Nicole turned to smile at me when she reached the door.
“I can’t imagine what people at work would say if I told them we talked about something as esoteric as the effects of birth order on personality.” I laughed. It sounded a bit nervous even to my ears.
“You talk about your dates at work?” she asked sharply. She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing.
“Ah…no,” I stuttered.
Then I noticed that her mouth was twitching, the corners turning up in a smile. “I thought you didn’t care what people think?”
“Most people, no, but I care what you think.” The line wasn’t clever, but in my moment of near panic, it felt like genius.
“Nice recovery.” She smiled, helping my heart rate back to normal – or close to it anyway. I took a breath and stepped forward, hoping to close the gap between us for a goodnight kiss. Then…she took a small step backwards.
I wasn’t sure what it meant, and I searched her face for a clue. Or maybe I knew, but wanted to find a reason to doubt my conclusion. Unfortunately, I found nothing there, because she had turned to the side and was looking at the wall behind me.
“How long will it take Ruger-Phillips to close out the project?” Nicole glanced at me, then back at the wall.
“Ah, probably around…maybe four to six weeks. Why?” I asked, thrown by the unusual turn in the conversation.
“No reason, really. Just wondering.” She sighed, then said, “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“OK, tomorrow,” I stammered. I could hardly believe my eyes, but my arm moved forward as if it had a mind of its own and I shook her hand…again. She closed the door and I heard the lock click into place.
I started down the stairs, wondering again if I was wasting my time pursuing Nicole. But as soon as the thought entered, I knew I’d persist until I heard those fateful words, ‘let’s just be friends.’ The only problem was, I didn’t know what I should do differently to change that outcome. Did she need more space? More time? More attention? I had no idea.
But as I reached the vestibule, my thoughts transitioned from pondering my love life to apprehension. There had been a cloud hanging over me since we compiled the list of traits that the Blocker might destroy. Although I had pushed it to the recesses of my mind during dinner, it had grown darker, more ominous, more threatening in the few moments since I had left. Now, standing in the vestibule, I shivered despite the warmth. It was almost as if evil was hanging in the still air.
I turned and looked up the stairs. Maybe I should go back and check that she was all right. But that was ridiculous. I had just left her.
I cracked the front door of her building and looked out at the street. As before, the sidewalks were full of people, many walking dogs or just out for a stroll. No one seemed out of place. I stepped outside and checked the parked cars. They were the typical collection of coupes and sedans, pickups and SUVs. And none of the SUVs were the mysterious black one I had seen near my home. It all seemed calm, normal, routine. Even the street was empty, except for one white, panel van making the turn at the far end of the block.
PART 3. Convergence
Tuesday, August 25, 9:37 AM
I arrived at my office late, largely because I needed a six-mile run to burn off the effects of the previous day. The light on my phone was blinking. I had two messages and hit the button to play the first even before sitting down.
“Hi, Sam, it’s Nicole. I wanted to say thanks again for seeing me home and for dinner. I enjoyed it.” There was a long pause. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but I’ll be working at my building today. Probably from now on, actually. I’ll coordinate with Sue on the final report, but my management wants to…well, to get a proposal together for us to study the Blocker electronics. I wish we didn’t have to go on alone, but with only the specs, there’s no other choice. Anyway, let’s talk later.”
I dropped into my chair. Her company would be a shoo-in to win with what Nicole knew about the Blocker. I could almost see the coming press release that would put Nicole dead-center in a murderer’s sights…if there was such a person.
I played the second message.
“Doc, this is Jon Huston. We found the study data.” Jon was generally upbeat, but his words were bursting with energy. He paused a moment, probably pulling the handset from his mouth, because I heard a muted chuckle.
“I could take credit for diligently scouring the building for your files, and if anyone asks, that’s exactly what I’m saying. But in truth, the grad students cleaning the basement found them. I checked and they seem complete. I’ve had everything copied, so call me and we can arrange a transfer.”
He paused a moment, sighed, then continued more somberly. “I also wanted to apologize for the delay…and your wasted effort. The search you did had to be frustrating. As to why all this stuff was in the basement, I haven’t a clue. Anyway, call and we’ll get you everything you need. Bye.”
I listened to the message twice…and then a third time, just to make sure I had heard right. Then, I called Nicole to let her know. Ken probably wouldn’t have approved of calling a subcontractor before you told your own management, but I really wanted to give her the news. When she didn’t answer, I left a message, breaking my own rule never to miss a chance to talk to her directly. But in this case, she and her company were wasting time on a proposal that was unnecessary.
Then, I told Ken. He responded in his normal, positive yet directive style. “That’s great, Doc. Just keep out of WHT’s workplace games and I know you’ll turn out a great product for the VA.” At least I was back to being Doc in his mind.
I walked by Sue’s desk. “Oh, my god,” she said as I approached. “Huston found the data.”
“I’m that easy to read?” I asked, grinning at her.
“It’s either that or you got lucky last night…and I’ve already talked to Nicole this morning.”
