~ chapter 14 ~
eugene “Boston” hollinger
“You don’t sound happy about this.”
“I’m never happy about not having you here with me,” Gina says on the other end of the call.
“I know, I don’t like it either, but we may have had a breakthough about these dreams. The sooner I can get to the bottom of these weird dreams, the sooner―”
“You can move on to your other obsession?” she sneers.
Gina has been aware of my quest for answers about the attack on us since the moment we became a couple. She accepted and supported it then, but over time has become lukewarm to my endeavors. Her failing enthusiasm, combined with my continued drive, has put more of a strain on our relationship than I want to admit. I’m in no mood to fight about it tonight though.
“I was going to say the sooner things get back to normal for us,” I explain.
“Well, I will be lonely without you tonight, but good luck and call me in the morning to let me know what you come up with,” Gina says on the other end of the call.
“I will. I love you.”
“Love you too. Sleep well, sweetie.”
“You too, bye,” I tell her, disconnecting the call and turning the power off.
I hope this ends up being useful, because an upset fiancée is the price I’m paying. After our brief session this morning, Tara and I agreed that the next step was to monitor my sleep activity. I left her place and went back to my own, had lunch, packed an overnight bag, and counted down the time until I could come back here and start getting some answers. I toyed with filling the extra hours with a few phone calls to some friends who might have some news on the investigation into how ISIS is getting their intelligence information, but decided to heed Colby Washington’s warning. Now is just not a good time.
I’m really too excited to think about that now anyway. I have been haunted by these dreams for years, and the thought of finally beginning to understand them is exhilarating. I walk back into the guest room from the hallway and sit on the edge of the bed, gently touching a couple of the contacts taped to my head.
“Don’t mess with them,” Tara warns me from the chair in the corner of the small room.
“Sorry,” I grumble, willing myself to stop fiddling with them. I let my eyes wander around the room to occupy my time and keep my mind off the annoying sensors.
Tara’s spare bedroom is cute, in an IKEA sort of way. A simple twin bed, small dresser, end table, and the chair angled in the corner she is sitting in sums up all the furnishings the small room can handle. There is a single window in the room that faces out towards the street, requiring the blinds to be closed more than opened. The walls are painted a bluish-gray color with some nice but unfamiliar framed prints of impressionist artwork hung on each of them.
“Tara, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“How does a dream therapist afford a place in the swanky Adams Morgan part of Washington?”
“A dream therapist doesn’t. Her parents do.”
“Oh, I thought maybe it was your boyfriend Mark’s place.”
“You mean my ex-boyfriend Mark? I broke it off with him this morning right before you got here. And no, he only wishes it was.”
“Was that the first time he’s ever hit you?” I prod, not sure why I am being so nosey about her personal life.
“It was the last time,” Tara dodges. “Like most abusers, he made a lot of promises he never delivered on. That was the conversation we had at the front door.”
“Why did you stay with him after the first time?” I ask, causing her to avert her eyes back to the computer she is working on and ignore the question for a few long seconds.
“It’s a long story that I don’t want to talk about,” she explains, the tone of her voice reinforcing her unwillingness to discuss it any further.
“One more question, and then I’ll drop it. Do we have to worry about him coming back?” Part of me wonders if that is her motivation for me being here.
“No, we don’t,” she states with conviction. “We’re ready. Go ahead and lie down.”
“How often do you do this?”
“EEGs?” she asks without looking up.
“No, have strange men over to stay in your spare bedroom only a dozen or so feet from where you sleep.”
“Not very often, but―” She stops in mid-sentence and blushes as I take off my shirt.
“Sorry, but I can’t sleep with a shirt on.”
“Uh, yeah, no problem. Let me know when you’re comfortable.”
“As good as I’ll ever be,” I tell her, as I climb into the bed and under the covers while she sets the computer on the table next to the bed. “You didn’t want to work with me when I first came here. Now you’re doing this. Can I ask why?”
“Because what you saw of me and Mark you could not have known unless you were spying on me. Since I hope you weren’t, I want to know how you did it.”
“And this thing is going to tell you that,” I ask, pointing to the laptop as she begins hooking up wires to the sensors on my head.
“An electroencephalogram detects activity in your brain by using those electrodes on your scalp to measure the electrical impulses.”
“So, what is this, the home version?” I joke.
The computer is something you could run into any electronics superstore and buy. I expected some sort of fancy medical device, not a laptop running Windows. I hope she isn’t expecting me to reboot it when it crashes in the middle of the night.
“Sort of, but it works just fine for what we need it for.”
“And this happens when I’m sleeping?” I ask, oblivious to how all this really works.
“When you sleep, your conscious mind is off, but that doesn’t mean your brain is. In fact, your brain is almost as active in REM sleep as when you’re awake.”
“So how do you know if this will capture anything different?”
“I don’t. That’s part of the point,” she says after attaching the last of the wires onto the electrodes. “But if what you saw was real, this may be able to help us understand what your brain is doing when it happens.”
