Brains

by Jaq Wright

  “The way he talks about destroying and saving brains is like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie. You usually talk about your cases as people with brain problems, but he seems to think of the brain as the only part that matters.

  Dr. Overbridge returned. “So sorry. The joys of the aging male.” His attempt at a smile was almost painful to watch.

  They finished the meal with no new revelations. As they were thanking him, Jack asked, “How about we have you over? We are having a few friends over on Thursday next. Would you care to come? We are on East 83rd. Say about seven?”

  Dr. Overbridge looked as if he were about to say something, but Cathy quickly chipped in, “Perfect, we'll see you then,” and grabbed Jack's hand and led him away before he could respond.

  “So, who should we invite for next week, Mr. we're-having-a-few-friends-over?” Her eyes twinkled. “He is really kind of fascinating.”

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron had napped on the couch in Mitzi's office while she finished her work in the lab. He had given her a report of his conversation with Terrence, and they had agreed that they would stay late at the office, where they would have computer access, before going back up to their hideout in the Bronx.

  The list was long – three hundred forty-four addresses, just as Mary Jane had told Mitzi on Monday.

  “Okay,” Mitzi started, “we have got to do something to filter these. Thoughts?”

  Cameron leaned back. “I think we should look at the structures on Google Earth. The place we are looking for is likely a big enough building to house labs and stuff, if it is anything like the place on Isla Sofia. Also, a loading dock or underground garage. And not on a main thoroughfare.”

  “What if those assumptions are wrong?”

  “Then we will miss it on the first go and waste a bunch of time. But we have to start somewhere.”

  They each took half the list and started to work. Two hours later, Cameron was up to number twenty-four on his list. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Number twenty-eight. Four reasonable possibilities. How about you?”

  “Twenty-four,” he had admitted, feeling a little out played. “Also four possibles.”

  Mitzi thought a minute. “At this rate, we will finish in about eight or nine hours and still have fifty or sixty possibilities. I need caffeine.” She stretched, and went out to make another pot of coffee.

  They actually got to the end of their list around five a.m. Saturday, and had forty-seven structures that met their criteria. Of those, ten were in the Bronx, seven in Brooklyn, five in Queens, three each in Manhattan and Staten Island, fifteen in New Jersey, and three in Westchester county.

  “Now what?” Mitzi yawned.

  “Now let's get some sleep, then make a plan for eyeballing all of these.”

  The streets of Manhattan were surprisingly busy early on a Saturday, and Cameron let Mitzi flag down a cab, while he surveilled the area. Nothing suspicious, but he still insisted on taking the cab to Penn Station, then switching to another cab for the ride to the Bronx. This would never do. They needed a car, but getting a rental without a credit card was going to be a problem. A problem for later. For now, sleep.

  Chapter 26

  Saturday, October 29

  New York

  The car picked Dr. Overbridge up at his apartment precisely at eight. On the ride out to Queens, he was conscious of an anticipatory excitement. The thrill of being part of such a development was almost overwhelming. When they arrived, he practically leaped out of the car and headed to the elevator. It was on the ride up that he realized he had not counted. Neither the steps from the car, nor the buildings passed en route, nor the intersections. Nothing. He recalled the previous night at the NYAC, and came to the realization that, then, he had been somehow afraid, and now he was not. He had been looking for redemption in the wrong place all these years.

  Pierre Lemieux, accompanied by Maxwell, was waiting for him in a well-appointed hospital room on the third floor. Other than a little tenderness at the incision, he said he felt fine.

  Dr. Overbridge removed his staples, and verified that the incision was healing well. He then took out a ruler, made some measurements on the incision, and marked a spot near the crown of the head. He injected the area with lidocaine, and after waiting a few minutes, cleaned the area with betadine and made a small incision. The plug was there, just under the skin, protruding out through the gap in the skull. Maxwell handed him the next piece of the device. “This has a special fibroblast-stimulating coating around the outside. It should heal to the skin, and create a water- and bacteria-proof seal,” he explained. After deepening the incision and attaching the connector, Overbridge used medical grade superglue to secure it.

