Simon Sees (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 5)

by Ryne Douglas Pearson

  “This is your operation, Andrew, and the decision to execute it will be yours.”

  Wyland didn’t react to the authority his employer had just passed to him. He could not. If he did, the sudden rush of dread he felt rising would cause him to retch in front of him.

  …execute…

  It was the intonation that Traeger had afforded that word which telegraphed to Wyland the stakes of the decision he would make in the coming days. He wondered if this was how his predecessor’s tenure had ended—in some failure necessitating his removal. His complete removal. The story Wyland had heard about the man falling from a high balcony seemed too convenient, and more than a slight bit theatrical.

  I have a balcony…

  Wyland doubted that his fate would be the same. But he was never going to let it come to that. Jefferson might have bolloxed the operation to seize him, but this time was going to be different. That man had been wary already. On edge. All indications were that the security surrounding Simon Lynch, which had never been truly tested, could be neutralized by professionals.

  Would be neutralized.

  “I’ll inform you when we have Lynch,” Wyland told his employer.

  “I look forward to that communication,” Traeger said.

  He watched his assistant leave. There was reason to have confidence in the man. One action he’d overseen had failed, but not by his own doing. Jefferson had done that. In all other things Andrew Wyland had proven himself to be a diligent and discreet employee. There was a very good chance that all would work perfectly this time.

  If it didn’t, Traeger was prepared for that as well.

  * * *

  She was led into a building and along hallways and, finally, into a room. Those who’d escorted her then withdrew, their footsteps receding, a door closing behind. And locking.

  Then the hood was slipped gently from her head and Emily was face to face with a woman and a man. The former wore a smart business suit. The latter a white lab coat. Both smiled at her, the man more so than the woman.

  “Agent LaGrange, welcome to The Ranch,” the woman said. “I’m General Karen Vance.”

  General…

  “This is Doctor Warren Michaels,” Vance added.

  The man smiled at Emily and extended a hand. She shook it as Vance set the hood aside atop a smallish conference table, six chairs tucked in around its perimeter. There was little else to distinguish the space, which seemed like a dozen other government conference rooms she’d seen in the time before her undercover assignment.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” Michaels said as he released Emily’s hand. “We’re very sorry about your colleague’s passing.”

  Emily’s face shrugged as she accepted the condolences. “I didn’t know Agent Jefferson personally.”

  “Oh,” Michaels said, nodding through the momentary awkwardness.

  Emily looked to Vance, the woman’s military manner showing through the civilian clothes. That smile she’d allowed upon first meeting the visitor’s gaze was gone now, replaced by a look of appraisal. Of judging.

  She’s retired, Emily thought, making her own appraisal of the woman who was, apparently, in charge.

  “What branch did you serve in?” Emily asked.

  Vance’s chin tipped ever so slightly at the inquiry. Her smile did not return, but a hint of appreciation flourished in her gaze. The young woman was probing, and doing so with admirable smoothness.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss personnel matters, Agent LaGrange,” Vance said. “You’re here to have an interaction with Simon Lynch. Beyond that, we take security quite seriously.”

  You think you do, Emily thought.

  “Information other than the basics concerning the who, what, and where of this project is classified,” Vance explained. “Revelation of any of that could place the man we’re here to protect in jeopardy.”

  “Yes,” Emily said. “I’ve been briefed about his past.”

  “Good,” Vance said, nodding. She looked to Michaels. “Warren, why don’t you take Agent LaGrange to meet Simon. I have work to attend to.”

  Vance gave Emily a quick, final look, then left through the room’s only door. Before it closed, Emily glimpsed a guard standing post, pistol on his hip and an HK submachinegun slung snug across his chest.

  “We have Simon waiting for you,” Michaels said. He stepped toward the door and put a hand on its knob, but didn’t open it as he waited for her. “Are you ready?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved toward the door and Michaels opened it.

  “You’ll have to excuse General Vance,” Michaels said as he led Emily from the room and through a series of corridors. “Since she came on board five years ago, our project has become her baby. It’s her whole life.”

  …our project…

  That’s how they thought of Simon Lynch. The verbiage didn’t completely surprise Emily, considering the man’s history. Breaking an NSA code would warrant curiosity toward the mind that made that possible. Even constructing a ‘project’ around such an effort was understandable. But at the very center of any of that, there was still a living, breathing human being, damaged as he might be.

  “And you?” Emily asked.

  Warren considered her question as they passed a pair of guards that let them through a door secured with a fingerprint scanner.

  “It’s a big part of my life, as well,” Michaels said.

  Emily glanced at the guards they passed, each dressed and armed similarly to the one she’d seen moments earlier. Their uniforms were flat grey and bore no identification. No names. No insignia. There was another thing she noticed about them, too.

  They leaned. Against walls. Door jambs. None stood at the ready. Two of those she’d passed had their trouser cuffs bloused over their boot tops. One did not.

  There’s no discipline…

  No one, not Vance, not Michaels, was calling out any of the security on very obvious lapses in procedure and comportment. Emily doubted that anyone was drilling the men, keeping them sharp, and she began to wonder if this place, this assignment, was as dead an end for them as it was for her.

