by Steven James
Daniel once mentioned to Riah that he and his brother had “found their niche” in their new line of work. She could see that they were patriots through and through, and could only guess that they did as they were told by their supervisors without question, without reservation, without hesitation.
A month ago, out of curiosity, she’d asked Darren straight-out how many people he and his brother had killed. “None,” he’d told her evenly. “But we have eliminated certain targets when necessary.”
Riah knew this differentiation between “targets” and “people” was a psychological ploy used by the military to make it easier for soldiers to kill—depersonalize the enemy by calling them combatants or targets rather than allowing the soldiers to think of them as fellow human beings, as fathers and brothers and sons, as mothers and sisters and wives.
When Darren used the word target, however, it’d struck her that the difference in terminology wouldn’t have affected her if she had their job.
Actually, as troubling as it might be, she realized that given the right circumstances, she would have found it relatively easy to kill, no matter what anyone called the victim.
Just like the bird when you were a kid. Grab the head. Twist.
And it goes still.
Limp and still.
She remembered that Darren had studied her face carefully as he waited for her to respond.
She didn’t want the brothers to realize that she was like them in certain fundamental ways, so she hadn’t pursued the matter any further. However, she’d gotten the sense that Darren saw something in her eyes that’d given away more than it should have.
Now in the conference area, Cyrus looked at his watch. “They’re late.”
“I’m sure there’s a good reason,” she told him softly. “They’re very reliable men.”
Back at the cabin, Charlene still refuses to let me take her to a hospital, so in the end I’m left to simply do what I can to cleanse and disinfect the wound with the rather ill-equipped first-aid kit in the bathroom.
Throughout the process, she gives me instructions, wincing at times but not crying, and I’m impressed by how well she’s handling it. We’re both rattled from the attack, of course, but surprisingly, still focused.
Finally, I butterfly the wound closed with alternating strips of tape and wrap her arm with the first-aid kit’s Ace bandage.
She digs out some Advil, and after she’s taken a couple capsules, she positions herself on the couch, then states the obvious: “Alright. Just so we’re on the same page, we’re no longer here just to debunk some research on mind-to-mind communication.”
“Agreed.”
“Should we go to the police?”
It was a good question, one we shouldn’t take lightly. “Did you see his face?”
“No.”
“Me either.” I join her on the other end of the couch.
Honestly, I want to stay here at the center, keep looking into things, especially now that there seems to be another layer to everything that’s going on. “So we wouldn’t be able to identify him by anything other than his voice. Would you be able to do that?”
“Not the way he spoke, whispering like that.”
“The same for me.”
“So we could report it to the police, but they would, of course, ask what we were doing in the building.”
I evaluate everything. “I think we should hold off contacting them until we know more.”
“So you don’t think we should back away from this?”
I have the feeling she already knows the answer to that.
I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge, and I can’t see myself doing so now—even if it ends up being a little dangerous. It isn’t about money or fame or anything like that. It’s about the challenge. And about uncovering the truth. “No. I’m in.”
“And you know me, Jevin.”
“Petunia never backs down.”
“Wolverine.”
“Whatever.”
To cover all my bases, I offer one last time to help her: “I still think we should take you to a clinic or something.”
“Jev, think about the timing here: a thug with a combat knife shows up, sneaking around looking for some sort of computer files the night before this round of Tanbyrn’s study begins. That has to be more than a coincidence.”
“But it was a coincidence that we ended up in the same room as him in a locked building, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe it was more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
She sighs. “I don’t know. I’m just saying we need to find out as much as we can about Tanbyrn’s research and what that guy might’ve been looking for. Being part of the study tomorrow is our best shot at doing that.”
Of course, I feel the same way. Fighting that guy had awakened something in me that imitating the tricks of psychics never had—a taste of danger that I used to know when I was doing my escapes. A surge of adrenaline, the paradoxical tightening of focus and widening of awareness that danger brings with it. There was a time when I wouldn’t do an escape unless there was a chance I could die from it—something that I know was always hard on Rachel.
I contemplate what to say.
“Alright. So we keep an eye on your arm, but after the test tomorrow, I want to have someone who knows what he’s doing take a look at that cut. Within the next twenty-four hours. Deal?”
She’s a little reluctant but finally agrees. “Deal.” Then she leans forward. “So, who do you think he was?”
“Honestly, I have no idea, but based on what I saw, I’d say he’s not specifically trained in knife fighting, more of a street fighter.”
“The grip he used?”
Nicely done.
I nod. “Yes, too easy for me to deflect. It wasn’t one a pro would choose. So I’m guessing his background isn’t in law enforcement or military. He learned to fight the hard way.”
“By actually fighting.”
Or killing.
“Probably. Yes.” I stand. Pace. Take the 1895 Morgan Dollar from my pocket and flip it quickly through my fingers. Habit. Helps me think. “We really need to find a way to reach Fionna or Xavier. I want to know what files that guy might’ve wanted from that computer.”
