Her petty indignation sated, she phoned the police and mentally began to construct her story as her pheromones dissipated.
- - -
Aaron’s eyes were unblinking as he lowered the tiny piece closer to the main body of the model. It was only a small detail, an antenna that some technician had glued on just before the original had gone on set, but it had looked good on camera, so it had become canon, and hobbyists like himself painstakingly replicated it. As he drew closer to the ship, his hand twitched, and the fragile wire snapped. He swore and seized the offending hand with his other to massage the palm; the tic hadn’t been from mere carelessness and was appearing more frequently.
He stood, licking his lips and working his tongue to stimulate saliva for his dry mouth, and he decided that it was time for a break. He paced the moderate length of the room, now made smaller by his tools and scattered modeling supplies, and thought to sit on one of the many beds. Three of them were reserved for patients and one for the doctor, but the remaining handful of cots were stacked against the wall and ready to be pressed into service when needed. He decided instead that he’d made enough of a mess of the supposed clinic, and he began tidying, starting with the corner nearest the door. He straightened the folding chair, stowed the odd belonging he’d acquired, and tried to figure out how to actually clean up without ruining whatever chaotic storage system was already in place. There were a lot of medical supplies, primarily cotton and gauze, but without enough cabinets, they were stacked in boxes against the wall or beneath standing beds, and they were kept separate from his table and a second one. The latter table was covered with opened medical supplies of various sorts, such as vial racks and a centrifuge, and while it had decidedly been set up for research, it had fallen into disuse.
The door opened, and Sam entered with a tray of food. She greeted him with a warm smile and handed him the glass of water first before shutting the door and setting the tray down on another chair. “Thanks,” he said. He downed it in one gulp and found himself looking for more; Sam, anticipating this, handed him another glass before unloading the tray to serve him.
He supposed he should be grateful that she was so thoughtful, but he took everything with a grain of salt. Ever since they had left Scotts Ridge, she had practically kept him prisoner, never allowing him to leave the room and never leaving him unattended for long. Then there was the matter that “Naught,” as she told him she was now called, barely resembled the Sam who had left him in the middle of the night. She had the same blonde hair, thin frame, and impish wit, but her face had become weathered and was framed by several locks of white. Though it had been only a few years since they’d parted ways, she appeared to have aged at least ten. No matter how much Naught assured him that she wasn’t a hallucination, he couldn’t believe her.
She cleared one of the overbed tables for their use, transferred their plates, then set down two mismatched chairs, and invited him to join her. He obliged, and after he sat, he asked, “When can I go home?” She hesitated, avoiding his gaze, as she took the seat opposite him. He knew that she would because they had already had this conversation, but he had hoped that it might go differently this time. Yet that was the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
“Of course,” he said and huffed sharply. “I forgot. I can’t.”
“We’ve been over this, Aaron,” she replied gently, chewing on her lower lip. “You can’t go back to Scotts Ridge.”
He nodded. Pinching his nose, he repeated her explanation wearily. “Because there are evil government agents who will kill me if they capture me.”
“Aaron—”
“No, I get it,” he continued, raising his head and looking her in the eye. “I’ve developed full-blown psychosis, just like Dr. Kowalczyk warned could happen.” He twirled his finger, encompassing the modest area that served as her clinic, and then tucked his hands into his sides. “This, uh, is a new reality to compensate for my previous trauma. You’re here because I had unresolved issues with you leaving.” He scowled, thinking of the damp smell, the cramped space of his cot, and the slight chill in the air. “Could have better accommodations, though,” he quipped. If he was going crazy, he might as well have a sense of humor about it.
Naught smiled faintly in spite of herself. “Aaron,” she said, leaning forward and taking his hands within hers. “You wouldn’t be cognizant of a shift if that’s what happened. You’re getting better. The medication is helping, it’s just that…” She trailed off, trying to figure out how to best explain. He already knew what she would say, and she was still a better companion than the shadow children. She didn’t follow him around silently to menace him at work; rather, she actively tried to improve his life and how he felt, even if she had altered his surroundings to this drab basement. “Reality has also changed,” she continued tactfully, choosing her words precisely. This was the other reason he knew that Naught wasn’t really Sam; the latter woman was never careful in speaking, even when she tried to be. “You’ve peeled back the surface of a conspiracy that’s been going on for decades. It’s going to take some adjustment.”
“It feels more like paranoia,” he disputed, “which is something else Dr. Kowalczyk warned me about.”
Naught allowed her smile to escape and blossom affectionately. “Aaron, I’m real,” she stressed and stood so she could kiss his forehead, which was supposed to certify her tangibility. She walked around the table so she could kneel by his side, and she laid her hands on him in gentle, reassuring caresses as she continued. “This is real, and trust me, you weren’t able to make this kind of differentiation when you got here. The medication is helping, and I think you know that.” She bit her lip as she continued, “You’re just doubting yourself because it’s been so long coming.” She broke eye contact suddenly, looking at the floor and then resting her forehead on his arm.
