Mind's Eye

by Douglas E. Richards

  And it occurred to him that holing up here might not have been a great idea, anyway. Even if the men after him couldn’t identify Radich’s car from the road, they could well be able to track its location.

  “There is one thing you can do to help,” he said.

  Megan studied him expectantly.

  “Do you have a car?”

  She nodded. “It’s parked in the back lot. A yellow Ford Taurus.”

  “Would you mind if I borrowed it? The longer I stay here, the more dangerous. And they know the car I drove here in. But they won’t be looking for your Taurus. I just need to drive it somewhere else. Where I can go to ground for a while until the heat is off.”

  “You sound like a bad crime drama on TV.”

  “I feel like a bad crime drama on TV,” he replied.

  Hall reached into his pocket and handed her two twenties from the money he had taken from Baldino. “This should cover cab fare to retrieve your car. I’ll send you an e-mail telling you where I left it, and where I left the keys.” He paused. “Any other exit out to your car other than the main lobby?”

  “Yes. There’s an emergency exit. I can walk you there. If you stay close, I can make sure no one has a good view of the blood on your shirt. But it’s five, so we should wait a few more minutes. The emergency exit is a bit out of the way, so we probably wouldn’t run into anyone anyway. But just to be on the safe side . . . ”

  “Do most people leave right at five?”

  “A lot do. At least in this wing. It’s not that they’re lazy,” she hastened to explain. “Believe me, most of them put in sixty-hour weeks. But they can do their work anywhere. They just come here for the receptionist and trappings and to force themselves to get out of their pajamas. So they put in their extra hours at home. But on Fridays everyone wants to get a jump on the weekend, so they leave at five. Or even a few minutes earlier.”

  Hall nodded. He had had no idea it was Friday. He could have fished this information from anyone, but it hadn’t occurred to him to do so.

  Megan reached under the desk and grabbed her purse, a large, chestnut-colored soft-leather bag with silver accents. She opened it and pulled out a set of keys, removing her car key from a golden, heart-shaped ring and holding it out to him.

  “I do have two conditions,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “First, there’s a guy in an office four doors down named Kurt Schrom. I like him as a friend, but that’s all. He wants me to come with him on ski weekend, and swears he has nothing but platonic interest in me. Can you read in his mind if that’s true or not?”

  An impish grin came over Hall’s face. “It’s not,” he said.

  “Wow,” said Megan. “You can find his mind that quickly, and dig out this kind of information?”

  “No,” said Hall, the smile still on his face. “Didn’t need to. He’s a man. And I’ve met you. That’s all I need to know to answer the question.”

  Megan’s eyes danced in amusement, pleased by the compliment.

  “And the second condition?” asked Hall.

  “Once you elude all the bad guys and figure this out, you have to promise to let me be a part of it. Whatever it is.”

  “You got it,” he said, taking the proffered key and sliding it into his pants pocket. “But I think the odds are extremely long that I’ll survive. As near as I can tell, you’re the only one in Bakersfield not trying to kill me.”

  “I have every confidence in you. You woke up in a dumpster and there were several attempts on your life. And now, you’re about to leave here in a car, willingly loaned to you by someone who was a total stranger and thought you were a serial killer just a few minutes ago. Pretty impressive.”

  Hall shook his head. “I’ve been lucky, not good. ESP and internal Internet gives one some major advantages.”

  “You seem to have a certain quality, a certain resourcefulness, that has gotten you to this point,” she thought at him. “You’ll get through this. And when you do, remember your promise.”

  He sighed. He knew in his heart he would never see this bright, energetic girl again. He would die having an effective memory of less than a day. But why argue the point further?

  “Don’t worry, he broadcast to her. “This is one promise I’ll remember.” He paused. “And thanks for your help. You should have an e-mail with the location of your car within the hour.”

  8

  John Delamater bent over a black-and-white marble chessboard and studied a complex position from the recent world championships. Both sides had all of their pieces carefully deployed, and both were missing a rook, knight, bishop, and three pawns that had been traded in earlier exchanges. Each piece, from the queens down to the lowliest pawns, had been painstakingly positioned to maximize both their offensive and defensive capabilities.

  Delamater was a thin, olive-skinned man with black hair, dark, deep-set eyes that seemed too close together and too small, and a sharp nose. “Mate in seven from this position,” he announced to the muscular Russian approaching. “Dusek missed this in Helsinki and ended up losing the game.”

  Delamater motioned to a chair on the other side of the small oak table. “Sit down, Vasily,” he said.

  Vasily Chirkhoff did as requested. He was getting on in years, but you wouldn’t know it from his level of fitness or musculature. He had served in the Spetsnaz and then worked his way up the KGB. But political and social upheavals in Russia had seemed never-ending, and he had decided that being the alpha wolf in a country of wolves was still more challenging, and less rewarding, than being an alpha wolf among the sheep of America. He had come to the States ten years earlier and never looked back.

  Now he lived the life of decadent luxury. The food was better, the weather was better, and there were more entertainment choices; only the hookers were better in Russia, on average, but he had more than enough money to compensate for this shortcoming.

