by Hunt, Angela
“Why shouldn’t you encourage her? She’s brilliant, and she’ll work hard for you.”
“And what else is she going to do?” He turns away from the camera to look at Dr. Mewton, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
Dr. M folds her arms and stares at the back of the guard’s head. “All I’m saying is that you need to be more sensitive to her. She’s a young woman, with a young woman’s feelings.”
The elevator stops. “I’ll see you later.” Dr. Mewton nods at Mr. Traut and steps out of the car.
I am about to exit the surveillance program when Mr. Traut folds his hands and looks at the guard, who has backed away from the sliding door. All I can see is the top of the guard’s head, so I have no way of knowing who he is.
“You know that girl, Sarah?”
The guard nods.
“If you were trapped with her on a desert island for a year, would you?”
The guard throws up both hands and utters an expletive, then reassumes his military posture. “No way, sir.”
Traut grins. “That’s what I thought.”
I turn off the program and head for bed. I get under the covers and leave the lamp burning.
Dr. Mewton once told me that beautiful women sleep on their backs because sleeping sideways contorts the face and causes wrinkles.
I always sleep on my side.
Chapter Eight
Renee
Christmas approaches, bringing the promise of busted budgets and the holiday blues on its wintry breath. Our office closes a full week before the holiday, and as Becky plans to host a turkey dinner for twenty-five aunts, uncles, cousins, and miscellaneous family offshoots, I decided to paint the kitchen and clean out my walk-in closet. When people ask if I have big plans for the holidays, with perfect sincerity I answer yes.
Since Becky and I are close, I buy her the first three seasons of Seinfeld on DVD. I buy a ten-pound doggie stocking for Elvis, my two-hundred-pound mastiff, and order citrus gift boxes for all my partners in the practice. I can’t help wondering if this will be the last time I’ll place those orders. Next year I may be a CIA shrink and bound to secrecy.
At the closing-of-the-office party, I receive tins of fruit, chocolate, and nuts from my partners, and a leather-bound copy of Cry, the Beloved Country from Becky. I am touched.
The day before Christmas, during a break from painting, I receive the most unsettling gift of the season: a letter from Spain containing a copy of Sarah Jane Sims’s certificado de nacimiento. My niece’s birth certificate.
A tremor of mingled fear and anticipation shoots through me as I open the narrow envelope and discover the certificate inside. Though my Spanish is rusty, I’m able to read that Sarah Jane Sims was born alive on July 3, 1986, at 6:30 a.m., to Diane and Kevin Sims. Because both her parents were U.S. citizens, Sarah had American citizenship at birth.
I pick up the envelope and shake it, afraid I’ve missed something, but there is no cover letter, no note of explanation. Nothing to tell me what happened to the baby.
In my den, I sink into my sofa and prop my feet on the ottoman, grateful for even this simple confirmation. I still don’t know if Sarah Jane is alive today, but I do know she wasn’t stillborn. My mother, the soul of integrity, lied about this girl.
Why?
The question hangs in the air, shimmering like the reflections from the dozens of glass bulbs on my Christmas tree.
Mother knew Sarah Jane Sims survived the birth. But Dr. Mewton’s letter said the baby’s prognosis was poor, so perhaps Mom believed the child would die. Or, having just lost Diane and Kevin, maybe she was so heartsick she couldn’t bear the thought of taking responsibility for a child she would almost certainly lose as well.
I can imagine Mother looking at the baby’s photo and weeping…and then signing the power of attorney and sending it off, leaving the child in what she assumed were more capable hands.
My mother was not heartless. In July, 1986, however, she was heartbroken.
I close my eyes and resign myself to the real possibility that I may never know the entire truth. My brother and his wife are gone, and so are my parents. Sarah Jane Sims may be beyond my reach as well.
When I open my eyes, I find that my thoughts have crystallized. Mom misled us about the baby, but she didn’t throw Dr. Mewton’s letter away. She saved it, leaving the door open for me to investigate. I can act on the facts I have in hand.