  “If Simon wasn’t here,” Michaels said as he stopped Emily at a door, “I believe he’d be dead.”

  Emily considered what Michaels had said, her gaze shifting off him to the trio of younger people standing in a room across the hall. Two men, one woman, most seeming about her age, all staring hard at her. Beyond them she noticed a bank of monitors, variations of the same video feed displayed on each—a figure seated at a table, head slumped forward under harsh lights.

  That’s him…

  “We protect him here,” Michaels said, acknowledging his workers with a nod before looking to Emily again. “We treat him. Learn from him.”

  “Do you learn much?” Emily asked.

  Michaels demurred with a smile that seemed too prepared, Emily thought.

  “As General Vance stated, there is a classification issue with what we do here.”

  “Of course,” Emily said. This was going to be it. A dance of words, unnecessary as it was. She didn’t need to pry or prod, but it was her nature. As an undercover agent she’d done so in the shadows, without overt questions being posed. In the bright, antiseptic lights of the windowless facility she’d been brought to, she’d been briefly unchecked by those past restrictions. She’d simply asked, and Michaels had shut her down with the answer to end all answers—no comment.

  “Can I meet him?” Emily asked.

  “Of course,” Michaels said, gesturing to the door they stood at. “He’s right in here.”

  There was no lock on this door, Emily noticed. They were deep enough in the facility that none was necessary. Michaels simply gripped the knob, twisted it, and pushed the door inward, revealing to Emily the man she’d been sent to watch over.

  Twelve

  Simon Lynch sat at a small square table, his hands hidden below as they rested on his lap. He wore a button up white shirt and tan slacks,
with dark brown loafers over darker brown socks that just peeked out below the cuffs of his pants. His hair was neatly trimmed. He looked well fed, no angularity to the cut of his jawline.

  Emily ticked off these mental observations as she stood just inside the door with Dr. Michaels, the smallish space echoing the appearance of some interrogation room on a bad cop show, with Simon Lynch in the perp seat.

  “Sit, Agent LaGrange,” Michaels said as he closed the door behind them.

  Emily took the only open seat in the room, placed to face Simon. Though that, in actuality, was impossible, his head tipped severely forward, eyes cast downward at the bare white tabletop.

  “Simon,” Michaels said, moving to stand by the younger man. “This is Agent Emily LaGrange. She works for the FBI and is going to be visiting you from time to time.”

  Emily waited for some reaction. Some movement of the head. A shift to steal a glance at her. But there was none.

  “Simon, I’m pleased to meet you,” Emily said. She reached across the table, offering her hand.

  Art…

  Art was supposed to be here, Simon thought, though managing to craft that mental note took an immense amount of effort. The internal fog his thoughts were swimming through was thick, but different than what he’d known his whole life. This was because of the injections they’d given him. Not the fifty-one injections, but the ones Dr. Michaels had ordered after he’d become upset.

  Sedatives…

  Yes, he was sedated. Drugs were dulling his mental acuity. Interfering with the synaptic activity in his brain. Calming him. But even stuck in that haze, he knew that something was wrong. His friend should be here.

  “Art,” Simon said, the single syllable thick as it rolled past his lips.

  Emily hesitated, easing her hand back as she looked to Michaels. “Does he know?”

  Do I know what? What happened? Where is my friend Art?

  Michaels shook his head. Emily turned her attention back to Simon.

  “Simon,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her head toward the table to seek some meeting with his gaze. “Can you look at me?”

  “Agent LaGrange…”

  Emily glanced up to the doctor hovering just behind Simon.

  “You don’t think he’s wondering why I’m here and not Art Jefferson?”

  Art? No! What happened to Art?

  Michaels nodded. He knew that, as Simon came more fully out of his autistic fugue, especially once the sedation wore off, he would have to be told about the demise of his would-be protector. If that unpleasantness could be offloaded to an outsider, it was all the better, he thought. Let the negativity inherent in the revelation be attached to another and not him. Not his team. Because once Agent Emily LaGrange was gone, they needed to put all periphery concerns aside and get Simon Lynch up and running to his full capacity.

  “Simon, I want you to listen to me,” Emily said, still trying to make eye contact. “I have something to tell you about Art.”

  He’s not here because…

  Simon’s head tipped upward ever so slightly, his gaze doing the same, finally finding the brown eyes that were seeking his. They were hard eyes, but kind, if that duality was possible. He’d only known that contradiction in one other person—Art Jefferson. The man who’d fought for him. The man who’d cared for him.

  “Simon, Art passed away,” Emily said.

  She watched his gaze tear over, his body shivering slightly. He was hurting.

  “Art,” Simon said, the simple word halting as he spoke it.

  Emily half stood from her chair and slid it to the side of the table closer to Simon, facing him from the side now. She reached out and put a hand gently on his shoulder, Michaels reacting as she did, as if expecting some sudden response to the stranger’s touch. But none came. Her hand lay gently upon him without incident.

  Interesting…

  That was Michael’s clinical appraisal of the minor moment he’d just witnessed. Though the just completed protocol had pulled Simon from much of the behaviors common in his autistic state, he’d still reacted harshly at times.