  The fact that his last name, Chirkhoff, sounded like the American slang, jerk off, had been pointed out to him on several occasions when he arrived, but never by someone who wasn’t tasting his own blood soon afterward. After he had been in the States six months, word had spread in the circles in which he traveled, and no one ever made this mistake again. Even so, he had made the decision his first year in America to introduce himself simply by his first name, Vasily, and after a while most people forgot he even had a last name. As his reputation grew, the name Vasily had become instantly identifiable to anyone who mattered, and he was no more in need of a last name than Moses, Plato, Rembrandt, or Elvis before him.

  He had a knack for languages and soon spoke English with great fluency, even able to impersonate a native American the way that American actors could pretend to speak with a pronounced Russian accent if the role so required. It wasn’t perfect, but native speakers just assumed he had an unplaceable accent from one of the fifty states.

  Delamater had hired him two years earlier to lead various teams of men, whose exact identities he was sometimes told, sometimes not, on various assignments. The pay was excellent, as was the quality of the support, so he was well-satisfied.

  Even so, he wasn’t sure how much longer he would stay in Delamater’s employ, although he expected that when the time came for divorce, it would be a messy one. The man was meticulous in ensuring all roads led to Vasily, and not to him. Only the Russian knew Delamater was pulling the strings. To anyone else, Delamater was a ghost—untraceable.

  And Delamater was more of a psychopath than he was. And that was saying something. Or maybe he was just insane. Although Delamater never discussed it, Vasily was certain his boss had been a chess prodigy and would have easily been an international grandmaster had he chosen to pursue the game.

  A framed poster hung over the chess table. The poster had a photo of a chessboard and pieces made of gold and silver, surrounded by famous chess quotes, such as, “When you see a good move, look for a better one,” a quote supposedly once uttered by the chess great, Emanuel Lasker. Vasily had no doubt that
Delamater’s favorites were the two quotes attributed to Bobby Fischer, the American. The first: “I like the moment when I break a man’s ego,” and the second: “Chess is war over the board. The object is to crush the opponent’s mind.”

  Vasily’s own favorite was from the Russian, Bogolyubov. He loved the playful arrogance behind it, which always made him smile. “When I have White, I win because I am white. When I have Black, I win because I am Bogolyubov.”

  Vasily stared at the exceedingly dangerous man across the small table. A man whom Vasily had come to respect for his brilliant, strategic mind. While brilliance in chess strategy often failed to translate into the real world, this was not the case with Delamater.

  But there was often a fine line between genius and insanity, which men like Bobbie Fischer, the Unabomber, and countless others throughout history had shown. Vasily sensed it was only a matter of time before Delamater crossed this line—if he hadn’t already.

  Delamater was kneading his temples and his mood seemed even darker than usual, as though he were ready to tear the heads off small animals with his bare hands. Or maybe with his teeth. His reputation for ruthlessness rivaled even that of Vasily’s, so the big Russian felt uncharacteristic tension whenever Delamater’s aura reached this level of chilling, black-hole darkness.

  “You’re making a rare personal visit, Vasily,” began his wiry boss. “So let me guess. Nick Hall is still alive.”

  Vasily nodded.

  “You backgrounded him. So I hold you personally responsible. What did you miss?”

  The big Russian shook his head. “I’ve spent the past hour checking my work. I didn’t miss anything. He’s a marine biology PhD. Period. No record of any military or other self-defense training. Never owned a gun. Was held up four years ago by a kid with a knife and didn’t resist.”

  Delamater glared at his guest with inhuman intensity. “And yet he’s gotten through a dense net of your hired hands.”

  “So far,” acknowledged Vasily.

  “And the latest?”

  “We had him dead to rights, but he slipped the noose. We no longer have a visual on him.”

  “Is he still driving Radich’s car?”

  “Yes. When last we saw him he was cutting across several lanes of traffic like a movie stunt-driver. Cassella got off a shot but didn’t stop him, and wasn’t in a position to pursue.”

  “If Hall’s in a car that’s known to us, explain to me why we need a visual.”

  Vasily returned his stare without blinking. “We’re close to having a GPS read on it, but we don’t have it yet. Soon, John. Very soon. Like most people in his line of work, Radich took great pains to make sure his car wasn’t easily traceable. But we’re close. Any minute.”

  “Close isn’t good enough,” spat Delamater through clenched teeth. “Hall could have easily ditched the car already.”

  “Yes. He could have. But he didn’t. Trust me.”

  “Why didn’t he? Because you think you know who he is? Haven’t you already learned that you don’t? Yes, if he was consistent with the picture you provided of a helpless marine biologist, you’d be right. He’d never consider the perils of driving Radich’s car, even if he thought he’d slipped cleanly through the pursuit. He wouldn’t know how to steal another. He’d be totally out of his element. But if he was the man you thought he was, he’d be dead already.”

  “His luck can’t hold forever.”

  “I don’t believe in luck.”

  “We’ll get him,” replied Vasily with absolute conviction.

  “See that you do. Soon. Offer an extra hundred grand on top of what you’ve already offered to the lucky man who kills him. If Hall manages to catch his breath and start talking, it would be very . . . inconvenient for me.”

