by Dan Alatorre
The door to room 212 was closed when he reached it. He put his ear to the door frame. No noises came from inside. He glanced over both shoulders, wrapping his fingers around the doorknob and clutching it hard but turning it gently, so it wouldn’t make any noise when he turned it.
He pushed the door open an inch, peering inside.
The room was dark and still.
The mattress near the foot of the bed was bare except for a single sheet. The other sheets were piled to the side. No feet were visible. The top of the patient chart showed over the foot of the mattress, but there didn’t appear to be a patient in the room—from what he could see.
He pushed the door open a bit further, leaning forward as he looked around.
The bed was empty.
Not a problem, if she’s still in the hospital.
He walked to the end of the bed and pulled the chart, holding it sideways so the street lights from outside could cast enough light onto the file to make it readable.
The patient had been taken to X-ray.
He set the chart down, viewing the little room. Jaden Trinn would be back from getting her X-rays soon enough. Where would the best place be to wait for her? Not the nurses’ station. They didn’t know him there and he didn’t need more questions.
What about in the room? There was a small, wooden wardrobe. As long as Miss Trinn hadn’t brought a lot of clothes, he could fit inside and pop out after she fell asleep.
Or perhaps the men’s room. None of the nurses would go in there, and maintenance had likely finished their work for the night. Depending on where it was, he could peek in on his victim and commence his work when the time was right.
He peered out the door. The restrooms were less than fifty feet away.
Perfect.
He checked the room again. Simple mattress, sheets, pillows. The bed would be a cinch to get into, and once his victim was asleep, she’d be easy prey. A pillow over the face, a little applied body weight, some kicking and struggling . . . then, the gradual relaxation as the fight left the body and death stepped in—followed by the satisfaction of a job well done.
Nigel smiled.
A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt. Hawley’s would still be open afterward.
“There,” a woman said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Nigel crept to the door, leaning forward just enough for one eye to see a nurse pushing a woman in a wheelchair.
“The X-ray or the wheelchair ride?” the dark-haired patient said. “I can walk.”
“I’m sure, but you must let me do my job, miss.”
Nigel took a step back, his heart pounding. X-ray? This would be Jaden Trinn and her nurse, then. He looked again. The dim hallway showed enough of his intended victim’s face for him to conclude it was the same as the driver’s license Prenley had showed him.
Now, where to hide as she was delivered back to her room?
The wardrobe? Behind the door?
Either way, he’d have to be quick unless he wanted to take care of two victims—and the nurse would be much harder to explain.
His mind raced.
The wardrobe. Stay quiet until the nurse goes and Trinn is at rest. If discovered, bash the nurse in the face to knock her out, and get Trinn subdued and smothered as fast as possible. Stash the nurse outside with a half-burned cigarette and nobody’s the wiser. A victim of a random mugger, while upstairs her patient expired from her injuries.
He grabbed a knob on the wardrobe, pulling gently to avoid making any noise.
“Do you mind?” Trinn’s soft voice bounced off the empty hallway walls. “I’m not a fan of bedpans.”
“Oh, no bother, miss.”
Nigel stepped to the door. The women had stopped at the restrooms.
Trinn stood, opening the door to the ladies’ facilities. “I can manage.”
The nurse nodded. “I’ll be here. I still have to wheel you to your room when you’ve finished. Hospital rules.”
Nigel ran his fingers over his beard, considering a new plan.
Wait behind the door. They come back, the wheelchair comes in. Clobber the nurse, strangle the patient while she sits in the chair. A forearm lock—easy enough.
It’ll leave bruises, though.
He glanced at the wardrobe.
Might still be my best bet. Don’t want two victims when I only need one. Trinn will be asleep within the hour. I can wait.
A phone rang at the other end of the corridor. Nigel checked the hallway. The nurse walked toward the nurses’ station, disappearing around the corner.
Even better. Nip into the ladies’ loo and catch Miss Trinn as she comes out of the stall. Or even in the stall. Might even be able to use a pillow and hide any marks.
