Undetectable (Great Minds Thriller)

by M. C. Soutter

  Kevin felt the energy from a moment ago run out of him in a sickening rush. He sagged in his chair. His mouth hung open, frozen in the middle of starting a conversation that had never happened. He turned to Jean with a helpless, questioning look.

  Jean, who had witnessed this two-second scene of rejection unfold, looked back at Kevin with evident discomfort. The discomfort of one who has to say something both unpleasant and, even worse, true. He leaned forward. “Here’s the problem,” Jean said, his voice low and embarrassed. “You actually don’t smell that good today. Do you need a doctor or something?”

  Kevin felt his face go hot. Of all the strange and frightening things that he had endured over the last three days, this was easily the worst. I showered this morning, he wanted to shout. I put on deodorant and I shaved and I brushed my teeth. He felt as if he were silently protesting to the ghost of his own mother, who would surely be standing over him with a wagging finger and a disapproving expression right now. And I didn’t even feel like doing any of that stuff, he wanted to add. I’m exhausted. I deserve some credit for cleaning myself. For toweling off. For putting on pants without falling down. All those things are way, way harder than you people think.

  Jean, meanwhile, continued to look at Kevin with a disturbing combination of pity, sympathy, and poorly concealed disgust. The list of personality traits that Jean Lengard was willing to look past in a potential friend was long and varied, but poor hygiene was decidedly not on that list. He seemed on the verge of telling Kevin to go take a bath. Or to go stand in front of a powerful hose, if necessary.

  The two of them were spared any more indignity by the sudden presence of Principal Stewart, who appeared at Kevin’s side as quickly and silently as Emily had left it. She was there. And then she was sitting next to him. And then leaning over and talking to him in a low voice, the same voice that everyone seemed to be using with Kevin today.

  “Take the afternoon,” Ms. Stewart said. Unlike Danny or Anselm or even Jean, Ms. Stewart did not use a tone of voice to imply suggestion. There was only firm and unquestionable authority. The concern was there, yes. But concern was the dressing, not the meat. “Take the rest of the day and go see a doctor,” she said. “And then get some rest. Take tomorrow too, if you need it.”

  Kevin was about to protest, was about to try smiling and lying and saying that no such thing was necessary, but the principal cut him off with a little shake of her head. “You can take your baked potato with you,” she added. A ridiculous idea, and Kevin had a brief image of himself walking along the sidewalk, biting into a large potato as if it were an apple. But the point Ms. Stewart was making was clear, shining through the hard light coming from her eyes.

  Leave right now. Go get your shit together. You’re embarrassing yourself and everyone around you.

  Kevin nodded. He gave Jean a glance that he hoped conveyed some measure of apology, and he stood carefully, trying not to let the principal or anyone else see how difficult the process of standing had suddenly become. Then he walked stiffly out of the cafeteria, to the stairs that led to the exit.

  When he was gone, Jean Lengard let out a little breath of air. Ms. Stewart returned to her table, back to her lunch. Jean took another moment before picking up his fork to begin eating again. He was hoping to let some of the smell clear the area first.

  “Lord,” he said quietly, to no one.

  He Needed Help

  Kevin stumbled outside into the light, his hands out in front of him as if he were trying to walk a tightrope. He forced himself to stop, to plant his feet and look at a fixed, steady point on the wall of the building across the street. He took a breath. Let it out slowly. Took in another, but only through his nose this time.

  I smell.

  He couldn’t smell it himself – body odor or the ammonia of old sweat or his feet or whatever it was – which made it worse. He was like a kid with a kick-me sign on his back, oblivious to the joke being played on him. The indignity of actually being repellant, of being gross, was especially upsetting, and how would he know when he had solved the problem? Whom would he ask?

  Andrew, come over here. Get a whiff of this. What do you think?

  Also, what was the range of this thing? Were people on the other side of the street being forced to endure his stench? He looked around wildly, half-expecting to see passersby scattering from his vicinity in a panic, waving their arms and sprinting away like soldiers running from a live grenade. But there was no one else on the sidewalk, no one even on the entire block except for a few painters shuffling supplies between two white vans. If they noticed Kevin’s smell, they certainly weren’t showing it. Then again, maybe their noses were fried from inhaling paint fumes all day long.

  “I really do need a doctor,” he said out loud, to the street and to the parked cars. He took that fancy cellphone out of his pocket and turned it on. Then he stopped and considered.

  I have no idea where to start.

  It had been years since he had been to a doctor. There were surely hundreds, probably thousands of primary-care physicians in New York City. But how did you find one from scratch?