“Go outside. See if you can get a signal.”
“It’s no use. I tried earlier.”
“Try down by the road, where we parked the car. It’s more in the clear down there.” I don’t want to leave her alone, and I think she can sense my hesitation because she adds, “Go on. I’ll be okay. Just lock the door behind you.”
I glance at her forearm one last time, and when she folds her arms, apparently to show me that she’s fine, I finally agree. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes. The light switch for the exterior porch lights is just inside the front doorway. I’ll keep an eye on the cabin. If anything comes up, anything at all, flick the porch light on and off a couple times. I’ll be watching; I’ll get back here right away.”
Taking both my phone and hers so I can try each of them, I leave the cabin, lock the door behind me, and head to the parking lot.
Glenn limped up to his car.
He was not happy.
If what the guy in the chamber had said was true—that RixoTray had sent him and the woman—then there was an awful lot his contact was not telling him, and Glenn did not take well to having his employers keep things from him.
He opened the car door and tried to slide in without wrenching his leg but found it impossible. A flare of pain shot through him.
He cursed. Thought of what happened in that chamber.
In prison he’d learned to trust his instincts, and as it turned out, tonight they were right, because just before the fight he’d had a feeling, nothing more, that someone was watching him. That was what had caused him to turn from the computer and open the door to the chamber.
But then the guy inside had flashed his light in his eyes and Glenn was forced to defend him
self.
Why would RixoTray have sent those two?
Unless they hadn’t.
Unless the guy was lying.
With a great deal of pain, Glenn was able to position himself in the driver’s seat. He started the engine.
Thankfully, the blade hadn’t pierced an artery.
He knew enough about anatomy to know that if it had, he would already be dead.
Quietly, slowly, he guided the car onto the road.
He used his right hand to press down on the knee of his injured leg to keep from flexing the thigh muscles as he accelerated.
The trek back to the car had been brutal, pain rocketing up his leg with every step, no matter how hard he tried to keep pressure off it. But he’d dealt with it just like he’d dealt with things when he was locked up and took a shiv to the stomach and still managed to dig it out and slice out the eyes and cut off the ears of the block-mate who’d tried to kill him.
Glenn headed down the mountain road.
Whoever had been in that chamber had been quick. Strong. Had known how to fight.
But who was he? Who was the woman?
What were they doing there?
RixoTray Pharmaceuticals?
It could have been a lie, but it was a place to start.
Glenn prided himself on being self-controlled, on viewing things objectively, but as he drove back to the motel to take care of the leg, he felt fire rise inside of him.
He was a person who kept his word, so, yes, he would take care of the old man tomorrow afternoon at three like he’d been hired to do. But he wasn’t going to stop there. He would find that guy from the chamber and return the favor, wound for wound, as the Bible put it in Exodus 21:25.
An eye for an eye.
Or in this case, a stab for a stab.
God’s kind of justice.
Or at least Glenn’s kind.
He found himself planning how things would go down: incapacitate the guy, cuff him, and then make him watch as he played with the woman for a while. At last, when he was done with her, stab him in the thigh—and if the blade just so happened to slice through his femoral artery, well, justice in real life didn’t always have to stick to the letter of the law.
So, the plan for tonight: take enough OxyContin to kill the pain in his leg—God knows he had plenty of it on hand—then in the morning call his contact to identify the two people who’d been in that room. Tomorrow, after he’d completed his paying gig, he would deal with them.
He glanced at his wrist to check the time.
But noticed that his watch was missing.
He let out a round of curses. It must have fallen off during the fight in the chamber.
The Twins
I have the assailant’s watch in my pocket.
I’d happened to lift it when I slid my hand across his wrist just before I shoved the blade of his knife into his thigh.
Truthfully, removing the watch was pure instinct from all my years of sleight of hand and street magic, not something I’d consciously planned. During the fight, the last thing I was thinking was how I might remove the guy’s wristwatch, but in any case I have it now, and it might serve as some small clue that could lead us to identifying who our assailant was.
After trying unsuccessfully to reach Fionna or Xavier, I pause beneath one of the path’s lights. Holding the watch in my shirt to keep from getting any more of my fingerprints on it, I carefully study it.
It’s a Reactor Poseidon Limited Edition. Very nice. In my line of work you get to know watches, and even though Reactor is a small company, their watches are amazing. This one won’t even get scratched if you shoot it with a bullet. I couldn’t help but think that a regular street thug would have sold a watch like this for cash if he knew how much it was worth. So the guy we were dealing with might very well be better trained, more of a pro, than I’d earlier assumed.
The watch is relatively new. No engravings. No unique identifying marks, which isn’t exactly surprising considering the craftsmanship and the durability of the materials.