He grabbed a pillow off the hospital bed.
Might help keep things quieter, anyway.
And if the nurse comes in, deal with it. Might even help the cover story, her finding Trinn dead on the floor of the loo—as long as I’ve left the premises.
Which meant going now, before the nurse ended her call.
He stepped into the hallway, carrying the pillow.
The nurse’s conversation seemed to involve checking some records on the computer.
She’ll wait outside for Trinn to reappear, and when that doesn’t happen, she’ll come in to find her patient dead on the floor. If I can do the job before she finishes her chat, I’ll be home free. If not, I’ll hide in a stall until she comes in, then slip out after she runs to call for help.
He put a hand on the ladies’ room door, easing it open and stepping inside, the pillow clutched to his chest.
The sink area was empty. Bending down, he peered under the stall walls.
No legs.
Standing, he furrowed his brow.
The window at the end of the restroom was open, a gentle breeze blowing in. He walked toward it, opening each stall door as he did. There was no one in the restroom but him.
Lowering the pillow, he peered out the window.
A naked woman raced toward the row of small houses on the other side of the street, her dark hair bouncing over her shoulders. She slipped behind the first residence, grabbing clothes off the clothesline in the back yard, and disappeared into the darkness.
Nigel stuck his head out the window.
A gutter pipe ran along the side of the building. Halfway down, a hospital gown flapped in the breeze, stuck on a loose screw.
Chapter 14
The cap resembled an old football helmet from the 1920s—thick leather bands and a strap under the chin—but the wiring and large computer monitors gave the appearance of a makeshift television studio or computer lab. Three tables had been placed in a triangle around Keeper 27: one behind her, where her inquisitor Hollings could view the monitor placed on it; one behind him where she could see the monitor, and one on the side, near Kitt, with a larger monitor, so the others present could watch the interaction.
On all three, Helena’s face was displayed, the top of her head covered by the thick leather cap. Wires emerged from the side of the device, running across her shoulder and onto the floor, where they connected to several massive electronic components in beige metal housings.
A light sat on Hollings table, illuminating the old woman’s head and shoulders. Dr. Freeman sat next to the bandaged fat man, biting his nails one after the other as he hunched over a computer and adjusted the resolution feed for the monitors.
Freeman glanced at Hollings, his voice quivering. “H—Have you ever done one of these remotely before, sir?”
The end of Hollings’ cane whooshed through the air, slamming into Freeman’s back. “Shut up, you imbecile!”
Freeman cried out, freezing in place, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands hovering over his keyboard. Gasping, he resumed working, his eyes staying down.
Kitt cringed, wrapping her arms around herself and bringing her knees up. Helena sat still, unflinching.
“You can’t say nothing around the old woman.” Hollin
gs gritted his teeth. You can’t think nothing around her. We’re here to get information from her, not give it to her, and each question you ask . . .” He pointed at Helena and Kitt. “Offers a bit of the puzzle to them, don’t it?”
Freeman kept typing on the computer.
“Right,” Hollings said. “You sodding fool. Another peep and I’ll have these other lads take you outside and give you a proper thrashing. Just work the computer.” He returned his gaze to Helena. “Wakey, wakey, there, old girl. Time to get started.”
Helena stared straight ahead, her eyes focused on the wall behind Hollings.
Frowning, Hollings rubbed his chin. “Seems our sedatives have taken hold. Well, if everything’s all sorted, then let’s begin.”
Freeman put his hand on the mouse.
“Initiate the program, Doctor Freeman,” Hollings said.
Freeman clicked the mouse and lowered his hands to his sides.
On the monitor, the face of an old man with thick, white hair appeared. He peered down his nose through black framed glasses. Deep wrinkles etched the skin around his eyes.
Hollings looked at the screen. “Hello, Doctor Hauser.”
The old man on the screen looked at the questioner. “Hello, Mr. Hollings.” His gaze then went to Helena. “Hello, Keeper 27.”
Helena continued staring straight ahead.
