HEAR

by Robin Epstein

  Alex flops on the bed, and Pankaj makes himself comfortable on a big bolster pillow on the floor. The boys seem completely at home, as if they’ve both spent time in these exact positions before. Unfortunately their comfort only sparks discomfort in me. It feels like the union of three has come together, and I’m the odd man out. I look at Mara, who’s shuffling the tarot cards but scrutinizing my face; it’s as if she can see what I’m feeling.

  “Kass, let’s start with you,” she says. “We get the best readings when we have questions to ask. You look like you’re seeking something, which means you’re receptive to finding an answer. If you have nothing to ask—if you assume you already know everything—you’re incapable of learning anything.”

  I reflexively want to disagree with her, but I don’t think she’s wrong. “Okay, fine,” I reply.

  When she finishes shuffling the cards, Mara carefully fans them on her desk and instructs me to pick three. I point to the cards I want, and she plucks them from the deck, placing them in front of me.

  She turns over the first card. It’s a smiling Grim Reaper holding a long scythe. On the bottom it says death.

  “The Death card?” I shake my head. “ You did that on purpose.”

  Mara gasps as if I’ve truly offended her. “ You picked it yourself.”

  “The Death card?” I repeat. “ You’re saying you in no way manipulated the deck so that this would be the one to appear?”

  Her posture straightens. “I would never do that! Do you really think I’d be that insensitive after what just happened to Dan and Erika? Anyway, it’s not literal. Death’s message is about change. You have to shed long-held beliefs if you want to gain new energy and new life.” She fixes her eyes on mine. “The only way for you to move forward is to let go of your ego and admit to your mistakes.”

  I return her stare. Admit my mistakes? I’m about to tell her the only mistake I made was letting her anywhere near my “fortune,” but she raises a finger.

  “But that’s just the first card,” she tells me. “We need to see what the others say.”

  “ You know what? I think I’m going to stop at Death.”

  “ Your loss,” she huffs. “But maybe your closed-mindedness is something you should take a look at.”

  “Who wants to go next?” I ask sarcastically. “Pankaj?”

  “Nah, I’m good from the last one.” There’s an edge in his voice.

  The last one? I’m somehow stung by this, as if he just confessed to kissing another girl.

  “I did Pankaj last night,” Mara says. She glances at Alex as she reshuffles the deck.

  Alex hops off the bed. “Do me.”

  Mara nods, spreading the deck in front of him, once again fanning the cards carefully. But this time I notice that her fingers are trembling. Even after all that’s happened, I have no idea what’s going through this girl’s head. Why is she nervous? Is she worried she’s the outsider?

  Alex pulls three cards from the deck and places each one face up in front of her. “All righty then, what can the Moon, the Three of Swords, and the Nine of Swords tell you about me?”

  Mara’s eyes roam from card to card. “It’s an intense draw,” she murmurs, her fingernails drumming the surface of the desk. “The first is your past. It’s about what’s influenced you and the energies that surrounded you. The middle card is your present situation, and the third is about your future possibilities.”

  “So what does the Moon have to say about Alex’s past?” Pankaj asks.

  “The Moon is a shadowy figure—in every sense.” Mara’s voice quavers and she clears her throat. “She’s closely associated with our unconscious and the astrological sign Pisces, which is known for being psychic and mysterious.”

  Alex looks to Mara for something, maybe approval, but her eyes remain on the reading. “That seems to track, doesn’t it?” he asks.

  “We know the Moon literally turns the tides. Figuratively, she moves us by speaking to our animal instincts.” Mara seems to be gaining confidence as she speaks. “See on the card how the crayfish is crawling out of the water and there’s a dog and a wolf howling into the distance? These represent the dawning of our consciousness. They also embody our deepest fears.”

  Alex sniffs, unimpressed. I can’t blame him. Not only has he always been skeptical of the tarot stuff; Mara’s “reading” is general enough to fit anything or anyone.