  “This will hold the skin nicely until it heals, which should just take a few days. We should be able to use it right away, as long as we don't wiggle it too much.” He then secured it with a large clear plastic dressing. “And this should keep it stable.” He stepped back and attempted a smile, satisfied.

  Pierre was impatient. “How soon can I start to walk?”

  Maxwell looked questioningly at Overbridge, who replied, “I think that either tomorrow or Monday you would be strong enough physically.”

  Maxwell smiled. “Perfect. That will give us just about enough time for programming.”

  Maxwell wheeled a workstation with an oversized monitor in from the next room, and carefully plugged the long, thin cable into the connector on Pierre's head. He handed the wireless keyboard/trackball unit to Pierre, and they all waited for the program to boot up. Soon a man's figure appeared on the screen, lying down, and Dr. Overbridge was interested to see that, on examination, the figure’s face was that of Pierre. There was a green “start” button in the upper right hand corner of the screen, with a yellow “pause” button and a red “quit” button beneath it. On the left side were a set of legs, front and back, covered with a grid.

  “Okay,” Maxwell said, “here's how it works. You think about moving your legs or toes or whatever, and the computer interprets your thoughts as commands to the muscles in the avatar on the screen. It will work best if you start with simple things, like wriggling your toe. Click on the part you are going to move, and then concentrate on moving it until you can make it do what you want. Try to map out your legs completely with simple movements.”

  It took a while for Pierre to get the hang of it. He started with the left great toe, clicking on the grid on the left side of the screen, then thought about moving that part. Obligingly, that part moved on the avatar. He then moved to the ankle, and tried again. That worked fine as well. After a few more areas, Maxwell had him click outside the grid, told him to try again to move the avatar. Pierre hit the keyboard in frustration as the whole leg jumped at once.

  “I was just trying to move the toe! Why is everything moving?”

  “Your movement commands were too general – it is like you were just telling that whole limb to move when you were trying to program it. I think we should re-start, and you need to really concentrate on moving ONLY the part in question.”

  Overbridge watched the process intently. After about an hour, Pierre succeeded in programming movements of the entire right leg, which he could then cause the avatar to raise in the air and kick. Pierre was beginning to tire, and Overbridge decreed that he needed to take a break for a couple of hours. Pierre tried to object, but Maxwell agreed and shut down the workstation. He then motioned to Overbridge, and they left the room.

  “I will have them take you home,” Maxwell stated. “We will pick you up tomorrow at noon.”

  Overbridge nodded. “Very well. I can see that this will take some time. I am most anxious to observe the progress, however.”

  Maxwell looked at him. “Speaking of anxiety, how is yours?”

  “I don't know what you mean.” But, even as he said the words, the compulsive need for order bubbled up, and, although he had not been counting anything all morning, he suddenly needed to
know how many ceiling tiles were in the corridor. As his eyes flicked upward, he did his best to pull down and look at Maxwell.

  “Exactly,” Maxwell smiled. “Solving this problem should help you in ways that all of your years of surgery have not.”

  Overbridge continued on towards the elevator. After six steps, he stopped, noting that Maxwell was not following. “Something else?”

  “Yes,” Maxwell replied. “Tell me about that incision on your scalp. That perfect, surgical incision. About a week old, I would say. When we saw you earlier this week, you had on a cap.”

  “I had a minor procedure.”

  “With an eight-inch scar?” Maxwell approached and poked a finger around the incision. Overbridge did not flinch or react. “With a large bone plate?”

  “I had an aneurysm clipped. It was a minor inconvenience. I did not even miss any work. It really is none of your concern.” His expression was completely blank.

  “It is very much our concern. We need you, Dr. Overbridge. I need to know that you are going to be capable of helping us with this work. When and where was your surgery?”