The letters in my brother’s file confirm that Kevin was working for a Spanish chemical company. He and Diane had a child who was born with severe birth defects. Dr. Glenda Mewton, employed by the CIA, took care of Sarah Jane after Kevin’s and Diane’s deaths.
Doesn’t that girl, wherever she is, deserve to know her family?
I may not be able to get close to the mysterious Dr. Mewton without a security clearance, but I can certainly write and ask her to forward a letter to Sarah Jane Sims. If she’s unable to do so, she should respond. Any polite person would.
On Christmas Eve, with the kitchen resplendent in a fresh new coat of noble gold, I climb into my flannel holiday pajamas and cuddle with Elvis on the sofa. In the glow of our twinkling Christmas tree, I pull a sheet of stationery from the coffee table drawer and write Sarah a letter. I tell her I’m her aunt, that I’m glad I’ve finally learned about her, and that I can’t wait to meet her. I want to learn all about her, and I want to share everything I know about her father, my brother.
I sign off with a wish for a merry Christmas and a successful New Year. Then, on a whim, I adjust Elvis’s flannel holly-berry necklace, hold up a digital camera, and snap a picture of the two of us. When I’m convinced we look friendly, not goofy, I head into the study to print out a copy and find an envelope.
Chapter Nine
Sarah
A frosty January wind is rattling the windowpanes by the time I get Judson strapped into the chair and ready for his first brainprinting session.
He tests the leather strap around his wrist. “Are you sure this isn’t painful?”
“Completely pain-free.”
“Then why are you tying me down?”
“So you won’t wiggle. Now be quiet, please.”
I’ve been working like a madwoman to prepare unique stimuli for two tests, one for Judson and one for Dr. Mewton. Judson’s exam has provided me with special challenges because his blindness precludes my use of visual cues. For him, every stimulus must be either aural or tactile. Given time, I could come up with some olfactory cues, but the delivery process might be complicated.
I lift the specially designed sensing device from the table and slip it around his head. “Do you promise to sit absolutely still?”
“Do I have a choice? You’re applying electricity to my brain.”
“Oh. Right.” I work my fingers over the device, making sure each of the more than two dozen electrodes fits snugly against his bald skull. The device, which looks like a studded shower cap, has been outfitted with electronic sensors that will measure the brain’s electrical output from several different locations.
“There.” I tighten the strap under his chin and check the elastic band that holds all the wires together in a thick ponytail at the back of his head. “You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to do anything but sit and relax. Let your brain do all the work.”
“What if my brain’s feeling a little nervous?”
“Tell it to trust me. I’m your friend and I won’t hurt you.”
“That’s what they all say.”
A husky note vibrates in his voice, bringing with it hints of another time when he was restrained and subjected to the whims of others. Those people, however, were not his friends, and I will not let him dwell on that episode.
After all, he doesn’t let me dwell on my painful past.
I pull a set of headphones from my pocket and slip them over Judson’s ears, careful not to disturb the sensors. Because the headphones will block any sound in the room, I pull the microphone from my headset clo
ser to my mouth. “Can you hear me?”
“I’m trying to ignore you.”
“That’s the spirit. Just relax while I get your program ready.”
I’m not sure why Judson remains tense; he knows this test is not designed to elicit panic or pain. Unlike a polygraph, the Gutenberg program doesn’t attempt to indicate truth-telling or lying, nor does it measure emotion-triggered signals like heart rate, sweating, or blood pressure. The tiny sensors in the cap will record whatever electrical signals are emitted from Judson’s brain approximately three hundred milliseconds after it is confronted with a stimulus of special significance—a sound, word, or feeling Judson finds familiar.
I move back to my workstation and my computer. “Almost ready.”
“I still think the polygraph is perfectly adequate,” Jud says, flexing his fingers. “Why is Traut making you do all this when we already have tools in place?”