  I’ll call Lennox Hill, he decided. If they didn’t do check-ups at the hospital, then someone there would at least be able to point him in the right direction. He pulled up the keypad on the phone, and he was about to dial information when something occurred to him.

  He switched to the home screen, pushed the “Contacts” tile, and the list popped up. There it was: “Doctor,” a contact entry so impossibly vague as to be essentially useless. Kevin pushed the listing and held the phone up.

  “Yes?”

  Startled, he took the phone away from his head for a moment. The pick-up had come at once, even before the sound of ringing from the other end. He held it to his ear again. “Hello?”

  “Yes?” It was a man’s voice. Calm and patient. Ready.

  “Hi,” Kevin said uncertainly. “My name is Kevin Brooks. I need, uh…”

  What, exactly? Well for starters: a cure for three months’ worth of amnesia, a watch that works no matter what, some industrial-strength sleeping pills, and a stick of weapons-grade deodorant.

  “A checkup,” he managed to say.

  “Fine,” said the voice. “Today?”

  “Oh,” Kevin said, startled again. He had expected to be told to come in next month sometime. “That would be great.”

  “When can you be here? Half an hour?”

  “Sure. Thank you. Wow, that’s… wait, where are you?”

  “64th between Park and Lexington. 136. First floor. The doorman will show you.”

  “Okay. And should I – ”

  But the voice was gone. Kevin looked at the phone. The call had ended.

  What just happened?

  He had made an appointment for a checkup, apparently. But he still didn’t know the doctor’s name. And what kind of doctor was willing to make a same-day appointment? A same-hour appointment?

  Maybe somewhere in the Midwest, somewhere with a population density that was offset by great swaths of prairies and plains, by fields of corn and by herds of cattle and sheep. But not in Manhattan.

  And who had put that contact in his cell phone in the first place?

  Maybe it was me. I hired Andrew, didn’t I? And he’s been working out all right so far.

  He stood there in the middle of the street for a minute, watching the painters loading and unloading their vans. His decision process didn’t take long.

  I don’t have any choice.

  He needed help. Immediately. It had been less than three days, and he was going insane. He was falling apart. Mentally and physically. He wouldn’t make it another day on his own.

  He began walking, slowly and carefully, in the direction of the doctor’s office. It was only eight blocks away. “This had better be a pretty good doctor,” he said to the ground. And to his feet, which were moving with agonizing slowness.

  The three painters, nearly finished loading up their tools and supp
lies into the white vans for the day, spared a glance for the large, stooped-over man who went shuffling past them. He was young and strong-looking, this man. And yet he seemed injured. Or drugged. He seemed barely able to walk. His breathing was labored, and he was muttering to himself.

  “Only in the city,” one of them said under his breath, after the big man had passed by.

  The Syringe Was In His Neck

  After what seemed like an eternity of walking, Kevin made it to 64th street. He was proud of himself.

  He came to the awning marked 136, and if he had had the strength he would have put his head back and yodeled in self-congratulation. The doorman opened the door, took one look at him, and pointed wordlessly to a door ten feet away, just across the main lobby.

  It was a chasm to Kevin Brooks, but he would cross it.

  He made it to the door, and then he managed to summon the strength to knock. The door opened, and there was the doctor. He was dressed in the standard white coat, a stethoscope draped over his neck in the classic boa style. He stepped back to let Kevin in, pulling him gently toward him and inside like a father welcoming a wounded, long lost son.

  Kevin saw the flash of something sharp, a tiny needle in the doctor’s hand, and before he had the chance to even open his mouth in protest the syringe was in his neck. He barely felt it go in. Then the doctor pulled the needle back, and now he was holding Kevin under the arms, holding him gently, supporting his weight, saying nothing.

  Waiting.

  A surge of clarity. Of strength and life and light.

  Kevin stood back quickly. Stood up. “What was that?” he said, his fear and energy rising like the mercury in a superheated thermometer. “What did you just do to me?”

  “That’s more like it,” the doctor said, assessing Kevin with a critical eye. He looked him up and down as though checking for cuts and bruises. He seemed pleased. “Better now?”

  “Better?” Kevin was flabbergasted. “You can’t just stick someone with a needle, you can’t – ”

  But then he stopped himself. He was aware, even as he was speaking, of the silly, petulant sound of his own voice. He took a breath and felt his legs underneath him. They were supporting him perfectly well. Naturally. As they were supposed to do. The doctor regarded him calmly. Still with that critical eye, and still looking pleased. “Thank you,” Kevin said finally.

  “Your welcome,” the doctor said. “Now, let’s get to it.”

  Doctor Petak

  “Who are you?” Kevin asked. He was still feeling uneasy. This man had helped him, that much was undeniable. But he was not accustomed to having strange people stick him in the neck with needles. Then again, he was accustomed to nothing that had been going on for the last three days.