“You mean why I’m seeing someone else’s memories? Experiencing life through the eyes of others?”
“Please stop making me feel crazy for doing this,” she pleads. I know what she means.
“Sorry about that. Good night.”
“Good night, and try not to toss and turn too much. It won’t work if you yank all the wires off.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
* * *
The fogginess sets in and is more hazy than usual as I watch my hands fumbling for something. I struggle to see … Is that a phone? It moves out of my vision which is focused on a slab of wood in front of me. Or at least it looks like lacquered wood.
“Yeah,” I hear a voice say in my ear.
“I’m in. What do you need done?” I hear myself ask. I raise something to my mouth … a glass of some sort?
“Just surveillance. Nothing more.”
“Why?”
“Because he may be the mole we’re looking for. And if he is, he needs to be taken off the board,” the voice says. The word mole echoes in my head.
“And that’s the redemption you promised?” my voice slurs.
“Yes.”
“Okay, but I’m only watching the target. Don’t ask me for anything more.”
“I’m not in the wet work business. Keeping a tail on him is all I need.”
“What’s the name?”
“Not over the phone. We’ll meet later. Get some coffee. I need you sober for this.”
My eyes click open and I sit up in bed. The room is dark and I flip on the light to the bedroom, careful not to snag any of the wires running from my head to the machine that would cause them to disconnect. My watch reads almost three in the morning when I remember what Tara told me to do. I try to focus on remembering the details of the dream whe
n I hear the gentle rap on the door.
“Come in,” I say.
“I was getting some water from the kitchen and saw the light on. Is everything okay?” Tara asks, dressed in pajama bottoms and a tank top. Even in the dead of night she’s an attractive woman. If I wasn’t already engaged …
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, rubbing my eyes.
“Did you have one of those dreams?” she asks, moving over to the laptop serving as an EEG.
“I think so. It was similar to the others, but not as clear, and that’s saying something.”
“Let’s take a look,” she says, staring at the screen and using the trackpad to back up the record of the data. “What the hell?”
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask, suddenly concerned about what she’s seeing.
“You’re sure you weren’t awake at all during this?” she asks.
“I’m positive, why?”
“Well, unless you were awake or this is malfunctioning, I can tell you for sure that wasn't a dream.”
“Well, we already suspected that.”
“I know, but … I need a consultation on this, because what I’m seeing isn’t possible.”
“Why, what does it mean?”
“It means, if I’m reading this right, for fifty-three seconds you were awake and asleep at the same time.”
.
~ chapter 15 ~
FBI agent zach bruhte
I’m living the cliché. Stakeouts are long-honored traditions in law enforcement, and a favorite staple for Hollywood depictions of surveillance. Thirty years ago, this was how it was done. Get yourself a pair of binoculars, a vehicle, some snacks, some bad coffee, and you’re set so long as they don’t slip out the back door.
Law enforcement agencies across the country have grown up. Although the old methods are still taught and used on occasion, they’ve been replaced by technology that makes the process less arduous. Cameras, tracking locators, and directional mics also increase the likelihood of good results. Unfortunately, I’m a one-man team, so am forced to do Garrett Turner’s bidding the hard way.
No longer afforded the luxury of signing out FBI assets, I’m stuck using my own car. Unbeknownst to most people, the feds have fleets of common cars they can use for just about any conceivable operation. Only in the movies does the large van, sporting a sign saying “Municipal Electric” and packed with cameras, monitors, and geeky technicians, sit unmolested on a city street.
No, for this mission it’s just me and my three closest friends―a thermos of coffee, a bag of trail mix, and unending boredom. I should have stuck to my original instinct and said no. At a minimum, I should have held out for more money.
“Well, well, well, I guess someone isn’t asleep after all,” I say to myself when a light clicks on in one of the bedroom windows on the second floor of the house. I stare through my binoculars, but the blinds covering the window are still closed.
My cell phone sounds with the familiar X-Files themed ringtone, and I set the binos down to see who it is. Garrett. What a Mother Hen.
“What?” I bark into the phone, checking my watch as I wait for a response. Two fifty-five in the morning.
“Were you asleep?” he asks from the other end of the line.
“No, I’m working,” I tell him, staying vague to drive him nuts.
“Are you drunk?” he retorts.
“No, just high. I smoked a joint when the boredom of this job overcame me.” I’m kidding, of course, but he probably won’t think so.
“You have a job to do, Zach. Do it,” Garrett commands.
“I am doing it,” I tell him, staring through my binoculars again and very much hoping the sexy little blonde who owns this house comes to the window in some nice lingerie.
“You were supposed to report in to me every two hours. Your last call was due almost an hour ago.”
“There was nothing to report. But they’re awake now, so―”
“I get to determine what’s important and what isn’t,” Garrett snaps. “A concept you’d better grasp if you expect to get paid.”
I already regret agreeing to this. The slime ball I’m on the phone with played to my sense of financial jeopardy to obtain my cooperation. Lord knows playing to my patriotism or dedication to duty wouldn’t work. So now I’m a mercenary, of sorts. I think he is confusing that for indentured servitude, and that is not what I signed up for.