“Because polygraphs have never once snagged a spy.” I open the file containing Judson’s unique program and prepare to begin broadcasting. “Twice the polygraph failed to catch Aldrich Ames when he was working for the Soviets.”
“Still, ninety percent reliability is pretty good.”
“Tell that to the double agents who were executed when Ames exposed them. And what if you’re in the ten percent of those who are falsely accused? I don’t like those odds, and neither do the American courts.”
“You don’t have to use a polygraph in a trial. Sometimes just the threat of a lie detector test is enough to make a subject crack.”
“What is it with you men and intimidation? We’re supposed to be leaving all that behind, remember? Besides, if we can get this program to work reliably, the brainprint can be as conclusive as DNA when it comes to proving innocence or guilt.”
Judson releases a deep chuckle. “The polygraph guys scared the spit out of me when I was training at Camp Peary. Those guys used to tell me they were certain I was lying. They almost convinced me—and I knew I was telling the truth.”
“Those days are over and done, my friend. Now we let electrodes search for truths hidden in the brain.”
“Have fun looking, sister. A lot of people got a lot of trash hidden in their heads.”
“I don’t worry about your head.”
“Maybe you ought to.” He lowers his voice. “By the way, Sarah…”
I stop what I’m doing when Jud’s voice drops. “Hmm?”
“Did you get that satellite tasked over the coordinates I gave you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you look at the photos?”
“I did.”
“Did you happen to see a boy in the yard?”
I know what he’s asking, and why. Jud has a son living at those coordinates in Lubbock, Texas. A sixteen-year-old boy named Darius, who lives with his mother and stepfather.
“I didn’t see a boy in any of the shots.”
“Maybe you need to adjust the time. He gets out of school around three o’clock.”
“I didn’t see a boy, Jud. But I did see a car I’d never seen before in the driveway.”
“Could you tell the model?”
“No, but it wasn’t the Ford Focus or the SUV. An older sedan, maybe.”
Judson smiles to himself. “The boy went and got himself a car. That makes sense, he’d be driving now.”
“I hope he drives a car better than you handle your wheels. Okay, time to be quiet. I’m going to start the tape.”
Judson grips the armrests of his chair and presses his lips together. For a moment he looks so vulnerable I almost laugh aloud. “I told you, Jud, it’s not painful.”
“Let me be the judge of that, okay?”
“Sure. Ready—three, two, one. Starting now.”
I click the start key and sit down, then turn off my headset so Judson won’t hear any background noise bleeding through my mic. I know what he’s hearing through his headphones—my voice, rattling off random words at a slow and steady pace: Dog. Farm. Chain. Cat. Mother. Saw. Ice. Apple. Son. Ice pick. Sunshine. Light. Darkness. CST. Crash. Convertible. Basset hound.
I chose words that pertain to things I know Judson once loved—basset hound, farm, son, mother—and deliberately juxtaposed them with words that are likely to remind him of stress—ice pick, crash, chain. I interspersed dozens of military acronyms and tradecraft terms among the cues, mingling dead drop and brush pass with such innocent words as apple and tree. Since I don’t know everything about Jud’s past, I might hit on an aberration—for instance, if he had a dog named Apple and associates it with an unpleasant experience—but considering how many words I’ve selected, those are long odds.
By the time the test is finished, Judson will probably be wild with boredom, but I’ll have a printout of the unique inventory of his brain. Any word or sensation that arouses a memory or recognition in Judson’s mind will emit a P300, an electrical signal that is maximal at the midline parietal area of the skull. Even stronger signals will indicate that the probing stimulus probably refers to a stored memory. The stronger the signal, the more powerful the memory.
I know Judson pretty well. And by the time this test is finished, I’ll know him a lot better.
