Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller)

by M. C. Soutter

  Now he looked Kevin full in the face with an expression that allowed no disagreement.

  Kevin found himself nodding. Drunk or not, the man had a point.

  Right, Kevin thought. Right on.

  Her Strange Eyes

  He went home and showered and dressed quickly. When he emerged into the living room, Andrew appeared and offered a snack; Kevin turned him down. He also ignored Andrew’s pointed reminder that tonight was not Friday. Or Saturday.

  “Isn’t it a school night?” Andrew asked.

  “Go to bed,” Kevin said. “I might be out late.”

  Andrew pressed his lips together and said nothing. Kevin hurried out the door. He headed to Third Avenue and simply started walking; he found a spot just three blocks away, a little place on the corner of 63rd with a dark red marquee and metal tables and chairs outside. He stepped inside, parked himself on the first empty high-stool he could find at the bar, and ordered a beer.

  He caught a few glances, but he ignored them.

  Just taking a look at the new guy.

  Like many Manhattan bars and restaurants, this one was in full swing, crowded and alive and noisy, despite the day and the late hour. There were dark wooden tables and good chairs and sparkling rows of glasses and liquor bottles. Televisions were hung every few feet along the top of the walls, and the patrons were the standard upper-east side mix of bankers, salesmen, and, in the darker corners, career alcoholics like the one Kevin had saved half an hour ago.

  More glances now. From men and women alike. Was he dressed strangely? He looked behind him, wondering if people were staring at someone else. Or something else. Maybe a highlight reel, something on one of the televisions over his shoulder?

  No, it’s me. Something’s wrong.

  He drank his beer, ordered another, and tried to focus on the baseball game in progress on the screen closest to him. He finished his second beer and ordered a third, hoping that now he had been sitting here long enough to blend in. Not the new guy anymore. Three beers. Just one of the gang. Come here all the time, love this place.

  He glanced up and immediately caught another look from the woman sitting nearest him.

  Shit. What’s going on?

  The woman turned abruptly to face him. She was very pretty, with white-blond hair pulled tightly back on her head and smooth, pale skin that needed very little makeup. Her pinstriped shirt was an expensive kind Kevin recognized from his days working in hedge funds, a Thomas Pink with French cuffs and a tapered waist that showed off her narrow figure. The only problem was her eyes: they were jumpy and sleepy at the same time, shifting this way and that under heavy lids. Kevin supposed this expression was the result of a day’s worth of strong coffee competing with the half-dozen drinks she had probably consumed in the last two hours.

  Either way, she was feeling brave enough to try talking to the new guy.

  “You look different,” she said, thrusting her chin forward as though issuing a challenge.

  Kevin glanced down at himself, checking for stains or skewed pieces of clothing. Finding nothing, he looked back at her questioningly.

  She pointed at him with a perfectly manicured finger. “I mean you’re on a mission,” she said. “Big guy, all jazzed up and jumpy. Not like them,” she added, with a toss of her head to indicate the rest of the bar. “I work with those guys. Those bozos. They’re just here to take the edge off. Get loose, you know?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Kevin said. “Trying to wind down, relax.”

  The woman frowned. “Not doing a very good job. Look at you. Sitting on the edge of that stool like you’re ready to make a getaway. And drinking your beer like it’s a contest. You want to relax, then you better start relaxing, don’t you think?”

  Kevin smiled in spite of himself. She was right. He had never felt less relaxed in his life. He tried to change the subject. “You work at a bank?”

  “Obviously,” she said, with a little toss of her head. Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m good at it, too. Better than most of those chumps behind me. And I’m making great big garbage bags of money.”

  “Good for you.”

  She smiled to herself, nodded, and then fixed Kevin again with her strange eyes. “But where do you work? Not at a bank, right?” She tilted her head at him and squinted critically. “But maybe you used to. You get fired or something? Caught skimming, maybe. Insider stuff? How come you’re so on-edge?”

  “Just a lot on my mind. Stuff.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “It’s keeping me up, that’s what matters.” Now he leaned forward an inch and tried to change his tone slightly. “Do you sleep well at night?”

  She raised an eyebrow and waited a beat. “Sometimes,” she said slowly. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  She smiled sweetly, showing off a row of perfect white teeth. She put her drink down on the bar and made a show of smoothing out her already-smooth shirt. Then she took a little breath and looked up at him. She really was gorgeous, Kevin thought. Except for those weird eyes. “I’m sure I can show you,” she said.

  Woman In Repose

  He led her out of the bar and back to his apartment, her slim hand on his arm all the way. They walked without speaking, the only sound the click of her heels on the cement sidewalk. The doorman did not grin or wink or even seem to notice that Kevin had returned and-guest, but he was forced to step quickly out of the way as the girl stumbled over the threshold, the tip of her shoe catching the brass plate. If she had not been holding Kevin’s arm, she could have fallen flat on her face.

