“It’s not implausible that the human brain emits waves like a Wi-Fi signal,” Tara continues. “The only thing you need to do is recognize that signal and logon to it. I think Boston has found a way to recognize that signal at a near unconscious level, and tap into stored memory like accessing a hard drive.”
“All right, so why is he tapping only memories that matter to him? Why not watching someone brushing their teeth or something?” Maryland asks, still not buying into any of this.
“What he sees is generally limited to either a traumatic experience or some form of deceit. Anything that causes a natural stress within the brain chemistry. I don’t know why.”
“Why didn’t they figure this out earlier? They ran a million tests on him,” Maryland argues.
“He was experiencing the aftereffects of a traumatic event himself. I’m not sure he would have noticed his dreams were any different. Or maybe the abilities started later as the brain healed. I just don’t know.”
“Okay, so let’s assume you really are hacking into other people’s heads when you’re sleeping. And that it only happens with people you’ve met. And the person you saw in the dream really was the person who tried to get us killed in Iraq. Who do you think it is?”
“The two people who come to mind are Colby Washington and Garrett Turner,” I answer, causing a look of abject shock on Maryland’s face.
“Who the hell are they?”
“The director and deputy director of the analysis directorate of the DIA, and Boston has clearly lost his mind,” Maryland answers for me.
“I don’t really care who they are, bro. We’ll just kill these Colby and Garrett fellas, and I’ll be home by tomorrow night.”
Tara’s head shoots around at Louisiana. Nothing could have prepared her for that statement, including Maryland’s warning that the man she just met spends his time dabbling in less-than-legal activities. It’s not a revelation she looks overly content with.
“What? Did you say kill them?” Tara asks.
“What? Did I stutter or somethin’?”
“You mean with a gun?”
“Hell no, honey. I prefer high explosives. It’s much more satisfyin’ that way … and far less messy.”
Tara scans each of our faces for signs that he’s kidding. Maryland isn’t saying anything. I don’t know what to say and join him in silence. Both convey the answer Tara was looking for … He wasn’t joking.
“Is that what he does for a living?” Tara demands. “Is that what you meant about him being a criminal?”
“Criminal? I’m no criminal. Think of me more as a predicament resolution engineer.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I help groups solve problems with other groups,” Louisiana explains as he slides his arm around Tara’s shoulders. “You know, darlin’, I’m getting the feelin’ you don’t much approve of this. You have a problem with killin’ traitors to the country?”
She grabs Louisiana’s arm and removes it from her shoulders. “Uh, yeah, for starters, I have a big problem with taking another human life … any human life.”
“Even when it’s necessary?” I ask, taking up the argument.
“Who are you to define when it is and isn’t necessary, Boston?”
“There is evil in this world, Tara, whether you want to believe that or not. Even Maryland will agree with that.”
“Leave me out of this,” Maryland demands, taking a sip of his soda.
“Who gets to define what is evil and what isn’t?”
“Crashin’ airliners into skyscrapers. Would you define that as anythin’ other than evil?” Louisiana inquires.
“No, I wouldn’t, but we’re not talking about that.” Tara leans back in her seat and folds her arms.
“No, we aren’t,” I chime in. “We’re talking about a mole that leaks sensitive information that gets men killed. My team included. You don’t think that person deserves to die?”
“First, you still aren’t even sure who that is! Second, I swore an oath to do no harm. You don’t think it’s the least bit hypocritical to condone causing any?”
“Bro, is she for real?” Louisiana asks me.
“What do you mean?” Tara questions.
“I mean your moral platitudes.”
“Do you even know what a platitude is?” Tara asks in the most condescending voice she can muster.
I wish she hadn’t done that. There is much more to Louisiana than meets the eye. He may come across as a gruff, obnoxious, backwater hick, but it’s all a façade. Underneath lies a conniving, devious, brilliant mind. He’s well read, well travelled, and very street smart. The world has a tendency to underestimate him, and that is the source of his greatest advantage. Yeah, he knows what a platitude is.
Louisiana leans closer to Tara and looks directly into her eyes. “Girl, when was the last time you had a real, earth-shatterin’ orgasm?”
“I don’t think that’s an appro―”
“I’ll take that as a long time. Okay, have you ever had one?”
Tara’s face turns from pink in embarrassment to flushing red with anger. She turns her head to me to gauge my reaction before turning her attention back to Louisiana. She leans forward just inches from his face.
“I’m not discussing my sex life with you!” she tells him, before backing off.
“Okay, that’s a no.”
“Louisiana,” I warn.
“I’m just sayin’, bro. You know, because if she’d had one lately she’d lighten the hell up.”
“I’m leaving.”
Tara grabs her purse and storms out of the restaurant without a word, or even looking back. I watch her go, and am a little annoyed with Louisiana’s grin of satisfaction. Whether I agree with her opinions or not, I need her. And if we ever want to get to the bottom of all this, she is going to be the one who helps.
“You still have a way with the ladies, don’t you?” Maryland quips, a satisfied smile on his face.