  “Last Friday, Lenox Hill Hospital. I had surgery after work, and was discharged the next day. My surgeon was Dr. Jack Tucker, who, other than myself, is the best neurosurgeon in New York. And therefore, the world. You do not need to be concerned with my abilities, Mr. Maxwell.”

  Maxwell started to say something, but decided to simply call the elevator. He watched as the doors closed, then went back down the hall to the conference room. Perez was watching Pierre on a monitor.

  “Did you hear all that?” Maxwell asked, knowing that there were microphones in the hallway, and that Perez could monitor every space in the building.

  “Yes,” Perez was thoughtful. He touched a button on the telephone console, and when Santiago picked up, he asked, “When did we stop the full-time surveillance on Overbridge?”

  “A few weeks ago. We tracked him night and day for a couple of months, but he never varied his routine in any way, so we put our resources elsewhere.”

  “I am not criticizing. Resume the surveillance.” He hung up and pushed another button.

  “Find out everything on a Dr. Jack Tucker, neurosurgeon at Lenox Hill Hospital, and get me the hospital record from Lenox Hill for Augustus Overbridge, who had surgery last Friday. Yes, our Dr. Overbridge. And don't make me wait.”

  Maxwell shrugged. “There's always something.”

  Perez did not answer, just wheeled around and headed to the elevator. He rode down to the basement to check on their subject.

  ◆◆◆

  Jorge was wearing VR goggles, and had a game controller in hand, which he was working feverishly. Marta was seated next to him, her hand on his knee. Blaylock was in the control room, alternately glancing at the boy and staring at his monitor, where a dozen rows of squirming lines were working their way across. He turned towards Perez, flushed with enthusiasm. “This kid is certainly resilient. After all that last night, as soon as we finished, he was starving, so we gave him small amounts of about thirty foods, got great data about taste and smell and finally filled him up. Couldn't have been better.” He pointed through the glass. “Now we are having him play his favorite games. It is like these things were designed specifically with our needs in mind. Eye, hand, sound, cognition, all correlated with easily merged computer data. If he is stronger tomorrow, we will have him do the ones where he is running and jumping and dancing. I think he has almost forgotten the wringer we put him through yesterday. Seems to be enjoying himself.”

  “How about his physical condition?”

  Blaylock looked a little uncomfortable. “Could be better. Still pouring out CSF, but Cabrera is replacing it with IV fluids, and he doesn't have a fever or anything. Cabrera is worried that he is not peeing enough. Wants us to get a pediatrician.”

  “I don't have anyone set up. It is not like we can go to a local clinic. Tell Cabrera it is his job. And his responsibility.”

  ◆◆◆

  Cameron woke up just after noon, and realized that Mitzi was gone. A little annoyed, a little worried, a smidge panicked, he called her on his burner. “Where are you?”

  “Driving around the neighborhood looking for parking.”

  “Where did you get a car?”

  Mitzi did not exactly answer, but rather said, “Oops, there's one. Be up in a minute.” She clicked off.

  Cameron looked at the silent phone, then jumped up and headed to the shower. He heard the door close just as he was finishing.

  Mitzi was sitting at the small kitchen table, eating a banana and sipping coffee from a generic to-go cup. Another one was waiting for him across from her. He sipped it gratefully.

  “Okay, so what car do you have?”

  “I have friends. I called one and asked to borrow it for a few days. Problem solved.”

  First off, Cameron thought, Mitzi does not really have friends. “What did you tell her?”

  “Did I say her? And I didn't explain anything. Somehow people don't expect me to.”

  Cameron had to admit that was true. Just as he would not bother to ask her if her friend were male or female. She would simply ignore any question she did not want to answer.

  “How do you think we should do this?” Cameron asked, suspecting she would already have a plan. Unless there was some major flaw, it would be easier in every way to just go along with whatever she had concocted.

  “I think just drive by each spot, see what is supposedly going on there, then approach any likelies directly.”