  Vasily nodded solemnly. He was well-paid and well-treated. While Delamater lived sparsely like a monk, as far as Vasily could tell spending all his free time playing chess, Vasily lived like a king, with a huge house, indoor pool, and all the women he could want.

  But he had no doubt that any inconvenience felt by Delamater would be redirected his way, ten-fold. And that would be very, very bad.

  9

  Megan Emerson returned to her office with her mind spinning and her feet partially off the ground. Wow. Had that really happened? Had she really had a telepathic exchange with another human being? How freaky was that? And how electrifying.

  She was dying to share what had happened with someone, but she knew they would think she was nuts without Hall’s ability to demonstrate. He had also warned her that displaying public knowledge of him or his abilities was probably very bad for her health.

  But what had happened was just so fricking incredible. It almost seemed as though she must have imagined it all.

  She had moved from Los Angeles to Bakersfield only a few months earlier, determined to get a business off the ground and lured by the far better rents—both office and apartment. The cost of an office was still a stretch, but having clients come to such a nice facility gave her the air of professionalism that was important. She was branching out, determined to make this work.

  She had left a number of friends, as well as a past love interest, behind, and while she had kept her relationships alive with her friends, she had severed all ties with Darren Ortman. She had learned the hard way, her first year at UCLA, that a long-distance relationship—even if the distance could be covered in a few hours—could turn into a nightmare in a hurry, and she wasn’t about to make that mistake again. And they had been beginning to drift apart anyway.

  But starting with a clean slate was scary. And difficult. And although she loved the creative end of things, her social life was almost non-existent, and her life in general had become almost insufferably boring outside of work.

  Enter Nick Hall. Center stage. Unshaven. Hair in disarray. Wearing baggy clothes and a blood-stained shirt.

  Who could have known he’d be so intriguing? And alluring.

  When it came to hitting her buttons, he had achieved a perfect score. Injured and capable of bringing out her Florence Nightingale instincts. Check. Bright and obviously well-educated. Check. Often looking like a lost little boy because he had no idea who he was. Check. International man of mystery. Check. And fricking capable of reading minds and surfing the fricking web in his fricking head. Check. And mate.

  Megan had wanted with every ounce of her soul to run off with him on a great adventure. But he had made a good point, and she wasn’t suicidal. Too bad, because unlike marriage, this was an adventure she was certain she wanted to undertake.

  Her parents had gone through a messy divorce, so she was jaded about people and relationships. She had often wondered if humans were even psychologically built for marriage. Yes, it was probably genetically ingrained in the species for people to mate up to help raise children, like those tuxedo-wearing Emperor penguins that were always the subject of documentaries.

  And maybe mating for life made sense in prehistoric times when many died before their kids were through puberty. She had never forgotten what she had learned in a history class at UCLA: that the average life expectancy in the Roman empire had been in the twenties, below the age at which the vast majority of people even married in today’s world. It was true that many Romans died during childhood, skewing the average lower, but still . . . Till death do us part seemed far more achievable when your death came in your twenties or thirties rather than at eighty.

  She was still young, but she was getting to the point at which she had to think about what course she wanted her life to take. She had become as morose as she could ever remember. Maybe the move to Bakersfield at this time in her life had affected her more than she thought. She hadn’t lost her memory like Hall, but she had severed a large part of her past life just as well.

  She had always been outgoing, but without question the move had dampened this personality trait. She knew she didn’t need a man for happiness, but she did need something. She lived alone. Yes, she had made a f
ew friends in her apartment complex and had gone out dancing and to a few bars, but while she had been hit on a number of times, she hadn’t found anyone she really liked. She was about to start online dating. Why not? Everyone was doing it these days, and if you went to bars, you couldn’t exactly complain about the quality, and motives, of the men you met there.

  In fact, she needed to stop going to bars for a more important reason: she had started drinking more than she should, probably to fill a void within. She had to get this under control. She had always been the kind of person that the expression, “high on life” was made for, stupid as it was. So why did she seem to need alcohol lately for this purpose?

  She frowned as she thought about it. Maybe she should have insisted on helping Nick Hall anyway. You only go around once in life. In addition to the mystery of the man and the many silly romantic buttons he had pushed, there was something about his personality, beyond all of these other factors, that she had liked. A shyness. A vulnerability. An intelligence.

  On the other hand, who knew what amnesia did to a personality? Hard to be overbearing when you were so confused. Maybe he was a total jackass when he remembered who he was. Maybe he was in a hot-and-heavy relationship. But even if he did turn out to be taken, or a total jerk, it didn’t matter. Even if she had no interest in him, it didn’t matter. Because telepathy was awesome. Beyond awesome. Talk about adding spice to your perspective. She would kill to be a part of whatever he was involved in.

  She just wasn’t quite ready to die for it.

  He had agreed to come back for her when he learned more about who he was, and what he was up against. Even so, she knew the chances she would ever see him again were small. The e-mail message he would be sending soon, telling her where to retrieve her car, would most likely be the last she would ever hear from him.

  Megan leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, replaying her encounter with the homeless-looking man who had burst into her office. Replaying their telepathic communications with each other.