“When was the last time a girl was even that close to you?” Louisiana fires back.
“We need her. Was humiliating her really that necessary?” I ask.
“She’s wound too tight, bro. I’m just tryin’ to set the mood.”
“By driving her off? That’s brilliant.”
“The glass is still half full. She’ll be back.”
“Oh yeah? How do you know that?” I demand, hoping like hell he’s right.
“Because right now, I promise you, dude, right now she’s thinking about my question.”
.
~ CHAPTER 25 ~
FBI Agent Zach bruhte
At every point in a man’s life, he reaches a crossroads. Which path he decides to take has an impact on him for the rest of his life. I have reached my crossroads. Thanks to Garrett Turner, I’m being pushed to take a path I don’t want to go down. Now I have to decide for myself whether to stay on it or turn back before it’s too late.
I hate to have to question my own integrity and loyalty. I never dreamt things would have gone this way when I graduated from the academy at Quantico. Sometimes, that’s just how things go. Life is never fair, and anyone who ever thinks it is deserves exactly what it dishes out.
I stroll up to the front door of the townhouse and check the knob. Locked. Of course it is. Nobody in urban America leaves their front door unlocked these days. I make my way down the concrete steps to the street and look back at the sandstone-colored structure. God, this place must have cost a fortune. How does a therapist afford a million-dollar residence in the middle of Adams Morgan?
I walk down the street, careful not to look like a burglar casing places. In a neighborhood like this, with luxurious homes owned by the wealthy and powerful on a tree-lined street, anyone taking too much of an interest is going to earn some unwanted awareness. Even with an FBI badge in my wallet, drawing any attention would be counterproductive. Careful to maintain the slow gait of a nice evening stroll, I circle around the block and make
my way down an adjacent street.
I make my way between a pair of houses and slip into the target’s backyard. The ambient light of the street doesn’t reach back here in any significant level. The darkness is a security blanket, masking my movements and making the odds of being seen remote at best.
I sneak up to the back door, careful not to disturb anything or make enough noise that would cause undo alarm from a neighbor. I know for a fact she still isn’t home. I check the back door in the same manner as the front and with the same result. Concealed by the darkness, I pull out my rarely utilized lockpick set and take a second look. Damn, there’s a dead bolt. This isn’t going to work.
I look around the small back porch area. I check under the mat and find nothing. That would be too obvious. I have the same luck with the top of the door frame and the exterior light. I move back down the stairs and try one more spot. The inside of the flower planter is only dirt, but checking underneath yields exactly what I’m looking for. Bingo.
I disengage the dead bolt and say a little prayer to myself. Most of the places in this part of the city have alarm systems with central monitoring. If she armed hers, the game is up. Let’s hope she didn’t.
I open the door and listen for any telltale beeping sound. There is none, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief. I check the wall and, sure enough, there is an alarm console with a glowing green light. She never armed it when she left.
“You should be more careful, Miss Winters. There’s a lot of crime in this city,” I mumble to myself as I ease the back door closed and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.
The ambient light through the back window illuminates a kitchen featuring expensive cabinets, granite countertops, and the modern feel of a recent renovation. I pull out a penlight and shine it around the room as I skulk through it. There’s a coffeemaker, toaster, blender, bowl of fruit … but no paperwork. Not that I expected there to be any.
I ease into the adjoining living room, which is set up more like a therapist’s office than a space for relaxation. It’s very formal, yet comfortable, very neat, and spotlessly clean. There’s no clutter. Everything seems to have its place. I can’t even find the remote control that operates the flat screen television hung on the wall.
All of her paperwork must be stored in the workspace in the corner of the room. It takes about five minutes to search the elegant rolltop desk and file cabinet next to it. There’s nothing on Hollinger anywhere, and this is the most logical place it would be. I flash the light around the room again, stopping to look at the coffee table and end table. Nothing.
I take the stairs up to the second floor. Maybe she has another office or file storage location up there. The only rooms on the upper level are the master and spare bedrooms and a pair of bathrooms. Neither of the rooms serves as a backup office. Her notes on Hollinger are kept electronically or she has them with her. Either way, I’m screwed.
I’m about to descend the stairs when I hear the sounds of someone entering through the front door. I freeze. I hear the door close and the dead bolt slide into place with a telltale click. I’m trapped.
My heart starts thumping in my chest as I immediately start the search upstairs for a place to hide. There aren’t that many options. The master bedroom is out of the question, so I slip into the spare room. There is not enough space for me to fit under the bed, so I settle on the closet. I can only hope it’s not full of clothes and that she isn’t using it for storage of large items. I open the door and, mercifully, aside from some long unworn clothes and a couple of medium-sized boxes, it’s empty.
Footfalls announcing someone coming up the stairs grow louder as I enter my hide site and close the door behind me. It’s a hollow core panel door and plenty of sound comes through. The hallway light switches on and then I don’t hear anything. It has to be the doctor. Does she know someone is here? Did I make a sound I didn’t know I made?