“It’s the sedatives.” Freeman shook his head. “Doctor Hauser, I think they’ve—”
The end of Hollings’ cane whooshed through the air again and came crashing into Freeman’s back a second time. The thin man howled, scrunching his shoulders and bringing his hands to his chest.
From the screen, Dr. Hauser glared at Freeman.
“Sorry for the interruption, sir,” Hollings said. “We needed this dimwitted bloke for setup.”
Hauser eyed Kitt. She cringed. The words “facial recognition” flashed in the corner of the screen. Hauser nodded to her. “Good evening, Dr. Kittaleye.” The word “loading” flashed next.
Kitt shook her head, trembling. “What—what’s going on?”
“Djimoa Kittaleye.” Hauser’s gravelly voice came from the speakers on the table. “Born in Uganda, emigrated to the United States with parents Tinoa and Malo at age eleven. Early testing indicated a strong aptitude in science and a predilection for medicine, and your parents directed your studies accordingly. You received your BA and MD from New York University, and were most recently interning at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital, in Paris.” He raised his hands, tapping his fingers together. “And now you are here with us.”
“Why?” Kitt trembled. “Why am I here? What do you—”
“All in good time, Doctor. Perhaps if we begin with your friend, you will understand better.” His gaze went to Helena. “Keeper 27, would you be kind enough to explain?”
Helena did not move. Dr. Hauser narrowed his eyes and tipped his head back, peering down his nose at her.
“Please don’t—don’t hurt her.” Kitt swallowed hard, her hands shaking. “The sedative is obviously affecting her ability to respond.”
“Is it?” Hauser said. “Let us see. Mr. Hollings, put the neuroreceptor imagery on the screen for Doctor Kittaleye.”
Hauser’s image faded. The screen displayed a view of the front wall of the warehouse. The top of Freeman’s and Holling’s heads were visible at the bottom of the screen; the flatbed truck was off to the right side.
“Doctor Kittaleye,” Hauser said. “If you would turn Keeper 27’s head to the left, I believe all will be explained.”
Kitt stared at the screen.
Hollings looked at her. “Turn the old bird’s head, lass. You won’t hurt her.”
Kitt raised her hands, leaning over and putting her finger’s on Helena’s jaw and at the back of her head. The old woman’s skin was thin and soft, like warm rose petals. Kitt slowly rotated Helena’s head to the left.
The image on the screen moved to the left, displaying the dirty floor of the empty warehouse.
Kitt recoiled. “Is there a camera on the leather cap? Did you—”
“There is indeed a camera,” Hauser said. “The best camera ever designed—the human eye, in telescopic vision. Keeper 27’s eyes, to be precise.”
Kitt gazed at Helena, her mouth hanging open.
“We collect the electronic impulses from every neuron in the brain, presenting them here, on the screen, in a visual format much like we were seeing the things happen with our own eyes. We see what she sees, we recall what she recalls. We access that which her long-term memory has stored, and replay it the way she remembers it happening—and most of all, we can access her thoughts, in real time, before she has a chance to try to hide them. This information is interpreted and presented on the monitors in much the same way we would process it if we were receiving it ourselves—each of us, in our own heads—from her brainwaves. With this technology, we shall investigate the stores of information Keeper 27 had gathered. As we scan the levels, we can access that which she holds most precious and dear, as well as the things she wishes to keep from us.”
“That’s . . . not possible,” Kitt said. “How could you expect to—”
“We receive the neuroimpulses at almost the same time she does. The only difference is a slight delay as the transmission data travels through the wires and the computer’s processing system, approximately three nanoseconds.”
“But why would you want to do that? It seems . . . intrusive. A violation.”
“If you will indulge me, I shall answer with a demonstration. Doctor, suppose I ask you to not think of an elephant. What is the first thing you think of?”
“An . . . elephant.”
