponents could not. Today, and every day he dealt with Vicky Pixler, she would have that advantage. She would win. He knew that the smart move, bitter though it might be, was to accept the deal and move on.
The psychic cleared her throat. “As for the neurological degradation, it’s no longer something you need to concern yourselves with, given that I’m going to have you killed if you ever wear the glasses again. But I’ll satisfy your curiosity anyway. Yes, the deterioration is cumulative. It will accelerate if your exposure continues, given that you’re already symptomatic.”
“Is there a cure?” Scarlett blurted.
“No, of course not. Brain cells don’t regenerate,” Pixler scoffed. “And since you’ve begun the downward slide, there’s no stopping it. You’ll likely be babbling idiots within a decade. But you should know that.” The mind-reader suddenly canted her head as a thought struck. “Oh, that’s right, you were a guinea pig, not a scientist.”
Colton saw fury flash across Scarlett’s face, only to be quickly replaced by the fear he was also now feeling. Were they on their way to dementia? Was Jim the lucky one? Would the survivors ever be able to relax again?
Sackler finally broke the stunned silence. “Was Pascal’s stroke related?”
The man turned his way and stared for a few seconds before Pixler responded. “Interesting. You think Pascal was also developing the technology, and damaged his brain while experimenting. I know nothing about that, but it seems reasonable to me. Then again, he was facing the fall from atop the world to the bottom of the penal system, so it may well have been natural causes as reported.”
Again Pixler paused while her puppet stared. “Oh, he had the same unusual hemorrhagic pattern as Jim Rogers. I see. Well then, yes, I think it’s probable that he did as you suspected. Good to know. Thank you.”
The messenger pivoted, scanning each of them for a few seconds in silence before Pixler spoke again. “Well, it seems that thanks to your medical issues, I won’t need to worry about your resuming legal consultations. But apparently I do need to add that transferring your technology to anyone, including and especially a protégé, will result in Fredo’s files being sent to the FBI. Are we clear?”
“Yes,” all replied.
“Good. I expect to hear about the firm’s closure and your charitable gift on the evening news. After that, I better never hear about you again. If I do, if I get word of a single mind-reading act by any of you, I’ll have you all killed. Are we clear?”
“We’re clear.”
Pixler’s assistant shut the laptop, then addressed them in an icy voice. “I will be watching. For what it’s worth, my vote was to keep it simple and kill you. I pray that you’ll give me the excuse to avenge Chewie’s death.”
With that, he stood and left them to their misery.
86
Bad News
CHASE DIDN’T REALLY LEAVE the crooked attorneys to contemplate their fall from health, wealth, and power. With the laptop put away and Vicky offline, he pulled a burn bag from his backpack. He opened it and held it out. “Give me your glasses.”
The three lawyers and the engineer looked at one another.
“Give me your glasses, or I’m going straight to the FBI with the phone recordings and the videotapes of your apologies.”
Colton Resseque reddened, but managed to ask, “Why?”
“You can’t use them, and you agreed to destroy them, but I don’t trust you. So I’m going to be destroying them for you. Consider it a kindness. I’m saving you the emotional strain.”
Chase waggled the burn bag.
One by one, the four complied.
“Thank you. Now, Colton, kindly retrieve the spare pairs from your office while I wait here with the others.”
“I only have one spare.”
Chase shook his head, then reached into the bag and withdrew a pair of horn rims. He located the inlaid button near the hinge on the left earpiece and powered them on. Then he donned them and turned back to Resseque. “Kindly retrieve the spare glasses from your office while I wait here with the others. Be quick about it and talk to no one.”
The lawyers were quick about it. They enjoyed waiting beneath his gaze about as much as worms on hooks above the water.
With good reason.
He had eleven pairs when all was done, with three additional pairs in different colors coming from Slate, whereas Resseque and Sackler each contributed two. Trent didn’t have an office there, and thus no spare glasses.
“Thank you. Now, we’ll go down the street for a repeat performance at your apartments. Then Trent and I will destroy the whole collection in his lab. After that, hopefully I’ll be out of your hair—forever.”
They moaned and groaned, both verbally and mentally, but all went along, of course.