While it was true that he’d felt more coherent since he’d arrived at her clinic, he couldn’t take the sensation at face value. The shadow children felt real when he was enveloped in their anger, and he often struggled to remind himself that they were only a construct of his guilt and not the manifestation of the vengeful dead. He had to ground himself in facts—the things that he knew were true—but in this clinic, there was nothing familiar that could help him reestablish reality. Even Sam’s existence was dubious because she had changed so much. “Then why haven’t I seen anything outside these walls?”
She sighed deeply and met his eyes again. “We’ll leave if you want to. Anytime,” she promised. “But I am trying to protect you from the BSI and, if necessary, from SION, too, and we need to make sure you’ve recovered before you’re exposed to any additional stress.” She stood, cradling his head against her chest, and he leaned into her, listening to her heartbeat. “I just want to protect you, Aaron.”
“Then let me leave, Sam,” he entreated her quietly. “It’s been a week. If I’m not crazy, I need to prove it to myself.” He pulled away, first looking up into her lined face and then standing to give him equal footing. “I need to see Scotts Ridge,” he declared resolutely. “I need to see Primrose. I need to see anything that’s outside the reality you’ve given me if you want me to believe that this isn’t another fantasy.” His lips quirked as he added, “You know, independently verify?” She smiled faintly in response; she had once accused him of making the latter his catchphrase, even though he didn’t recall using it often. By the time they’d met in Scotts Ridge, he was no longer a cop, but the habits he’d long developed had nevertheless persisted, and he’d often collected evidence from various sources when making a decision no matter how nominal it might be. Then his had condition worsened, he’d started to miss work when he’d chosen to self-medicate with alcohol, and his meticulousness had been one of the first casualties; it was difficult to verify anything when everything could be questioned.
; Still, if Naught was willing to let him leave, and he was able to authenticate his apparent recovery, he had to give her the benefit of the doubt when it came to other things. Hesitantly, he added, “Especially if I’m to believe in this Other nonsense.”
Her grin broadened. “There you go acting like a cop again,” she said and pulled him into a tight embrace. “I love you, Aaron Grimm.”
“I love you too, Sam,” he said, holding her close. He could smell the lavender from her shampoo, as well as pungent chopped onions, likely from dinner, and the scent helped reassure him of her existence. He never recalled all senses being fooled by a hallucination, and he desperately hoped that she was real.
- - -
The severe headache confined Connor to the couch long enough for him to drift off, and the pain had subsided by the time he awoke. Its onset had been sudden: One moment he had been reviewing the details of the case to strategize his next move, and then the next he’d felt as if his synapses had been exploding. He had never experienced a headache of such intensity before, and he prayed he never would again. Fortunately, he was able to concentrate once more, so now it was time to get back on track and uncover the evidence that would have Moise escorted back to the holding facility.
Johnson implied that the petrification account was exaggerated, if not entirely fictitious, and that it should be dismissed from consideration. However, Connor was convinced that Moise was an Other, and a lead was still a lead no matter how unsound it appeared. He might be desperate at this point, but he could still be methodical about following the trail.
Presupposing the veracity of the event, the next assumption he made was that the accused enfant sorcier had been innocent, and this meant that the unidentified perpetrator had never been caught. This was confirmed by the absence of similar incidents in the area, and while it was possible for the Other to learn control, it was far more likely that he or she had simply left the village in response to the turmoil. Still operating on conjecture, Connor figured that if Moise were that missing Other, he could extrapolate his ability from the original record.
The tree had petrified, which meant living tissue had spontaneously circumvented a mineralization process that was millions of years long to become stone, and he didn’t believe it was simply a case of mistaken identification; the report specified that a part of the very same tree was still green and struggled to remain alive. He thought back to Félicité and the displays of realist sculptures depicting various animals, from simple insects to more complex domestic creatures. He remembered Ferocity with its intricately carved fur whose strands could be individually recognized and how the stone’s inherent bands of color were employed in such a manner that they resembled fur pigmentation. The animal’s semi-flattened ears had been delicately shaped by a steady hand, shaved to the fragile slenderness of reality, and even portrayed inflamed veins whose pathways could be followed subcutaneously by gneissic lines. The work had even been praised for its lifelike appearance, so it was not a stretch to assume that Moise had the same skill that had petrified the tree, as both subjects were now stone. Perhaps Connor had erred in comparing the artist to Hephaestus; unlike the Greek deity, he did not create life from inanimate materials but rather stole it.
Unfortunately, Moise did not work in mineral mediums only, so it was possible that Connor was still chasing a misguided lead; the artist also worked woods, and Connor vividly remembered the detail of Metamorphosis. As with the feline statue, the insects appeared to have been captured in the middle of life—in this case, it was the emergence from their cocoons—and while the fine facets were masterfully shaped, it seemed to him that the paper-thin butterfly wings should have snapped rather than allowing themselves to be sheared into translucence.
While it was theoretically possible for Others to have multiple talents, it had yet to be recorded in the database; Moise being able to transmute living creatures into two different inanimate materials stretched this premise to impossibility when placed in the context of Connor’s numerous other suppositions, so he was again left with no substantial evidence—only untenable conjecture.