“You know what, Garrett, I’m done. You want him followed, find someone else.”
“I can’t do that! The sensitive nature of this investi―”
“Spare me the sob story, Garrett. If you want my help, then I suggest you get off my case and start coming clean with me. Why do you have me watching this guy? Tell me or I walk away right now.”
“Okay, you win,” Garrett capitulates through the phone with an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve heard about the massacre in Iraq and the backstory behind it, right?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard some of it. So what?”
“The man you’re following is the prime suspect in the leaks at the DIA.” Okay, now he has my attention.
“If that’s true, why don’t you inform the FBI? They’re the ones conducting the investigation.”
“I don’t have proof. You know how political this town is. My director is protecting this guy, and if I come to him with nothing more than a theory, he’ll bury me. Besides, I’m afraid Hollinger will get tipped off. He has friends everywhere, especially in counterintelligence. If he gets a whiff that we’re on to him, he’ll close shop until the storm blows over and we’ll just start this whole thing again two years from now.”
“And you think this blonde he’s shagging is involved?”
“I don’t know yet. I need to build a case against him to bring to my superiors. To do that, I need to know where he goes and who he sees. That’s what I need you to do for me. Can I count on you for that?”
“Yeah, I got you. I’ll report back when I know something more,” I tell him before disconnecting the call and tossing the phone onto the passenger seat next to me.
He must think I’m an idiot. There is nobody better in the business at running this kind of investigation, or performing this kind of surveillance, than my colleagues in the FBI. Garrett has got to know that. Nobody risks their career by doing this on the side without a very good reason, and the possibility of the target learning he’s a suspect isn’t it. No, something else is going on here that he’s refusing to tell me. I don’t know what it is, or how this guy, and the little blonde chippy he’s having a sleepover with, factor in.
This started off as a way to earn a little cash while I’m suspended. Garrett sees me as a degenerate drunk, and he’s right, I am one. He just has no idea why and never bothered to ask. But Grimman was also right about something. I used to be a fantastic agent, and it wasn’t that long ago. I’m the last dog you want to give a bone to, and that’s what Garret just did. All I know is something is wrong with this whole thing and, one way or another, his guy Hollinger is the key to it. Garrett Turner just pissed me off enough to make me figure out how and why that is.
.
~ CHAPTER 16 ~
eric “maryland” williams
The Washington, D.C. metro area is filled with quaint little breakfast shops like this one. The only problem is getting a table at any of them on a Sunday morning. We waited for over a half hour to be seated, and now it’s far closer to lunchtime than sunrise. After another half hour of hearing Boston explain what he’s uncovered with his doctor, I wish I had stayed in bed.
“If you really think you are seeing other people’s memories, you’ve been watching too many movies,” I say to Boston once it becomes clear Gina isn’t going to call him out on his insanity.
“If our positions were reversed, I’d say the same thing. I’m not saying it makes sense, I’m only telling you what I know.”
“Gina, can you please talk some sense into your fiancé?”
“I’m not having his dreams, and I
’m not a doctor. Yeah, it sounds crazy, but I’m not one to judge what’s going on,” Gina concludes. That was a big help.
I’m about to continue the argument when a cute blonde breezes through the door. Dressed in jeans and a windbreaker, she scans the small room like she’s looking for somebody. When she sees Boston, she heads over to us. That’s the doctor?
“Sorry I’m late, that took longer than I wanted.”
“Doctor Tara Winters, meet Eric Williams, a.k.a. Maryland, and my fiancée, Gina Attison,” Boston introduces.
“Hi,” she says, shaking my hand and then Gina’s. As the doctor takes off her windbreaker, I see Gina give Boston a quick, but unmistakable look of disapproval. Apparently, Doctor Winters is not who she imagined, and Boston never reset that expectation. He’ll hear about that later.
“How did it go?” Boston asks.
“Do you have any idea how cranky some doctors are when you ask them to help you with something at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning?”
“No less cranky than politicians, I’m sure,” Gina quips.
“Gina is the special projects director up on Capitol Hill for a prominent senator,” Boston clarifies.
“Really? That’s impressive,” Tara answers sweetly.
“Can we get on with this?” I ask, trying to put an end to what could turn into a nasty verbal spat between the two of them. I can tell there is already bad blood starting between Tara and Gina.
“I showed the results of the EEG to my friend. He thought I was either crazy or the EEG we used was broken. He insisted that what I saw just isn’t medically possible.”
“Why not?”
“And please try to explain it without boring us to tears,” Gina gripes.
“No guarantees,” Tara sighs. “Okay, there are five stages to the sleep cycle, each progressively deeper than the next until you reach the fifth stage which is REM sleep. Each of them has telltale signals because of the brain waves that are most prevalent.”
“Brain waves dictate that?” I ask, blissfully ignorant of how this all works. I go to sleep and I wake up. I don’t care much for what happens in between.
The Eyes of Others Page 8
