Blind Instinct: A Tess Barrett Thriller

by Michael W. Sherer

Alice whirled around, a rubber-gloved hand going to her chest. She quickly dropped it to her side, but a wet handprint remained on her blouse.

  “Oliver! You startled me.” She brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of a gloved hand. “She’s upstairs in her room. She ate earlier.”

  I hesitated. “I guess I’ll wait.”

  Alice pulled the cuff of one glove away from her wrist and looked at her watch. “No, you better go up and get her. Otherwise you’ll be late.”

  I nodded and headed for the hallway.

  “Oliver,” she called after me, “she and Travis had a fight this morning. Just so you know.”

  I paused. “Thanks. I think.” I continued down the hall with a little less certainty in my step.

  I remembered the way to Tess’s room though I’d only been there once. The house was large enough that new employees should have been issued a map or GPS device to find their way around. I didn’t need either only because I have eidetic memory. It’s kind of like photographic memory, but not limited to visual detail. It’s tied more to experiences. If I recall an experience, or the feeling of it, I can usually remember the details—sights, sounds, smells, and so forth.

  Tess’s door was closed, so I knocked softly.

  “Go away!” The door muffled her voice, but not her distress.

  “You’re going to be late for school.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes, you do care. Come on, Tess. We can talk about it on the way to school.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you!”

  Unconsciously, I rubbed my shoulder as if that’s where the barb had sunk in. I didn’t have a ready reply.

  “Well, not you, exactly,” she said after a moment. “It’s because you’re a guy. You’re all alike.”

  “I resent that. I’m not like any other guy you’ve ever met.”

  “You know what I mean. What did Alice tell you anyway?”

  “Nothing, really. All she said was you and Travis had a fight.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “This is silly, Tess. We’re already talking. It’d be a lot easier without the door in the way.”

  I heard rustling. The door suddenly opened, and she nearly stepped right into me.

  “Whoa.” I backpedaled and caught my balance.

  She marched past me, backpack with her books and homework securely slung over both shoulders. Reaching her side in a few hurried steps, I took her arm.

  She shrugged me off. “I can find my way without your help.”

  Her face was puffy and her eyes red-rimmed, not from illness, I suspected. Her face showed nothing except grim determination now. Keeping the wall close to her side, she lightly brushed her fingertips along its surface as she walked. Trailing a step behind, I watched with admiration as she easily navigated the way to the stairs and negotiated her way down without hesitation.

  “Where’s the car?” she asked when she reached the bottom.

  “In the garage.”

  “I’ll wait here while you bring it around.” She lifted her chin, striking a regal pose.

  I bit off a sarcastic reply, reminding myself that she was, after all, my boss.

  “Usual spring weather,” I said as I walked away. “You should grab a coat.”

  Rummaging through the coat closet by feel should keep her busy. She would have insisted on doing it herself anyway.

  Two minutes later, I picked her up at the front door, and we headed off to school. She sat with her hands in her lap, silent.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Peachy.”

  I didn’t have a lot of experience with these matters, but I figured I’d opened the door—twice—and it was up to her to walk through it. I kept my mouth shut and let her stew.

  The high school was the usual zoo, different herds migrating through the corridors like animals on the savannah—geeks hunched over tablet computers or smart phones, belongings on their backs; popular girls with heads together twittering and chirruping as they eyed the other herds in passing, books in designer bags slung over one shoulder, thumbs busily keying screens of their smart phones; jocks in school colors bouncing off walls and one another with mile-wide grins, eyes glazed as they read the screens of their smart phones; “normal” kids moving at a good clip, eyes ahead, books in hand, zigzagging through traffic. A few of them even held phones up in front of their faces, keeping one eye on the screen, the other on where they were going.

  In the whirlwind of classes that followed, I had no time to press Tess for details. For the moment, at least, her tiff with Travis seemed forgotten, whatever it had been about. I hoped that was a good sign.

  Chapter 4

  “Miss Barrett? Care to join us?”

  The voice barely registered on Tess’s consciousness. A nudge on her arm brought her back to reality.

  “Hello?” Oliver murmured. “Earth to Tess.”