  Leah, dammit…

  It had been her introduction of bits of his past which had allowed emotions to surface. Perhaps this expression of non-aversion to a stranger’s close contact was just another facet of that detour in his treatment. Perhaps.

  “Simon, I know this has to be upsetting,” Emily said, her head bent to maintain eye contact with the man she’d come to see. “I’m very sorry for what happened.”

  Why? Why is Art dead?

  Simon grasped at the questions as they volleyed about his thoughts, craving some answer. Some explanation.

  But he also wondered who this woman was. Her name had been told to him, but a name was not any representation of the true self. It was letters. A combination of words. Actions spoke to what a person really was. This woman, on the surface, seemed...good. Much like…

  Leah…

  Simon’s gaze shifted from Emily and angled upward, finding Dr. Michaels standing close. He was the reason Leah was not here anymore. She’d wanted to help him, and Michaels had made her go away.

  Leah Poole…

  Simon looked back to Emily, meeting her gaze. His head shuddered in some silent sob, breaths racing in and out through his nose, strings of wet snot and drool dripping slowly toward the tabletop. She looked up to Michaels.

  “Do you have a tissue?”

  Michaels hesitated for just an instant as he considered not the question, but the almost instantaneous bonding he was witnessing. He retrieved a folded tissue from the pocket of his lab coat and handed it to Emily, his displeasure simmering just below the surface.

  Dammit…

  He didn’t need another Art Jefferson. Another crusader who would fancy themselves a guardian angel for Simon Lynch.

  “Simon,” Emily said, easing the tissue toward his downcast face. “Let’s just get you cleaned up a bit.”

  She wiped the wetness from his mouth and nose, his gaze never leaving hers as she tended to him. There was something in his eyes, she thought. In the way he looked not just at her, but to her. Like he was reaching out with all that he could communicate at the moment. Words were failing him, which, she understood, was common in those afflicted by autism. All he’d managed to utter was a name—Art. That was not surprising, considering their history.

  But one thing did surprise her. And it was nothing that Simon Lynch was doing or had done. It was her. She’d felt nothing close to this level of compassion in so long that the realization of just what was happening caught her completely off guard. Her hand and the soaked tissue was an inch from the damaged young man’s face. A face she somehow felt a kinship with, for reasons she couldn’t completely understand. Perhaps, she thought, it was because they were each, in their own way, trapped.

  Perhaps.

  But there was that look in his eyes. Eyes that were fixed on hers.

  I thought they had trouble maintaining eye contact…

  That was another common trait of many with autism, she recalled. But there was more than that.

  ‘The kid couldn’t look you in the eye…’

  Lomax had said that to her in the cemetery when first telling her about Simon Lynch. Yet here she was, staring into those very eyes. Eyes that were staring right back into hers.

  “Simon,” Emily said, “are you all right?”

  A quick, dry sob shook Simon’s body. It tipped toward Emily, his head nestling against her left shoulder.

  God dammit!

  Michaels’ skin suddenly crawled. It wasn’t just some errant sense he’d had—she was connecting with his subject.

  I can’t deal with another Jefferson…

  “Agent LaGrange…”

  Emily looked up to the doctor.

  “I think we’ve had enough introduction time for this visit,” Michaels said.

  Emily made no move to pull away from Simon. She simply stared at Michaels, studying the man.

  He
’s worried…

  She picked up on that immediately. But why would he be worried?

  “Is something wrong, Dr. Michaels?”

  He half nodded, half shrugged at her question.

  “This sort of emotional response is exhausting for him,” Michaels told her. “It’s very draining, and it can affect him for several hours. We find that it’s best to limit his contacts when he reacts this way.”

  Emily nodded slowly without agreeing as Simon Lynch trembled against her. Something was not a hundred percent right. The good doctor was troubled, to be sure, but it wasn’t for the reasons he had stated.

  “Did he have this sort of reaction with Agent Jefferson?”

  Simon’s trembling peaked as Emily asked the question. He brought a hand up and put his arm around her in a half hug.

  “Agent LaGrange,” Michaels began, ignoring her question, “I’m going to have to insist we end this session now.”

  Emily didn’t react, even as she began to sense that the gentle grip Simon Lynch had on her was somehow akin to the man grasping a shield. She was, literally, between him and the man insisting she leave.

  And she knew that she had to. The role she’d been thrust into had the weakest of authority. She could observe, and report. But report to who?

  ‘Your temporary assignment will be to the NSA’s COMSEC-Z…’

  To her it appeared she would report any issues to the very people who were charged with caring for Simon.

  If this was caring at all.

  “Agent LaGrange…”

  Michaels’ words had both urging and prelude in them. In a few seconds he could have guards in the room to escort her out. If that happened, this might not be only her first visit to see Simon Lynch—it might be her last. And something that wasn’t even very deep within her told her that such a thing would be very, very bad for the hurting man clutching her at that moment.

  “Of course, Dr. Michaels,” Emily said. She angled her head so that her mouth was close to Simon’s ear. “Simon, I’ll be back to see you in a couple weeks. Okay?”

  She reached up and put a hand to his back, and against her palm she could feel his heart thudding like an engine racing madly.