His thoughts circled to Orion and how his instruction would proceed if he were present, and he was instead unexpectedly overwhelmed by an unbidden vision. The young man’s face was distorted by agony, his teeth were bared like a cornered animal, and his skin was a brownish gray—not pallidly ashen like that of the ill—and was stretched across his bones by an unseen force. It was as if he were shrinking and the moisture was being siphoned from his body, aging it thousands of years in moments. He caught another flash: a young, blond man—similar enough in appearance to Orion to be mistaken for his father or another relative—with his diminutive hand wrapped firmly around someone’s throat. His grip was clenched tight, obstructing the air pathways of his victim, and his handsome face was calm and impassive as a final death rattle was croaked.
Then Connor felt as if he’d slammed into a wall, yet the churning fluid in his inner ear convinced his body that he’d reemerged into freefall. He grasped the couch to reassure himself that he was stationary as his body reacquired its equilibrium. It had been an intense hallucination—powerful enough to immobilize him—and though he’d never experienced a seizure, he would still characterize the episode as such, especially due to the rocky transition back to reality. In spite of the disorienting nature of the vision, his primary concern remained for his partner, and he immediately retrieved his phone to dial Orion. The phone rang repeatedly and then proceeded to voicemail, but as he listened to the prerecorded message, Connor realized how foolish he was behaving; it had been a waking nightmare, nothing more, and any action he took based on it was irrational.
However, the vision served to reinforce the difficulty of the conundrum he faced: Orion Starr was a BSI asset, not a true partner, and Connor needed to remain detached from him lest his objectivity regarding Others become affected. He should not have let Orion leave on personal business; that had been a failure of accountability, which he would have recognized if he’d acted as his trainer instead of his friend.
As he acknowledged unhappily that he’d never reclaimed his objectivity with the Starrs, he also lamented the lack of alcohol in his accommodations; he was not in a hotel but an extended-stay residence, and if he wanted liquor, he had to procure it himself. Perhaps the addition of whiskey to the mix would allow him to clear his mind of his concern for the Starrs and focus instead on the case at hand; at the very least, a long walk might help him articulate the intangible reason he believed Moise Kabamba was an Other.
- - -
The interrogation room was cold and bare, and the sickly light of the fluorescent bulbs lit every corner. Moise remained dignified, sitting squarely upright in the hard wooden chair while his lawyer sat across from him reviewing the charges. The room had a wall with a one-way mirror like in the movies, but no one was observing them to his knowledge; he was unable to secure true privacy to speak with his lawyer elsewhere, so they had been given this space. However, it would not surprise him if the police circumvented the confidentiality between his lawyer and himself, considering the former had recently dismissed the interrogator politely but firmly without allowing an interview. Evidently, the detective had not anticipated Moise’s lawyer arriving so quickly, nor his prominence. While the incident with Amanda Darling-Whitcomb had eliminated his chances of being represented by Milton, Chadwick, and Waters—her primary backers—it hadn’t precluded him from soliciting assistance from a rival firm.
His lawyer, Nelson Wright, removed his reading glasses with a long sigh. “Your situation is dire, son,” he drawled, giving him a stern, almost fatherly look. “I think it’s best if you start from the beginning so I can piece together a defense.”
“How can it be a ‘dire’ situation?” he asked curtly. Shock was setting in, washing away his former disbelief in the situation and replacing it with active denial. “That is why
I hired you. This is a case of my word against that of a hysterical woman,” he insisted. “She overreacted to a simple misunderstanding.”
Nelson’s nose wrinkled as his lips twisted into a frown. “Be that as it may,” he said slowly, “that ‘hysterical woman’ happens to be the mayor, so her word carries more weight, especially in her territory.” His words came slowly, and he tugged at his ear as if it generated speech for him. “You’re a relative newcomer.” Moise huffed; he’d moved to the city a little over ten years ago, predating any political aspirations by the former senator’s wife. Nelson continued, “And there’s a heavy political climate about this case that you just don’t understand. That’s why I need to know your story to build a counter-narrative.”
Moise didn’t regret choosing Amanda Darling-Whitcomb as his subject, but he reproached himself for his arrogance and inadequate planning; he should have used eloquence to persuade her to change into the gown instead of resorting to brute force when her intoxication had failed to immediately facilitate her cooperation. The disparity between his preferred timetable and the reality had been unfortunate: He simply hadn’t been able to afford adequate preparation, especially not if he’d wanted the exhibit to be present at his opening, and he had been overcome by a passion for the project that had circumvented any caution. Even if he’d had infinite time and resources, his ideal process would not have sufficed; he could not have befriended the mayor and persuaded her over a long friendship to practice poses for the statue without eventually soliciting suspicion of some nature, particularly when she later disappeared without a trace. It had been better to strike quickly and decisively, as he already had, except he should have acted more prudently during his attempt to capture her essence.
Operation Blackout Page 37