“Yeah, it’s the data,” I replied, my smile dimming but not disappearing. The news was too good for that. “I’m going to call Huston, set up a time to pick up the files this afternoon. I suggested to Nicole that she come over tomorrow at 9:30. That work for you?”
“Sure,” she replied.
“Great. See you tomorrow.”
Tuesday, August 25, 10:43 AM
A smile spread over the Experimenter’s face, as he watched Subject 4 toiling away inside the chamber. It was much the same look a farmer might give his prize-winning hog at the state fair, because he owned the man now that his resistance was gone. And soon, he’d own his mind too.
So, with the computer-controlled equipment running smoothly, there was nothing to hold his attention inside the chamber. He turned his thoughts to Price, Jordan, and Veles – a vision that erased the smile and left his features in a glare. A solution to the problem they posed was proving illusive.
The best option for Price – catch him on one of his morning jogs – hadn’t worked out yet. The Experimenter had watched the lonely stretch of trail through the park this morning, but the man had either skipped his workout or had gone elsewhere. Although he felt certain Price would reuse the route eventually, every day brought his foe closer to the truth.
Then, there was the second option – incapacitate both Price and Veles, if they returned to her apartment together. The question was, how? Two Tasers was the obvious choice, but he’d seen that approach fail already. In addition to the risk from the fall, he’d also have to monitor the second person while he restrained the first, lest he or she recover and attack him. The tactic was viable, but chancy.
Drugging them with food or drink had seemed a possibility, but assuring that both had partaken was an issue. He’d also considered using some type of sedating gas – it always worked in the movies. But calculating the correct amount when he’d have to estimate the dimensions of the apartment and transporting it to the building unseen made the alternative problematic.
The Experimenter was stymied and he could feel his enemie
s closing in. Worse yet, his sources of information on them were limited – what he could see on the street and his cameras at the WHT building. At least he would know if they were meeting with Huston.
He pulled up the video clips from Monday.
“What the hell?” the Experimenter asked the empty room. The files from the basement were usually small, containing one or two visits in most cases. But today, they were massive, as if the motion-activated camera was running continuously. When he looked at the first file, he realized that it had been.
Four young people – probably students – armed with a laptop, empty file folders, markers, and index cards entered the WHT storage area. In a far corner, they located two boxes of Worthington’s notes, just like the ones he’d seen Scott deliver to the building a few days earlier. He shook his head, wondering how the man ever expected to find anything in this mire of paper. Two of the students left with their find, most likely to deliver them to Huston.
Then, the students started unloading the file cabinets, examining each folder, and entering information into the computer. Their task was apparent; it’s relevance to him seemed dubious. The slight pang in the stump of his left, little finger, however, reminded him to keep watching. After a while, he doubled the replay speed; the pain was unchanged. Then, he increased it to four times normal, and the twinge in his hand stayed the same. Even the missing appendage must have questioned the need to obsess over their actions.
But when the time stamp on the video reached 16:52, something caught his eye. He paused the clip and moved back to the crucial moment. There it was. One of the students was holding an external disk drive. The initials A.T. were written on the side.
It was the study data.
The Experimenter pulled up the video clips from the second-floor landing and fast-forwarded to 16:52. After a few moments, he saw the same student carrying the drive upstairs. Unfortunately, the piece of computer equipment was far enough from the norm that he thought Huston needed to see it.
The Experimenter pushed back from his desk and tented his fingers in front of his face. Worthington must have put the drive and the rest of the study data in the basement. But why? Perhaps he was concerned about their security, about the insights they held? Maybe he had put them there temporarily, using the basement as a staging area before moving the precious files to his home?
“Or maybe he just ran out of room in his office with all the crap he was generating,” said the Experimenter aloud, smiling at the thought.
But the humor drained from his being as quickly as it had come. Did this mean that Price, Jordan, and Veles had nothing before? That they had kept the VA interested with fantasies and promises? That they were just hoping to find the files…and now they had?
He could have had those data, if he had only known, and now, the turn of events was too cruel. He felt his instinctual rage creeping back into the corners of his mind. His vision dimmed. His heart started to pound, but he pushed his anger down.
He loathed the idea, but he would have to pause Subject 4’s work. He needed time with the Blocker. He needed a better plan, because his adversaries had to be stopped. Of course, the VA would replace them, but a delay of a few months, even a few weeks would make all the difference.
Because soon, his mind would be immortal, living on in whatever body he chose.
Wednesday, August 26, 6:11 AM
I stepped out of the front door of my apartment building and raised both fists over my head in a victory gesture, the exhilaration from a new beginning washing over me. Something about being on the verge of closing shop and then, getting an eleventh-hour reprieve made much of what had happened before seem surreal, almost like a dream. But I knew it wasn’t, and to think that way was risky. I checked the street.
The sun wouldn’t rise for another 15 minutes, but the dim rays of the morning twilight showed only vacant streets and sidewalks. Whether the parked cars were also unoccupied was more difficult to tell, but those nearby were empty. I’d just have to watch the others as I approached – something I did anyway to avoid crashing into a door thrown open in my path.