  A snicker from one direction and a titter from another let her know the whole class was staring at her. Her face flushed with embarrassment. Oliver nudged her again.

  She batted at his hand and addressed Mr. Johnson. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat the question?”

  Mr. Johnson heaved a sigh. “If I must. We just finished listening to a passage of Ravel’s ‘Piano Concerto for Left Hand in D Major.’ I asked you to name another composer who wrote piano pieces for the left hand.”

  “Um, Chopin?”

  “Good guess, Miss Barrett. Now, can you tell me for whom Ravel’s piano concerto was written?”

  Tess felt her face burn hotter. She’d been so angry with Travis all morning that she hadn’t been able to focus on anything. Now she was paying for it, and was as angry with herself as with her uncle. She was a better student than this.

  “Wittgenstein,” Oliver hissed next to her ear.

  “Wittgenstein?” she said loudly.

  “Also a good guess,” Mr. Johnson said, “thanks to Mr. Moncrief. Do you know who Paul Wittgenstein was, Miss Barrett?”

  Tess elbowed Oliver in the ribs before he could say anything. The grunt she heard told her she’d hit the bull’s-eye.

  “No, I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “A piano player, I imagine.”

  “A pianist, yes,” Mr. Johnson said. “A concert pianist. And why might Ravel have written this piece for Wittgenstein?”

  “Um, he was left-handed?”

  Laughter rippled through the classroom. Tess slumped in her seat, wishing she could sink into the floor and disappear.

  “No, Miss Barrett. Wittgenstein, in fact, was right-handed, but lost his arm in World War I. It’s not enough to simply appreciate music in this class, Miss Barrett. I want you to understand why we appreciate it. A little more time on your studies next time, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tess heard more sniggers that faded quickly as Mr. Johnson moved on. She turned her head and whispered, “Don’t help me.”

  Oliver whispered back. “I was just trying to—”

  “Stop,” she said. “Shhhh.”

  Thankfully, the buzzer ended class a few minutes later. Oliver guided her out where the waterfall of sound from hundreds of students swirling through the hallways cascaded around her, buffeting her in torrents and nearly drowning out her other senses. She clutched his shoulder a little tighter from behind as bodies bumped and jostled her.

  She leaned forward and said, “Why’d you do that?”

  Oliver didn’t answer.

  “I would’ve been better off saying, ‘I don’t know,’” she said, louder now.

  His voice floated back to her over the din. “You’re right. It looks a lot better if you admit ignorance than if you give a teacher the right answer.”

  “The truth is better. I didn’t know the answer.”

  “Sure you did. I told you who it was. That’s okay. I get it. You’re on your own from here.”

  She let it drop. Stupid men. They had their own twisted sense of logic, and there
was no reasoning with them.

  The commotion in the commons was as bad as that in the hallways, only here the sounds reverberated and echoed off the high ceilings and cavernous space. The decibel level was modestly lower than in the cramped halls, but the constant deluge made communication difficult even with the person next to you.

  Oliver guided her to an empty seat, and she felt him lean in close. “What do you want to eat?” he said over the din.

  Monday. Pasta day. Tess craved a bowl of pasta, with Alfredo sauce, and lots of Parmesan cheese, but knew that most of it would end up in her lap. Not to mention that it was the equivalent of a heart attack on a plate. The double-edged threat of guilt and potential embarrassment quickly changed her mind.

  “Turkey sandwich on wheat. Lettuce, no tomato, no mayo.”

  “Got it. Something to drink?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a water bottle in my bag.”

  Oliver left without a word, and Tess turned her focus to the other voices around the table.

  “I don’t know,” a girl said. “It’s so hard, you know?” Fear cloaked her voice like a hoodie.

  “No, it’s not, Julie,” another said. Tess recognized this voice—Jordan Taylor. It bubbled like a frothy, pink tutu. “It’s just cheer.”

  “It’s not just cheer,” a third girl snarled.

  Tess knew this voice, too. It belonged to Adrienne Moss. Her girl, one-time best friend, and now… Now, Tess didn’t know what Addie was to her. Not her enemy. At least she didn’t think so, but not much of a friend, either.