  She’s had more to drink than I thought.

  They came up to his apartment, and Kevin was momentarily worried about dealing with Andrew. He would have to contend with further disapproval from his assistant, not to mention ridicule from the girl at his having an assistant in the first place… but he was spared. Andrew did not appear. Because the man was psychic, Kevin reminded himself. Because he knew somehow that this was not the time to emerge.

  “Go get us something salty,” the girl whispered, lowering herself gently onto one of the large white couches in the living room. “And something to drink. Then I’ll show you how to get to sleep,” she added, her voice a silken purr. “The best way.”

  Kevin did as he was told, making his way back – finally – to his kitchen. It was as he had expected: huge, clean, and perfect. There was a stainless Subzero refrigerator at the far end, a large island in the middle, and a professional-grade range on one side. There were large, orange Spanish tiles covering the floor, and custom oak cabinets and drawers all along the walls and under the black granite countertops.

  I could be here all night looking for salty nuts and drinks.

  But it was the same as with the clothes in his drawer; he went to the cabinet where he would have put snacks himself, and they were there. Second shelf from the top, Planters Roasted Nuts. He grabbed them, made a stop at the refrigerator for two beers – of course they were there – and headed quickly back to the living room.

  The light was soft, and the room was completely quiet. Suddenly he was afraid that he had been gone too long. She had seen her chance, and it was enough. She was going through his things, she was robbing him, she was –

  She was fast asleep on the big white couch.

  Kevin cursed himself. Rookie mistake.

  Rule 4, sub-paragraph (b): a woman who has consumed two drinks or more must not be left alone on a soft couch for longer than thirty seconds. The couch is your rival, and she will give into it without a fight.

  He walked over and sat down heavily next to her. The pillows bumped at her arms, but she did not stir. Kevin sighed and opened the can of roasted nuts. He put the beers on a side table and began eating. The nuts were delicious. He turned to the girl as though they were two friends watching a football game, and he gave her an experimental tap – gently – on the leg with one hand.

  “Hello?”

  She drew he
r legs up closer to her chest, the good thin wool of her skirt whispering on the soft material of the couch cushions. She yawned contentedly. Then she was still again.

  Damn it.

  Kevin tossed another handful of nuts into his mouth and watched her for a moment, studying her as if she were a new species he had discovered. With her strange, glassy-but-focused eyes closed, she was now much prettier, and Kevin found himself suddenly envious. She had fallen asleep so easily, and now here she was, like something from a post-modern gallery. An exhibit on sleep.

  “Woman In Repose.” Flesh and cotton and wool and lace (probably). Copyright 2011. On loan from the Guggenheim collection.

  Kevin wondered what she had done that day – or that week – to make her this tired. Her breathing was impossibly slow and deep. He suspected he could have shouted at her with a bullhorn without her noticing. Not that this was a purely natural state, he reminded himself. Sleep this deep was surely the result of many, many drinks, and –

  He sat up quickly on the couch.

  Idiot.

  He got up and went straight to the front door, leaving the can of nuts on the front hall table. The elevator released him into the lobby, and he was jogging immediately. Out the door, back to Lexington, back to the little delicatessen with the wide yellow awning. And there was the wiry Latino man behind the counter, still reading the paper. As if he had not moved from this spot since the night before. Kevin headed for the back of the store.

  He found what he wanted and came to the front. The Latino man was still rocking back and forth, still shimmying his arms to the beat of the low-volume music coming from speakers hidden somewhere behind the counter. He looked up at Kevin, and after a moment he grinned, a little spark of recognition in his eyes. Kevin put the vodka bottle on the counter, and the man rang it up and put it in a paper bag.

  “Good night.”

  Kevin nodded and walked out.

  He was back in his apartment less than ten minutes after he had left. He went straight to his kitchen and found himself a tall glass, then opened the huge refrigerator. Not looking for beers this time.

  Jesus, look at all this food.

  He found a half-gallon carton of Tropicana, and then it was back to the living room with his glass and his bag and his juice. Then to the couch, where he sat down again next to the girl. She did not look as if she had moved one inch.

  “Miss me?” Kevin asked.

  He took the bottle out of the bag and lined it up on the coffee table beside the glass and the orange juice carton, as though preparing to mix a set of drinks for a party that was just about to begin.

  Another glance at the girl next to him.

  For the second time he felt a wave of envy pass through him as he watched her. All at once it seemed only natural: surely he could simply imitate her. He curled his legs up under him as best he could, put his arms up to his chest, and let himself lean over to one side. His head rested gently on the girl’s hip – not the perfect pillow, but good enough – and he closed his eyes.