I started jogging slowly up the street when a woman I recognized – a fellow jogger with a husband and a couple of children – came out. She trotted down the steps of her building, then walked over to the ominous, black SUV I had spotted several days earlier. She started stretching, using it for balance. Then, she took a key from her pocket and opened the back.
The mystery was solved. Apparently, the vehicle didn’t belong to A.T…or even the FBI.
“Morning,” I said when I passed her. She was wrestling with a box, looking none too happy.
“You too,” she replied. It was the longest conversation we had ever shared.
I always decide where to run after I start, and since this morning felt special, I picked one of my favorite routes. I liked it for its calm peacefulness, a textbook setting for clearing my head before a day at work. In moments, I was on ‘automatic pilot,’ making twists and turns I had completed dozens of times in the past and thinking about Worthington’s files.
Ned had done well.
I stumbled, then almost laughed aloud when the thought struck. Not only had I showed Worthington some begrudging admiration, I had even used his first name. But I had come to believe Scott and Huston when they said he had been a decent man and a good researcher. And his organization of the data was consistent with that view. It was simple, yet thorough.
My first discovery in the files from Huston had been a short paper that described the study’s methods. Random strings of digits of varying lengths had been stored as text on the computer, and then converted to voice using a text-to-speech application. This approach meant that all the numbers would be presented with the same tone and at precisely the same speed. After they were given, A.T. typed what he could recall of the sequence on a keyboard, and the accuracy and the speed of his response was recorded.
Those data were contained on a large-capacity, disk drive, one record for each trial. The written documents were neatly organized in boxes by date, with color-coded folders to indicate their type – either data from the Beck Anxiety Inventory or from the observation period.
The sound of a car horn intruded on my thoughts. Here, my route took me next to a busy highway; it was the only part of this jaunt that was less than ideal. I glanced at the scene.
Cars were bumper to bumper. The day was dawning with a steel-gray sky that promised humidity, but probably not rain. I was smiling anyway, because I was looking forward to discovering patterns in these data. I suspected that if I approached a hundred of the drivers out there on the road and told them of the simple elegance of Worthington’s files and my plans for them, none would share my feelings. Most would probably run…even if they had to speed away on the shoulder.
But Sue would appreciate our opportunity and Nicole might be curious, because we’d be able to infer much about how A.T. was thinking from these few pieces of data. And that thought invigorated me.
✽ ✽ ✽
The Experimenter slapped a mosquito on his neck, then peered through the brush to the path that ran near his hiding spot. No one was in sight. No one would have heard him.
It was his fourth day watching this stretch of the jogging path, waiting for Price to appear. He didn’t mind…well, except for the bugs. But it was well worth the inconvenience if he could get rid of Price and obtain Subject 5 at the same time.
He had taken a position about midway through the secluded section of the trail, giving himself about two to three seconds before someone entering the trees would be directly in front of him and another two to three seconds before they exited on the other side. After that, the trail curved sharply and he would lose sight of his prey. But that was enough. He had even practiced the maneuver a few times. Observe Price entering. Step out just as he passes. Level the Taser. Fire. Remove the body.
It would all be over in less than fifteen seconds, but he still ran a risk. Another jogger might enter the wood
s just as he squeezed the trigger. If that happened, he would kill Price. He carried a six-inch boning knife, honed to razor sharpness for that exact purpose. He also had a towel and a change of clothes hidden deeper in the brush, along his planned escape route.
Today had been quiet. There were few people out jogging. Perhaps it was the gloomy, humid morning. The Experimenter raised to a crouching position. It was the best he could do to keep the circulation going in his legs. He sat back down. A couple of joggers entered the area from the east. The woman was talking about a new pair of running shoes she wanted to buy. The man looked bored. They passed by like everyone else – oblivious to his presence.
The Experimenter watched them leave to the west, his gaze lingering there for a moment in case someone entered. No one did. He looked back to the east, holding the scene for a few moments. He panned back to the west.
Someone was coming. It was Price. The Experimenter’s heart sped up. His breathing deepened. His muscles quivered in anticipation.
As he watched Price approach, a tone came from his direction. A phone? Did the man really carry a phone when he jogged? The Experimenter stared in disbelief as Price stopped, pulled the device from his pocket, and started talking.
Price turned, but not to flee. He was pacing, the way people do when they’re on a call. He was out of range of the Taser, but not by much. The Experimenter stood and climbed onto the path. He took a step toward Price, but the man continued to wander away. The Experimenter increased his speed, starting to close the gap.
Price stopped, then laughed at something that was said. He started to turn. The Experimenter was at the limit of the range of the Taser. If he shot now and missed, Price would be able to identify him. He might even attack.
The Experimenter turned and walked slowly away. He considered looking back, but didn’t know which way Price was facing. He continued along the path. Once he cleared the trees, he stepped back into the edge of the woods. Concealment here was not as good, but it would do.
Of Half a Mind Page 21