  “Don’t you dare say it’s just cheer,” Addie went on, voice venomous enough to kill small rodents. “It’s hard, hot, sweaty work. I didn’t get where I am just because of some cute smile and a nice spray tan. I worked my ass off. Anyone who says we’re just brainless T-and-A with pom-poms can kiss my ass. Julie, if you want to try out, you better work your butt off, too. But I think you’re ready. You’re one of the best on JV.

  “I’ll tell you who won’t make it, though,” she continued in a lower voice. “Brittany. Girl thinks she’s all that, but she can’t dance her way out of a paper bag, and she sure as heck can’t stunt. She’s in for a surprise. What about you, Tess?”

  “What about me?” Tess said, startled that Addie considered them on speaking terms.

  “Next week? Try-outs? You coming?”

  Tess felt her cheeks grow warm as giggles erupted around the table. “You must be joking.” Her mind worked furiously. Had her year off put her so out of practice she couldn’t keep up with Addie, of all people?

  “Not at all,” Addie said. “We wouldn’t want to be seen as discriminatory.” Sarcasm dripped from the words like acid from a leaky battery.

  Tess scooped some up to flavor her reply. “Sure, I’ll be there. Right after I help girls’ basketball win state.”

  Tess heard some snickers, fewer than the ones at her expense, but at least these were with her, not at her. Addie’s silence confirmed her direct hit.

  “Hey, dork-face,” Addie said finally. “What do you think? Should Tess try out next week?”

  Tess stiffened and was about to reply when she realized Addie was speaking to someone else, not her.”

  “Yo, Matt!” Addie barked. “Try not to be rude. I’m talking to you.”

  “Shut up!” Matt said. “I’m not bugging you, so why are you in my face?”

  A chair scraped the floor next to Tess, and Oliver murmured in her ear, “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered back.

  “If you’re going to sit with us, dweeb,” Addie said, “at least you could try to be social.”

  “Leave me alone, biatch.”

  “What’s he doing?” Tess whispered.

  “Fooling around with his phone,” Oliver said. “Looks like he’s playing a game app. Probably Angry Birds.”

  “Don’t you guys know anything?” Matt said peevishly. He sighed. “It’s Never Bitten.”

  “What’s that?” Tess said.

  “The coolest video game ever,” Matt said. “Just came out. Like Angry Birds, Zombieville and a couple others all rolled into one. Now can I eat lunch in peace?”

  Tess perked her ears, no longer paying attention to Matt. A buzz spread through the commons behind her. She put her hand up, fingers searching for and quickly finding Oliver’s arm, muscles bunching and rippling under the fabric of his shirt.

  “Listen,” she whispered. “Something’s happening. I can feel it.”

  Someone put a hand on the back of her chair, and a presence loomed behind her. She turned her head slightly and caught a whiff of a familiar scent—Toby.

  “Did you guys hear?” Toby’s voice cracked on the last word.

  “What now, Toby?” Addie said.

  “A kid killed himself. Committed suicide.”

  “Who?” Tess blurted.

  “Don’t know. Sophomore, I heard.”

  “What happened?” Addie spoke up again.

  “They’re not sure. They’re saying he was fine a few weeks ago, but got depressed about something recently and started acting all weird.”

  “That’s terrible,” Tess said. “Why didn’t anyone do anything?”

  “I’ll bet it was that mental case with the big ears,” Addie said. “You know who I mean. They call him Dumbo because of his ears.”

  “It’s Gumbo,” Matt said, disgusted. “And he’s not mental.”

  “Gumbo?” Addie said. “What kind of name is that? Isn’t that, like, soup?”

  “It’s short for Gumby and Dumbo,” Matt said, “’cause he’s tall and thin, and has big ears.”

  “I hope it’s not him,” Tess said. “You’re all so mean.”

  “Well, whoever he was,” Addie said, “he was a loser.”

  Chapter 5

  As he slowly rose toward consciousness, Travis felt rather than heard the steady drone of engines surrounding him. The sounds worked their way out of his dreams and became more real. Other sensations edged into his consciousness. A crick in his neck. The desert sand bunker in his mouth. Chafed skin around his wrist. Numbness in one hand that had gone to sleep.