  “Of course the Moon also lets us dream our way out of these scary situations. If you were on a sinister path, you could still change it. Jung believed the Moon represents our ‘shadow self,’ or the unconscious mind. He thought the happier the person seems on the outside, the darker the person’s soul. He also believed that this shadow was prone to projection.”

  “Like this?” Alex makes bunny ears with his fingers, letting the flickering candlelight cast its projection against the wall.

  Mara shakes her head, now entirely self-assured. “No, meaning you turn your own personal insecurities into perceived failings in others.”

  “What?” Alex says incredulously, throwing his hands in the air. “ You’re only saying that because you’re a lousy reader!” He sounds angry, but then he winks. “Get it? Perceived failings . . . ?” He and Pankaj laugh. “Okay, so that’s the Moon card. What’s the Three of Swords?”

  “It suggests you’ve experienced heartbreak.”

  The smile drops from Alex’s face. “Let’s move on to the next card.”

  She nods, and her eyes are sympathetic. “The Nine of Swords is really similar to one of the Major Arcana cards, the Hermit. It suggests you’re trying to work through some conflict alone, to protect yourself. Look at the image: a woman with her arms crossed, trying to shield her heart. And here, you see the owl? The owl represents wisdom. There’s knowledge and support close at hand. It means you can get help if you seek it.” She finally looks up at him, her voice soft. “ You should seek it.”

  Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, thanks, Mara.”

  She sighs. “It’s just what the cards say.”

  A long silence settles over the candlelit room. I look at Pankaj, who gives a strained smile. “Switching topics,” he says. “What’s the latest with the professor’s Internal Review Board meeting? Did they postpone it?”

  “I don’t think so. In fact”—I look down at my watch—“I think the meeting’s scheduled for about two hours from now.”

  “ You’re kidding. Professor Black doesn’t get a pass for having one of his students die?” Alex sounds offended. “ You’d think he’d get a reprieve for at least a year.”

  “Like when your roommate dies, and you automatically get straight As?” Mara says.

  “That doesn’t happen; that’s just an urban legend,” Alex says dismissively. “I don’t know. It just seems like something good should come from Dan’s death. Right?”

  But no one answers. Apparently none of us can find an upside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  It’s a little before four o’clock when I arrive back at Uncle Brian’s home, and I find him knotting his tie in front of the hallway mirror. I can feel anxiety wafting off him, and even without the ESP he once had, I’m sure he can feel mine too.

  “I need you to tell me something,” I say, skipping the hellos.

  He looks at my reflection and continues to form a Windsor knot. “And what might that be?” he asks tersely.

  “Did you leave the CIA by choice?”

  Brian presses his lips together and yanks the cuffs of his shirt under his coat sleeve. “ Yes, Kassandra. And to answer your next question: had I not quit, I would have been fired. I was broken by grief, no longer trusted anything or anyone, and was no longer useful to the Agency. But you already know all this.”

  I move to the stairs and sit, maintaining our mirrored eye contact. “Christopher Figg would have fired you?” I ask him.

/>   He turns to face me. “He would have had to get rid of me, yes. So he privately advised me to take my leave instead.”

  As I search his eyes, the puzzle pieces start coming together. Get rid of me : another euphemism for “neutralize.” Another euphemism for “murder.”

  “He saved your life.”

  Brian nods. “That’s correct.”

  “And that’s why when he wanted to run the kids’ camps with you here, you agreed. You owed him one. You literally owed him your life.”

  Brian turns back to the mirror, straightening his posture for a final once-over. “As I told you, the Agency has relationships with many of the world’s best universities, so when Chris offered funding for a special joint project combining some of my research with his, I tried to view it in that context. To see it through a rose-colored lens, as opposed to seeing the cold truth: I was being manipulated.” He looks at his watch and turns away. “Now, have I answered all your questions? Because unfortunately I need to head back to campus. The review board will shortly be deciding my fate.”