  He waited.

  They lay there for a minute together, a 6-foot-3, 220-pound man in formal teacher’s clothes curled up and trying to mimic the form of a blond, overworked pixie passed out on his couch. The one was aware of the other and not the other way around, but there was, at least for a moment, an interlude of relative peace.

  The interlude passed quickly.

  Kevin could feel himself becoming aware of his pulse, of the movement of blood through his veins. The inactivity was having its usual effect, revving his system up when it should have been calming him down. In a minute he knew the voice would come to him, would start telling him he was supposed to be doing something, was supposed to be getting ready, and he didn’t want to wait for that.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. He reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and began mixing vodka with orange juice. A very little bit of orange juice.

  The first few swallows made him shiver, but after a minute he got used to it. On the second drink he mixed in even less juice, and by the third and fourth he was putting in only enough Tropicana to give the liquor a hint of color. Half a bottle of vodka seemed like plenty to start, so after the fifth tumbler he paused and sat back on the couch.

  Kevin’s stomach was full of salted peanuts and alcohol. Plus the three beers from the bar. A burp escaped him, and he groaned with relief. The girl beside him slept on, uncaring.

  Kevin closed his eyes and waited. Again.

  He was suddenly aware that his breathing had slowed dramatically, and he worried that the clocks might be betraying him again. But this time he was ready; he simply got up and walked to his bedroom, grabbed the remote, and turned on the gigantic television. It was still on the evangelism channel, but he didn’t care; he wouldn’t be watching for long.

  After fifteen minutes, though, he grew impatient.

  Half a bottle of Vodka. Come on.

  He walked back to the living room and sat down. The girl had begun to snore softly, as though mocking his inept attempts at sleep. Kevin suppressed an urge to drench her with the remaining contents of the Tropicana carton.

  I’m the one who should be passed out here.

  As if on cue, the room began to spin.

  It turned slowly at first. A subtle shifting of items moving left to right, as if he had gotten up too quickly. But it accelerated quickly. The bookshelf began to lean. Soon the entire room was moving around him with a rocking, surging rhythm that seemed to mirror the rhythm of his own heart. He rose unsteadily to his feet, both hands out for balance. He turned toward the kitchen and took a few shaky steps.

  Then he ran.

  His shoulder hit the doorframe as he was lurching into the kitchen, and the impact spun him around. For a moment he was sure he was not going to make it. But he pivoted neatly, completed the turn and continued forward, and he arrived at the sink with a half-second to spare.

  His stomach convulsed powerfully, and everything came up.

  When he was done, he ran the faucet and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. He leaned over to slurp water from the tap, rinsed and spat and then took a few slow swallows. Then he walked gingerly back to the living room. The half-empty vodka bottle still sat on the table, mocking him now along with the girl.

  “So it was a stupid idea,” Kevin said aloud, and he shrugged. “But look at her,” he added, nodding at the still blissfully unaware figure on his couch. “She’ll probably wake up tomorrow feeling great. Back to the routine. 5 AM jog followed by a fruit cup and oatmeal, then a large coffee and the paper, and she’ll be in the office with an hour to spare before the 8:30 conference call.”

  He groaned and dropped his head backward, staring up at the ceiling. It was bad enough that this girl was able to sleep so easily, so deeply; but the thought of waking her – of actually interrupting such a blessed state of obliviousness – was too much for Kevin to bear.

  An idea occurred to him.

  In a low, even tone of voice – as though he were simply talking to the girl, or to someone next to him – Kevin spoke to the ceiling.

  “Andrew, are you up?”

  There were no footsteps to be heard, but Kevin was aware of a gentle, periodic vibration beneath him. A moment later Andrew was there, standing at the entrance to the living room in his gray pants and his tucked-in black polo shirt. Arms at his sides. Ready.

  Kevin picked his head up and smiled. “This girl has had too much to drink.”

  “Evidently.”

  “Could you wake her gently – very gently – and get her a cab?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”

  “May I put away the vodka for the night?”

  “For good, I think. It doesn’t agree with me.”

  “Good night, Sir.”

  You’ve Got To Be Ready

  Kevin trudged back to his bedroom. He turned the television back on and slipped between the sheets, again adopting the pose of the slumbering gi
rl by bringing himself into a fetal position. But after a few seconds he decided that this arrangement was uncomfortable, and instead he spread himself out as far as he would go, making himself into Leonardo’s Vitruvian man.

  He thumbed the remote control until he came to a 24-hour shopping channel, and then he let his head fall back onto the pillow with relief. There were two middle-aged, heavily made-up women on the screen, and before them was a large table covered with camping gear. Neither woman seemed the type to want to head into the woods for any reason, let alone to go camping. But their enthusiasm remained high.