Who knows, Xavier is into CSI kinds of things and would probably jump at the chance to dust the watch for prints. I could get it to him as soon as we meet up again, tomorrow sometime.
Inside the cabin I find Charlene at the table, flipping through the notes we’d used to prepare for this project. “Any luck?”
“No.” I show her the watch, and we discuss it but can’t come up with any other clues, and in the end I stow it in the bedroom and return to her.
I point to the RixoTray research documents that she’d spread out around her when I was outside. “What about you? Did you find anything?”
“Nothing related to quantum entanglement or mind-to-mind communication research. But they are doing research on the temporal lobe—the language-recognition capabilities of the Wernicke’s area—by using an EEG to record brain images and identify thought patterns that relate to linguistic communication. It’s similar in a way to helping paralyzed people communicate by identifying their neural responses to questions.”
“Interesting.”
“Once you know which parts of the brain control which parts of your physiology, you can send electrical currents to those areas to elicit a physical response. Scientists have been experimenting on helping paralyzed people move their limbs, blind people see variations in light, insomniacs sleep, obese people curb their hunger, and even doing work on reducing aggression in criminals. They can even cause hallucinations that patients can’t tell from reality and reduce or eliminate intractable pain.”
She goes on, “Researchers at a number of universities have implanted electrodes into monkeys’ brains and then trained the primates to move robotic arms. At least four computer gaming companies are developing EEG-controlled games in which the games respond—”
“Let me guess—to the player’s thoughts.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“Anyway, one division at RixoTray is focusing on direct brain-computer interfaces and communication. It’s mentioned on a number of grant applications. A neuroscientist named Riah Colette, she’s in charge of the study.”
“Might be helpful to talk with her. See what the specific connection might be to what Tanbyrn’s doing.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
We agree to follow up on that tomorrow. Then, after a little more discussion about who the attacker might’ve been, I can tell that Charlene’s energy is fading and I realize I’m drained as well—both physically and emotionally. She goes into the bedroom to change and I grab a blanket from the bathroom closet.
When she emerges in the hallway, she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. Nothing Victoria’s Secret seductive, but it’s easy enough to tell she’s in good shape and I’m careful not to stare.
I hold up the blanket. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Really, you don’t need to sleep on the couch, Jevin.” Before I can respond, she catches herself and goes on quickly as if to avert any misunderstanding: “I mean, that is, there’s plenty of room on the bed. I’m just saying it’s okay if you want to sleep with me—next to me. Right? On the other side of the bed.”
“Right.”
“I’m not suggesting at all that we do anything other than sleep.” She doesn’t blush often, but she does now, and it’s a little endearing.
“Of course.”
This conversation could get awfully awkward awfully fast.
As if it hasn’t already.
I have no doubt that if I climb into bed with her, even if she ends up sleeping like a baby, I’ll be too distracted to sleep at all. And I know I’m definitely not ready for her to inadvertently snuggle up to me or accidentally drape her arm across my chest sometime during the night.
“The couch would be best,” I tell her.
“Sure. Okay.”
“Alright . . .” I search unsuccessfully to say the right thing. “So then. Good night. And . . . just be careful with that arm.”
“I will.”
“Don’t roll on it or anything.”
“I’ll be careful. I promise.”
I pass the blanket to my other hand. I really have no idea how to wrap up this conversation. “We’ll see what it looks like in the morning. I still want to take you to the hospital.”
“Noted.” She smiles. “Good night, Petunia.” Her tone is light, the blush is gone, the moment feels natural and familiar. She glances at the couch. “Seriously, if you can’t sleep, you’re welcome to the other side of the bed.”
I nod. “Gotcha.”
With that, she leaves for the bedroom and I drop onto the couch. It’s a little short, but I usually sleep kind of scrunched up anyway and I figure I’ll be alright.
As I lie down, I can’t help but think of the attacker in the chamber, and I realize that what bothers me most is the fact that I wasn’t able to stop him from hurting Charlene.
I promise myself that if we run into each other again, I won’t make the same mistake, then I close my eyes, hoping to sleep, to clear my head, hoping that the dreams I’ve had so often over the course of the last year won’t return.
But I’m anticipating, of course, that they will. After all, the nightmares of my children drowning while my wife sits just a few feet away and waits for them to die have been plaguing me for months.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just a dream. But it’s not. It’s history.
For a while I’m caught in the time-between-times world of waking and sleeping where you wander into and out of awareness, then I’m vaguely aware of the fact that scientists don’t really understand sleep, why we do it, what biological purpose it actually serves. We’re never more vulnerable than when we’re asleep, and if the most vulnerable members of a species die out, then natural selection should have weeded us out. From an evolutionary point of view, it makes no sense.
Never more vulnerable . . .
And then I drop away from where I am and tip into the world of my dreams.
The twins stepped into the conference room.