  He reaches for the doorknob. His hand lingers there for a moment before opening the door. Looking at my uncle now, I wonder if I’m being unfair. He’s not the one who caused Dan’s death, and from what evidence I have, it seems like he was a target too. Maybe keeping the lab open would, in fact, be the best revenge, a way to show the terrorists, whoever they are, that they haven’t won.

  “By the way,” he asks quietly, his back still turned, “do you think any of the other HEARs know how this meeting turns out?”

  I can hear the smile in his voice. I almost laugh. “I asked. Unfortunately I think we’re all in a blind spot here.” But suddenly I get an idea, and I’m about to suggest he call my dad to see if he has any thoughts on the matter, when a white-hot flash of pain cracks through my head. My insides heave and I clamp my hand over my lips to stop myself from vomiting on the rug.

  That’s when the doorbell rings.

  Uncle Brian starts, spins toward me. “Were you expecting someone?”

  I shake my head. It’s all the response I can muster.

  He moves to the side of the hall and peeks out through the curtain. “Speak of the devil,” he mutters, opening the door.

  A man with longish white hair, rimless eyeglasses, and a burgundy silk handkerchief billowing out of his blazer’s breast pocket stands on the welcome mat. “Brian!” Chris Figg says, holding his hands out expansively. He doesn’t wait to be invited in. “It is a good day!” He beams as he crosses the threshold. Despite being as old as my uncle, his demeanor is more like a student’s; the pride in his voice suggests he just aced another calculus test. “And hello, Kassandra.” He sticks out his hand, then thinking better of it, pulls me into a hug. “How long has it been?”

  I am trapped by the bear hug, unable to speak. It’s so constricting that I wonder if he’ll snap my ribs.

  “Thirteen years,” Brian replies. When Figg releases me, Brian pats him on the arm. “Chris, forgive me for being rude, but I need to leave to get to—”

  Figg stops him with a shake of his head. “Brian, it’s handled.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  He smiles and a certain mischievousness animates his face. “I put in a call to Claire Shipman. She’s acting head of the Internal Review Board. I told her that there’s no need to put you through the wringer this afternoon when there’s already a perfect solution for all of us.”

  Brian’s eyebrows rise. “A solution?”

  Figg seems to be enjoying both Brian’s confusion and his own performance. He reaches forward and lays a gnarled hand on my great-uncle’s shoulder. “I simply pointed out that they could easily make up your budget shortfall by funneling the money allocated for Graham Pinberg’s lab to yours.”

  Uncle Brian takes a step back. His face registers a whirlwind of emotions: relief, remorse, and most of all shock. “That seems—”

  “Like the only way to make the best out of a tragic situation? Like the best way to honor our friend’s memory?” Figg interrupts. “I agree. You and I both know Graham would have insisted we all carry on. And now we can. I’ll even be there to assist.”

  Brian nods automatically, but I can tell he’s not present. His mind is racing, and I try to discern what he’s thinking, what exactly he feels he owes this man who is once again his savior.

  “But what about the fact that the university people don’t like my uncle?” I blurt. “Was Pinberg’s money really all it took to convince them to keep HEAR open?”

  Figg smiles down at me, then glances at Brian. “This one is almost too smart for her own good.” There’s an edge in his voice.

  I sense danger at the edge, but I need to keep pushing. “And how are you going to be assisting here?”

  “Well, Kass, as you so rightly noted, your great-uncle doesn’t always get along with everyone.” Figg slides his hands into his pockets, trying a more casual pose. “But I have a way with people and can be very convincing when I need to be. That’s why I’m certain that if we team up again, there’s no end to what we can accomplish together. In fact, that’s why I’ve decided to leave the Agency and work with Brian full-time once we hammer out some details.”

  Uncle Brian’s eyes lock on Figg’s. I wait for him to respond.