  Jet engines. Their distinctive whine was easy to identify now. He kept his eyes closed and maintained the steady breathing that had marked his sleep. His muscles felt like Jell-O, and he wasn’t sure he could move even if he wanted to. Very slowly, he opened his eyes, only to be met with darkness except a small, dim spot near his right elbow. He let his head loll toward it and felt fabric rasp against the whiskers on his cheek. He saw a vision of a bright red spot growing and spreading, and remembered he’d cut himself shaving. The cloth touched his cheek once more, and he thought of the hood they’d pulled over his head.

  More memories came back to him then. The SUV in the ditch. The van straddling a rain-slicked road. Men emerging from the van. His shoulder itched, and now he remembered the bee-sting puncture of the needle. He thought back. Details might be the only edge he’d have somewhere down the line. They hadn’t killed him, which meant they wanted him alive. An airplane trip likely meant they wanted him out of the way, in hostile territory, or… Out of the way and not easy to find, he decided. The fact he still wore the hood meant they didn’t want him to have any idea where they were taking him. He’d counted five men—no, four, but had there been a fifth in the van? A driver? His head was still fuzzy.

  They’d thrown him in the van, and within a minute he remembered hallucinating and feeling like he was floating out of his body. He must have fallen into a K-hole. Ketamine. Special K. He’d never taken drugs, but had learned more than he cared to about many different substances in Afghanistan. Opium and heroine from the poppies the locals grew because they could make more money than they could growing food crops like wheat or corn. Marijuana that usually came in the form of much stronger hashish. Meth and coke that always seemed to find their way into every society through its soft underbelly. Drugs used and abused by the weak to escape their lives and by the strong
to feel more powerful, only to end up destroying all of them.

  Ketamine was an anesthetic that army medics still used in the field as an option to morphine. More commonly used by veterinarians, the military still used it because it could be administered easily by people who weren’t trained in anesthesiology. A lot of soldiers in the ’Stans had gotten their hands on Special K and taken it as a recreational drug. Travis could never understand why people would want to alter their consciousness and mess up their heads with any drugs, even alcohol.

  He’d heard enough stories to recognize the effects, but judging from how quickly he’d lost consciousness and how relaxed his muscles still were, he guessed that they’d mixed diazepam with the ketamine. That was typically how a medic or corpsman would administer ketamine in the field. The benzodiazepine would partially counteract the hallucinogenic properties of the ketamine and serve as a sedative, knocking him out. Depending on the dose, ketamine’s effects lasted only about twenty to thirty minutes. Even with the sedative added, he couldn’t have been out that long.

  So, the plane had only been in the air for a little while. And while he didn’t know where it was headed, he could guess which direction the plane flew. Now that his eyes had adjusted, he could sense the light through the fabric. The interior of the plane was bright with daylight. To get him onto a plane without going through airport security or attracting attention, his kidnappers must be using a private plane, a small jet with relatively shorter range than a commercial jet. So they weren’t heading over the ocean. If they’d been flying north, direct morning sunlight coming through the windows would have warmed his right side. South, and the sun would warm his left side. Definitely east.

  He worked the fingers of his right hand to improve his circulation and restore some feeling. The movement chafed his wrist more, and he realized his hands were cuffed to the armrests. They hadn’t bound his feet, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Even if he wasn’t cuffed to the seat, where would he run? He couldn’t just take a stroll out the door at twenty thousand feet.

  He listened for other sounds, but the noise from the engines drowned out almost everything else. Occasionally, he sensed or felt someone passing by in the narrow aisle rather than heard. And once or twice he thought he heard the low murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out any words. With little to do but wait, he counted, trying to keep track of time. By his reckoning, they’d flown for about half an hour when the plane began its descent. The jet probably had a cruising speed upwards of 480 knots, but Travis dialed that back, figuring the pilot might have to abide by flight controller’s instructions. So, with the time he’d been out, they’d probably reached Idaho, maybe even Montana by now.