I don’t want it to come down to this, but she cannot find me here. I’m on suspension from my job and, badge or not, entering someone’s house without a warrant will mean the end of me. I pull out one of my toys from the cargo pocket of my pants. I check to ensure it’s loaded and ready.
Suddenly, the light switches on in the bedroom and the light pours through the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. I bring the taser up to chest level, expecting the closet door to swing open at any second. There will only be one target. There was no conversation announcing the presence of two people. She’s alone. The adrenaline is flowing, being pushed around my body by the heart thumping heavily in my chest. Any moment now.
Without explanation, the light in the room switches off. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve and quietly exhale. I don’t know how long I was holding my breath, but since my brain is screaming for oxygen, it has to have been for a while. I say a quiet prayer in thanks.
Feeling a little more brazen after the close call, I open the closet door a crack. The room is still. I hear a series of clinks from the other room. Then I hear what sounds like running water. She turned the shower on. This may be my lucky day after all.
I let a minute or two pass by before stepping out of the closet and into the darkness of the spare room and then to the hallway. All clear. I inch down the hall to the door and peer into the illuminated master bedroom, looking for any signs of movement. There are none. I see an armoire and a dresser with a decorative glass tray holding a couple of pairs of earrings. On the other wall, a small nightstand with a lamp and alarm clock sit next to a queen-sized bed with a floral print bedspread. Then I notice what’s on the bed.
Another moment of truth. Here’s my chance to escape, but the whole sordid adventure will have been for nothing if I didn’t get what I came for. I know she met with the target tonight, so it makes sense that she had her notes with her. They are now the ones probably sitting on her bed. I need to get them, or I may be repeating this tomorrow night.
I glide into the bedroom, hoping not to be betrayed by a squeaky floorboard. The door to the bathroom is open, and I can see figure behind the curtain. Her clothes are dropped on the bathroom floor. A woman is never more vulnerable than when she is in the shower. I move to the bed and flip open the manila folder. There’s nothing but sheets from a yellow legal pad in the file. On the top of the first page is a name. It reads Eugene Hollinger.
The key to what’s going on may lie in the dozen papers pulled from a pad and fastened with a paperclip in this file. I have both a small digital scanner and a camera in the cargo pocket of my black pants, but there’s no time. If I’m still here when that shower turns off, the game is up. I grab file and turn to admire the view of the silhouette behind the light tan shower curtain like a deranged voyeur.
How many laws have I broken by doing this? If I’m capable of this, what else am I capable of? Is this the path my life is destined to go in? All questions I am going to have to answer for myself eventually. As the water in the shower turns off, I once again find myself at a crossroads.
.
~ CHAPTER 26 ~
Eric “MARYLAND” Williams
I can’t hit the buttons on my cell fast enough. I stride away from the conference room, trying to put as much separation between it and me as I can. I’m about to end the call and hit redial when the call connects.
“Hey,” Boston says on the other end of the line. “We have a small prob―”
“What the hell did you do?” I demand, fighting to control my anger.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb, because I’m really not in the mood for your crap right now!”
“Calm down, Maryland. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I just got called into an interrogation by Garrett and some FBI agent named Grimman. They were asking about your dreaming thing. Since there’s no way they could know any of that on their own, you had to have told them.”
I hear something slam from his side of the phone. The noise is loud enough that I have
to pull it away from my ear. Boston is shouting something, but I can’t make out what. I return the phone to my ear when the tirade subsides.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, not quite sure if I want to know.
“Damn that bastard!”
“What?”
“Outside of you guys, Gina, and Tara, I didn’t tell anyone jack, Maryland. Tara had a feeling someone was in her house last night. She shrugged it off as paranoia, but then her notes went missing.”
“Notes?”
“Yeah, the ones from our sessions and her consultations with other doctors and specialists. She also outlined her theory behind what’s happening in my head. She wrote all of it down and now it’s gone.”
“Wait, let me get this straight. You’re telling me that a deputy director of the DIA and someone in the Federal Bureau of Investigation broke into her house, while she was home, and stole her notes? Take the tin foil hat off, Boston, will ya?”
“She called this morning very upset. She felt creeped out by something when she got home. Nothing was disturbed or anything, so she put it out of her mind. She dropped all her stuff on her bed and jumped in the shower. When she was done, she cleared it all off and went to sleep without thinking about them. When she woke up this morning, she wanted to look at them with a fresh mind, but they were gone.”
“Did she check under the bed?” I ask.
“No, Maryland, I’m sure she didn’t think of that,” he replies sarcastically.
“Well, maybe―”
“She searched the whole house,” Boston interrupts, anticipating my next question. “They aren’t there. And since you just got questioned about it at work, it leaves little doubt who has them.”
I can’t argue with the logic despite it making no sense to me. Garrett Turner and Agent Grimman were asking me questions about Boston like he was a suspect. I may have my differences with my friend, but I know enough to find the idea of him being the mole completely laughable. But if he’s a suspect, why not grill him? What was the point of calling me on the carpet?
The Eyes of Others Page 12