  When he doesn’t, I do it for him: “What details?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is something your great-uncle and I are going to need to work out on our own,” Figg says, eyes still on Brian. “ You understand, I’m sure.”

  I do understand. I’m being told to leave. Which is fine, because if I stay a second longer, I just might puke on both of them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I stayed away from the house for the rest of the day, opting to wander the campus by myself. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize. Not that I had to worry about speaking to anyone; the school grounds are like a ghost town now, deserted, quiet, and terrifying. The smell of the burned library still lingered in the air, and I watched a few of the remaining students load up their cars before getting out of town.

  When I walked back to Uncle Brian’s house later that night, I went directly to my room. I heard him puttering around on the third floor above me, and though I’m certain he heard me come in, he didn’t welcome me home or make any attempt to say hello either.

  A note was waiting for me on the kitchen table this morning:

  Early meeting in town. See you all in the lab at 9:00. —BB

  We’re all seated by the time Brian enters, and it occurs to me that this is the first time he’s been with all of us together since the library bombing. I wonder if the others need my great-uncle to provide words of wisdom or to hear him promise everything’s going to be okay as much as I do. I glance at Pankaj, but his head is down, his bangs over his eyes, conveying the gloom we all feel.

  Brian drops his coat on his chair and places his bag on his desk, then steps to the workstation at the front of the lab. “ You would think that at my age I’d understand death, have some insight about tragedy,” he begins. “But I’m sorry to say I don’t. I still can’t justify or make sense of it. I can’t explain why some of us are taken and some remain behind. Though we only had Dan with us for a short period of time, I think we all sensed what a bright and wonderful young man he was.”

  I hear Mara sniffling and pass her a pack of tissues from the plastic CVS bag that’s become my de facto book bag since . . . the library.

  “But we can’t let the loss we feel paralyze us,” Brian continues. “We need to stand against the forces of fear and let Dan’s legacy be our lives.” He pauses and looks at each one of us. “I believe we should pay tribute to Dan the same way we’re paying tribute to my dear friend Graham, by carrying on with their work.” His voice catches, and he steadies himself at the workstation. After a shaky breath, he goes on. “To be able to do this, we owe a debt of gratitude to my old f
riend and colleague Chris Figg, who has conditionally agreed to save our lab. And in return for his help, we must help him.”

  My eyes meet Pankaj’s.

  Here we go, he says silently.

  “How?” Alex asks.

  “He has intelligence about another imminent attack, one targeting more of our best and brightest.”

  Alex used exactly the same phrase, “best and brightest,” when he theorized why people would bomb Peabody Library. But the fact that he was right doesn’t give me any sense of security or confidence in our abilities; it just makes me even more uncomfortable.

  Brian pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “He believes you may be able to identify the terrorists involved.”

  I think of the memorial in the chapel planned for Erika and Dan tomorrow. People who never met either of them will come and weep. After tragedies like this, you see these enormous outpourings of grief from the community. Strangers come to cry because they think, It could have been me. It could have been my loved one. And they feel connected by the shattered illusion of safety they once shared.

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Mara demands. “Identify these terrorists?”

  “Remote viewing,” Brian replies. “A version of one of the exercises we’ve done previously. I have no idea what the prompts are or what type of visions they may lead to.” He heads to his desk and opens the large bottom drawer, removing a manila envelope. “But whatever the prompts inspire, I want you to tell me what you think or see or feel. Even if it seems to have nothing to do with terrorism as we tend to think of it. Understood?”

  We nod in silence. The mourning period is over, apparently.

  “Now, we need to do this in a designated testing area. Come.” Without another word, he leads us out of the lab. We follow him down to the basement. After we descend two flights in silence, he points to a door at the end of the hall. It’s the same spot where Pankaj and I had our hushed conference, two lifetimes ago.

  Alex clears his throat. “Professor Black, I had a thought,” he says. “Given how urgent this situation is, maybe now would be a good time for us to try the booster you’ve been working on.”