  “You mean, like, bang on the door and say 'excuse me, are you the criminals that want to capture and torture my friend here, or just some other criminals growing pot or selling kiddie porn?'” He tried to sound flip, but the reality was that he was more than a little apprehensive. For all they knew, Perez had a hundred foot soldiers looking for them. Or at least him. So far, they had no direct evidence that Mitzi was a target. If Cameron's phone had been tracked, they would have identified Mitzi's phone as a frequent contact, so care was needed, but perhaps they were being a little paranoid. Which he had every intention of continuing.

  “Something more subtle, obviously. Tailored to whatever the purported purpose of the place happens to be. I'm not stupid.” She glared at him.

  “Fine. Where should we start?”

  “New Jersey,” she said promptly. “First, we have the most possibilities there, second, we know that they for sure had one place there, since that's where you turned up, and finally, that area has the highest ratio of Latinos. Over a third of the population in Newark, which is where most of our buildings lie.”

  “Okay, New Jersey it is. Where next?”

  “Clockwise, so Westchester, Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, and finally Manhattan.”

  “I agree, Staten Island is too unlikely for our initial investigation. But why clockwise?”

  “Because counter-clockwise is Satanic.”

  Mitzi's last comment had continued to pop up in Cameron's head as they drove on I-95 into and across upper Manhattan and over the George Washington Bridge. Traffic was a snarl, and it took them almost an hour and a half to get to the first address. Which they immediately eliminated, as it was a T-Mobile service center, with brand-new signage, which was why they had not seen it on Google Earth, their images often being several months old. “Now if that had been Perez's cell company, MexiVox, I would have said 'Jackpot!'” Cameron remarked.

  They proceeded on through their list, but the going was slow, the addresses not being very conveniently bunched, and sundown was before six. Cameron wanted to drive back to the Bronx, but Mitzi argued for a local motel. There was an abundance of sleazy-looking candidates near them, and despite his nap, Cameron was bushed, so he went along. As if any amount of discussion would have budged her. In the end, they were only able to get to five of the fifteen addresses, and none of them looked promising enough for a visit.

  Chapter 27

  Sunday, October 30

  New
York

  Augustus Overbridge awoke at precisely 5:30 a.m., despite a night troubled with a dream he had not had in years.

  As a child in Boston, Overbridge had slept in a large room on the upper floor of a stately home – a mansion, some would say. The house had the best of everything; linens, carpets, furniture, servants, food. And wasps. Deep in the timbers of the venerable dwelling, the insects had established their territory, and repeated attempts at extermination had been miserable failures. Somehow, they would creep out of invisible cracks in the moldings, and it was rare for a week to go by without another sighting. It was fortunate that none of the family were allergic, as, several times a year, someone would hop out of bed only to land on one of the creatures, who would promptly deliver a painful sting. Although one was allowed to mention to the housekeeper that another carcass needed to be removed, crying or other signs of weakness were met with grim stares and mocking sarcasm from his father.

  Overbridge at age six had developed a very specific fear, namely that one of the insects would land on his eyelid while he was asleep, and blind him with its stings. Soon, that fear had invaded his dreams, such that he would awake in the dark room, certain he was blind, a fear which was not helped by the fact that he would have dug at his eyes with his fingernails in an effort to kill the wasps which he was sure were attacking. He did not dare tell his parents, as that sort of foolishness would likely have been met with discipline of a most humiliating and unpleasant variety. These nightmares became more and more frequent, and he became more and more exhausted, until finally his mother, certain he must have developed a wasting disease, had taken him to the doctor.

  Initially too intimidated by the large round man with beefy red skin, young Augustus had not said much, but finally blurted out that he was having nightmares that the wasps were blinding him. His mother looked stunned, and gave a funny little laugh. The doctor, to his surprise, just wrinkled his brow thoughtfully, and pulled out a prescription pad. He wrote two words on it, and handed it to Mrs. Overbridge. “Sleep mask?” she asked.