  “I’m your doctor,” the man said, extending a hand. “Dr. Petak.”

  Kevin shook his hand, grateful again for the strength that had somehow returned to him. He was able to stand up straight, to shake with a firm grip. And to think with some measure of clarity.

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.”

  “What did you give me?”

  Petak shook his head. “Nothing you’ve heard of.”

  “I’d still like to know.”

  “It was a combination of things, actually.”

  “What things?”

  The doctor sighed. “Illegal things, Mr. Brooks. Things that will get you through the next few hours. Things you don’t want to know you’ve taken, in case anyone asks you later on.”

  Kevin looked around him, at the little room that seemed to be Petak’s waiting area. Then he looked over Petak’s shoulder as if scanning for hidden cameras. “What are you talking about? Who’s going to ask me?”

  “No one. I’m only being cautious. Let’s go into the examination room, shall we?”

  “Why?”

  The doctor opened his hands, and he gave Kevin a pleading look. “Mr. Brooks, the standard practice is to conduct evaluations not in the waiting room, but in the place that contains actual diagnostic tools. Ophthalmoscope, tongue depressors, that sort of thing. We can proceed out here if you prefer, but in either case I will be able to accomplish nothing, nothing at all, if I don’t have your trust. Were it not for the injection I just gave you, I believe you would be down on my carpet at this moment. Probably unconscious, and possibly worse.”

  Kevin nodded silently. For the second time in less than five minutes, he was feeling like a spoiled little boy. “You’re right.”

  “Fine. So, in the office or on a couch?”

  “The office.”

  “After you, then.”

  They stepped into the examination room, which was completely unremarkable. It looked like every doctor’s office Kevin had ever been in. The padded table with the strip of sanitary paper pulled over it, the small tool chest with cotton swabs and a thermometer on top, the little wall rack with the stainless steel tools for checking eyes and ears and reflexes, and the other wall rack with the blood pressure cuff. “Okay, sit down,” Petak said. “Let’s have a look and a listen.”

  Kevin sat on the table, and Petak checked his eyes, his heart, his breathing, and his blood pressure. Petak was very quick; the entire process lasted less than a minute. “Fine,” he said, and took a step back. He squinted his eyes and peered at Kevin. “You look terrible, but you’re alive and still walking. Which is pretty good under the circumstances.”

  “What are my circumstances? What’s happening to me?”

  “Relax. That’s what we’re going to figure out. Tell me all your symptoms.”

  Kevin frowned. “You won’t believe me.”

  “Yes I will. Stop acting like a fool and just tell me.”

  “I can’t – ” Kevin stopped. He studied Petak’s face, which was still as calm and open as it had been since the first moment Kevin had arrived. There was nothing to suggest subterfuge about the man. No hint of guile, or even humor. He was a doctor, asking his patient to explain the problem. Kevin felt his shoulders go down an inch, and he exhaled. He discovered that even the prospect of telling someone about his situation made him feel better.

  “I haven’t slept in three days.”

  “Right,” Petak said, as if Kevin had told him he had a tickle in his throat. “Haven’t slept much, or not at all? This is important.”

  “Not at all. Not for one second since – ”

  Since what? Since waking up sitting at a desk in an empty classroom? Was I sleeping before that? I don’t know.

  “ – since Tuesday morning,” he finished.

  “Okay,” Petak said. “Keep going.”

  “I can’t remember anything that happened to me before this past Tuesday. For three months before that.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “Um. That’s pretty much it.”

  Petak opened his hands again, and his expression darkened. “Cut it out,” he said, and now there was a trace of annoyance in his voice. “What else?”

  Kevin hesitated. But then he seemed to realize that keeping silent was useless, and after another moment he gave up entirely. “I’m hearing voices,” he said. “I’m supposed to get ready for something. I’m supposed to be doing something.”

  Petak was nodding. “Good, okay. What else?”

  “Time stops every so often,” Kevin said. He figured he would keep spilling his guts until Petak gave him a skeptical look. But the doctor continued to look only mildly interested. Bored, even.

  Yes, many of my patients have complained about time stopping. It’s a bug that’s been going around. Make sure you get enough fluids.

  “Sometimes it only slows down,” Kevin added, trying to clarify. “But sometimes it honestly seems to come to a complete halt. Clocks stop moving. It’s driving me nuts.”

  “Right, what else?”

  Seriously? No questions about the time thing?

  Petak made a rolling, beckoning gesture. “Come on, what else?”

  Kevin considered. “On the plus side, I can read like
a machine. My memory for new information seems really good all of a sudden.”