I have great hopes for the Gutenberg program. Earlier researchers have achieved a ninety-seven percent accuracy rate of determinations of “information present” or “information absent” in a subject’s brain. In Missouri, a serial killer has already been sentenced to prison after a brainprinting test demonstrated that he had information in his head that matched the details of an unsolved murder. When confronted with the results of his brain scan, the man confessed to that murder and three others.
Still…brainprinting is not without challenges. Three percent of test subjects give indeterminate results, and Mr. Traut will not be happy unless our program is one hundred percent trustworthy.
Fortunately, he has given us time to work.
Chapter Ten
Renee
On the sidewalk outside the Dolley Madison Library in McLean, I break my stride long enough to admire a patch of daffodils, the first hardy harbingers of spring. The place is especially busy even for a Saturday, and I discover the reason why when I enter the common area and find a local author talking about her new book. I hug my shoulder bag close and murmur “Excuse me, excuse me” as I wend my way through the crowd, but I catch more than one scornful look as I press toward the librarian at the reference desk.
“Hi.” I drop my purse and notebook on the counter, then jerk my thumb toward the author behind me. “What is it, a diet book?”
The man behind the desk smoothes his tie and lifts his brows in an expression of disdain. “I believe her book is called Getting What You Want Means Wanting What You Get.”
“People are paying money for that?” I glance over my shoulder and shake my head. “I could have let them in on that secret in just one session.”
The librarian is not amused. “May I help you?”
“Sure. I’m wondering if you have any specialized medical journals.”
“Which journal would you like?”
“Well…I’m not sure. I’m looking up a condition called Treacher-Collins syndrome.”
He smoothes his tie again and points to the computer carrel behind me. “May I suggest you look up the term on Google?”
“Did that weeks ago. I don’t want Internet chatter, I want reliable information. Medline, for instance. Does your library have an access code?”
He blinks slowly and points me toward another computer. “Over there. If you can’t access the document, get the edition number and bring it to me.”
“Can’t you just give me a password?”
“I cannot.”
I tilt my head, surprised by the man’s unhelpfulness. “All righty, then.”
I move to the specified computer and hook my purse strap over the back of the chair. I glance right and left before I slide into the seat. I know I’m being paranoid, but ever since applying for a s
ecurity clearance I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. This sensation is the reason I’ve come to the library instead of working at my computer in the office—hard drives have long memories, and unique Medline access codes can be tracked. Though I know my misgivings are probably silly, I don’t want to find myself sitting in a darkened room while unseen inquisitors drip water on my forehead and ask why I was investigating Treacher-Collins syndrome when none of my patients have that condition.
For the past three months I’ve been writing letters to anyone who might help me connect with Sarah Sims. The CIA central office referred me to the Directorate for Science and Technology, where an underling suggested I write Mr. Jack Traut. That gentleman has not responded to my queries, but neither has Dr. Glenda Mewton, to whom I’ve been writing since Christmas.
Though I haven’t received any satisfying answers or heard anything about my security clearance, I am continuing my quest under the assumption that uncommunicativeness is standard operating procedure for the CIA.
My determination to know what happened to my niece has brought me to the library.
Over the last several weeks I’ve learned that Treacher-Collins Syndrome, also known as mandibulofacial dysostosis, is a hereditary condition that causes facial defects and occurs approximately once in every ten thousand births. Typical problems include eyes that slant downward, an unusually small lower jaw, an abnormally large mouth, malformed or absent ears, scalp hair extending onto the cheeks, and a cleft palate. Though the facial deformities are often severe, the condition does not affect the brain. Afflicted children usually possess normal intelligence.
I already know Sarah’s condition must have been far worse than average. Why would a child with a small jaw and malformed ears need tubes to breathe and eat? Scalp hair in the wrong place, slanting eyes, even a cleft palate, would not demand immediate surgical intervention. In order to require a trach tube, Sarah would have to lack a proper nose. In order to require a feeding tube, my little niece would have had to be born without a lower jaw.