“Precisely. You instantly imagine it, though you were told not to. Perhaps your personal vision is of a cartoon elephant with a yellow blanket on its back and a basket for carrying riders. Before you can consciously push it from your mind’s eye, the image appears in your thoughts. It is an impulse you can neither resist nor prevent, and it happens instantaneously. An additional nanosecond might bring forward a childhood memory of a day at the zoo, handing an unshelled peanut to a slippery gray snout, that grasped it and tossed into the giant animal’s open mouth. If I were to ask a sixty-year-old woman where she hid her diary as a teenager, her neuroreceptors would bombard the screen with a visual of her teenage bed, the front corner under which she had hidden it. Before a subject can change their answer and lie, they have yielded the truth.”
“Now envision that technology as a scanning receiver and not a clumsy leather cap. A technology so sensitive it could pick up specific transmissions from a subject anywhere in the world, on any question desired, with no way for the subject to even be aware that anyone was asking. Wars would be prevented. The army with the technology would receive and understand the battle plan as it was being plotted—and have their answer ready before it ever deployed. Peace would be achieved before a single shot was ever fired. Cancerous cells would announce themselves and their locations. The stress of a looming aneurism would be broadcast to medical receptors and the patient invited in to have it dealt with before it ever happened.”
“And you are doing these things?”
“We are. We have. We were merely . . . interrupted for a time. But now we will re-engage in our pursuits—which will require all of our property be returned to us. For that, we require the assistance of the Keepers.”
The image of Dr. Hauser froze. The lights in the warehouse flickered, and the monitor flashed dark for a moment. The whirr from the computer fans slowed as clicking noises came from the back of the warehouse. As the fans engaged again, the monitor came back to life.
Hauser’s image emerged on the screen. “. . . property be returned to us. For that, we require the assistance of the Keepers.”
The image stopped, the words “initiate program” flashing over it.
“What’s happened?” Hollings gripped his cane and glared at Freeman. “What’ve you done now, you useless git?”
&nbs
p; “It’s the program,” Freeman said, typing frantically. “It’s locking up. We—we don’t seem to be drawing enough power in this old barn.”
Miss Franklin walked toward the vehicle. “There’s a generator in the ambulance. Runs on diesel. One sec and we’ll have it running.” She glanced at her helpers and snapped her fingers. “Boys?”
Rising from her chair, Kitt held her hands to her mouth. “He—he’s not real? I thought he was on camera somewhere, talking to me.”
“He’s real enough, lass,” Hollings said. “We’ll get a more stable power supply, and he’ll pick that old bird’s brain clean.”
“It’s . . . artificial intelligence?” Kitt inched toward the monitor. “A computer program?”
“It’s much more than that, Doctor. An entire human consciousness, downloaded into digital form. And not just any human, but one of the greatest minds to ever walk the earth. He wants his little girl back, and Keeper 27 is going to tell us where she is.”
“You called it ‘he.’ It’s a computer. The program glitched and it repeated itself.”
“No, lass. This here is just a tiny piece—a starter program. The real deal is elsewhere, stored on a series of mainframe computers, holding the conscious, digitized mind of Dr. Marcus Hauser. And he is every bit as alive as you or me.”
Chapter 15
As the generator hummed in the corner, Freeman restarted the program. The entire time, Helena hadn’t moved.
“That’s her game, the old witch.” Hollings frowned. “Trying to not be awake enough to give up the little girl.”
Kitt stared at her friend. “How?”
“We shall simply ask her.” Dr. Hauser’s face reappearing on the screen. “And as noted, before she can deceive us, the information we desire will generate through her white matter receptors, and we shall have it.”
Hollings rubbed his beard stubble. “Takes a bit of warming up, sometimes, young doctor. Not every subject is exactly forthcoming.”
The white-haired man on the screen looked at Helena. “What Mr. Hollings is implying is, some subjects resist the process in a variety of maneuvers. Eventually, however, we are able to run the maze, as it were. Keeper 27 shall prove no different.” He tilted his head back and peered down his nose. “If we can turn consciousness off, as we do with anesthesia for a patient undergoing a major surgical procedure, we can turn it on. It’s a process of engaging the right systems in the right order. And as we engage the desired systems, we simply bypass the ability to resist.”