The already extremely awkward transition was made even more so by the addition of three bodyguards, but they shed two of them after wrapping up on the twelfth floor, and the third after Sackler deposited his entire stash in the burn bag. That left Chase and Trent alone when they entered his apartment-workshop on floor ten.
Under normal conditions, a cleanup operation like this would take days and require pulling a few fingernails. But with the glasses on, Chase found it easy to ensure full and complete compliance—even from slippery New York lawyers and their evil engineer.
“We’ll start with your spare pairs,” Chase said, locking the door behind them. “Not just the current working models, but the older and broken ones as well.”
“We’re not really going to destroy them, are we?” Trent asked, as he unlocked the safe that held his stash. “You’re going to keep them for yourself. You’ve got a taste for the power they provide, and now you want more.”
“One taste is enough for me,” Chase said with a shake of his head. “I’m not about to set myself up for dementia. Good luck with that, by the way.”
He glanced around the luxury apartment’s main room, looking for instruments of destruction. “I trust you have something in your workshop we can use? If not, we’ll make do with the garbage disposal.”
The workshop looked like something you’d find at NASA or Tesla. Not just a wide array of modern tools and electronic equipment, but efficiently organized and practically sterile in appearance. “Let’s boot it all up, your computers included, while we get to work with the vises and hammers.”
Once they’d pulverized every pair but the ones on Chase’s nose, he retrieved a case of Perrier from the kitchen pantry, returned to the lab, and began emptying bottles onto the electronic equipment while Trent looked on in horror. When everything was black, Chase asked, “Where’s your external stash?”
Trent reflexively began to lie, but realized the futility and quickly gave up the address of a climate-controlled storage facility on Long Island.
“Get me the keys and write down the entry codes. Everything I need.”
Chase found it fascinating, listening to Trent’s internal battle as he tried to lie without thinking about it. He had a disciplined mind, but it was impossible to avoid mentally responding to repeated questions delivered when one was under duress.
Once Chase was convinced that he had everything he’d need to access the lawyers’ only remaining mind-reading equipment, he changed the topic. “Why didn’t you reach out to Vicky? Why did you go straight to assassination?”
The one-word answer flashed faster than Trent’s lips, and it told Chase everything he needed to know about the engineer’s soul. “Expedience.”
“Okay. That concludes our business. Before I go, I have a message for you from Vicky. Or perhaps I should say, from Quinten Bacca’s fiancée.” That was a lie. Vicky knew nothing of
this, and she never would.
Trent froze.
Chase winked at him as he pulled Vicky’s headphones from his backpack. “Not that kind of message. A literal message. A secret voice mail. One for your ears only.”
As Trent relaxed a bit, Chase pointed toward the bedroom. “I can’t say for certain, but I don’t think this is going to be good news. I suggest you take it lying down.”
87
The Hug
VICKY HESITATED with one foot off the dock while a wave of emotion enveloped her. Although she’d been barraged with similar assaults in the past weeks and days, she’d assumed that the storm was over.
In fact, a deep sense of calm had descended on her—after using her Pradas for the last time. After convincing the people who had killed Chewie that they were headed for dementia. After forcing them to relinquish their careers and donate the bulk of their fortunes to charity. And, perhaps most importantly, after learning that Chase had predicted correctly regarding Pascal’s bodyguards. They had not incriminated themselves to the police by bringing up the visit of Margaret Gray.
Given all that, Vicky had to ask why she now found herself hesitating to step aboard the Vitamin Sea? To sail off in search of a fresh life and new adventures? Was something left hanging over her head? A smaller matter that had been eclipsed by greater concerns?
No threat came to mind.
It wasn’t Pascal’s plan. In retrospect, she would be forever grateful to Chase for sparing her that temptation. For allowing her to move on from mind-reading with a clean break.
“Is everything okay?” Skylar asked.
“I’m having second thoughts.”
“About abandoning Cassandra?”
Now that she no longer needed to fear assassination, Vicky had seriously considered resuming her business in Vegas. The idea of becoming a headline act in the world capital of entertainment was appealing. So was the opportunity to help clients with her unique style of therapy. But in the end, Vicky decided that she did not want a complicated life. Maybe that would change with time, but she doubted it. She doubted she would ever be comfortable returning to a situation where people might want to kill her. Time would tell. “I don’t think that’s it. I feel comfortable leaving her behind. For now, at least.”
