[2013] Flash

by Tim Tigner

  “Is that range related to dendrite maturation?” Troy asked.

  “Right. Dendrites, like roots, grow thicker with age and thus less vulnerable. Perhaps that’s why Alzheimer’s patients tend to lose their earliest memories last.”

  With a sinking feeling in his gut, Troy asked, “What, exactly, happens when 456 is activated?”

  “The UV-C fluoresces the 456, causing it to emit heat that cooks the dendrites. The higher the wavelength, the greater the heat, the thicker the dendrites it destroys.”

  Hearing those words, Troy collapsed backwards onto the couch.

  Emmy looked over at him, panic in her eyes. “What is it?”

  Troy shook his head. “If what he says is true—and I have no doubt that it is, from a medical perspective it makes too much sense—then there is almost no chance of ever getting our memories back. All links to them have been physically destroyed.

  “My family is gone forever.”

  Chapter 54

  Half

  “BACK TO THE BATTLE PLAN,” Arlen said, apparently having explored the biochemistry of 456 to his satisfaction. “Tell me more about the mechanics of memory wiping.”

  “It’s a two-phase process,” Luther replied, holding up one hand and then the other. “First, we inject the 456. Then we flash the target with UV-C.”

  “Tell me about the injection,” Arlen said. “How much is needed?”

  “Like cyanide, a little goes a long way. One milliliter is enough.”

  Arlen arched his aristocratic brows. “Great. So darts work, and you can use the old Cold War devices like injector rings and umbrella tips?”

  “We’ve used all of the above.”

  “Any special conditions? Does 456 have to be refrigerated?”

  “For storage, but not for use. It’s like insulin in that regard.”

  “Got it. How about timing? Any limits there?”

  “On both ends. It takes fifteen minutes to activate—to bind to the beta-amyloid-like peptide as I now understand. You have forty-eight hours from injection to expose the 456 to UV-C. After forty-eight hours, its bioavailability drops rapidly, depending on a person’s metabolism.”

  “Got it. Tell me, since the UV-C travels directly to the brain through the optic nerve, am I right in assuming that they have to be looking at the flasher when it happens?”

  “You are.”

  “How do you manage that?”

  “Simple. We usually imbed it in a camera flash. People tend to look at a camera when it’s pointed in their direction—it’s a subconscious reflex, if not a conscious one. And a camera provides perfect camouflage. The whole process looks as natural as can be—until the victim drops unconscious.”

  Arlen smiled. “Excellent. So once you’ve got the subject injected, it’s all downhill from there.”

  “You got it.”

  “And for how long does the procedure render the victim unconscious?”

  “Again it varies with metabolism. About three hours.”

  “Is there any way to tell if a person has been primed with 456?”

  “There is. If you look at him through lenses that filter out all light above and below the 300 nanometer range, his eyes will appear to glow with a violet tinge.”

  “Excellent,” Arlen said, sliding forward in his chair. “Okay, here’s my proposal, the good stuff, the moment you have been waiting for … I will pay you half your fee once you present me with an acceptable plan to flash all nine Supreme Court Justices. Then I will—”

  “Hold on!” Luther interrupted. “You said earlier that you brought me a check.”

  “A figure of speech,” Arlen said, splaying his hands. “As I was saying, I will pay you two hundred and fifty million dollars upon approving your detailed plan, and then the balance—we’ll make that an even three hundred million after I verify that you have injected all nine justices with 456. That way you can be ready to disappear the moment you flash them.”

  Luther considered the proposal. He could try to insist on immediate payment of the first half, but what would be the point? It shouldn’t take him more than a week or two to come up with an acceptable plan—assuming the task was possible. The only reason for insisting upon payment now would be to run off with the down payment if it wasn’t possible, and Arlen had no doubt thought of that.

  What if it wasn’t possible? Luther wondered, beginning to worry. Now that he had half-a-billion dollars dangling before him, the thought of losing them was unbearable. He could not let that happen. He would find a way. “Your terms are acceptable,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Arlen said. “But I’m not finished yet.”

  Luther felt his face going red and used his extended hand to reach for his espresso. “What else?”

  “Just one more thing, and I’m afraid that it is a deal breaker. Non-negotiable.”

  Luther nodded as his throat went dry, then took a sip of his drink.

  “Given the size and intensity of the investigation that we both expect, I am going to have to insist that you flash everyone involved in this and all your previous operations. The day after the justices go amnesic, you and I are to be the only two people on the planet who have a clue as to how it was done.”

  Finished and obviously pleased with himself, Arlen held out his hand to seal the deal.

  Luther tried to look taken aback, as though the thought of betraying his colleagues offended him. In truth, Farkas was the only person Luther had ever worked with, and it had always been Luther’s plan to flash him when all was done.

  With visions of private beaches and Playboy Bunnies and Jury screeching “It’s a deal” in the background, Luther took Arlen’s hand.

  Chapter 55

  Unhealthy Returns

  “SO WHO’S YOUR NEXT VICTIM?” Troy asked, resuming the interrogation without the benefit of having a human lie detector by his side.

  “I don’t know,” Farkas said.

  “Do I need the hammer?”

  Farkas’s expression remained calm, almost detached. “I’m supposed to fly to Boston when I’m done with you. Check into the Hyatt Regency and wait for an envelope. That’s how it always works. Usually a different city. Always a different hotel. Never any details in advance.”

  Troy was not happy with that response, but it sounded reasonable given what he knew of Luther’s operating style. He decided to stir the waters a bit to keep Farkas talking in the hope that something would slip out. “Don’t you ever stop to consider the big picture?”

  Farkas raised his bushy brows. “Big picture?”

  “You’re creating a world where one man can rob another of his mind.”

  Farkas shook his head and chuffed. “Samuel Colt created that world long ago.”

  “No. A bullet to the brain only keeps a man from moving forward. 456 reaches back in time to steal his past. You’re opening up a whole new dimension of destruction.”

  Emmy shouted down from the bridge before Farkas could retort. “Farkas lied. We aren’t en route to Jamaica. We’re headed back to Grand Cayman. He took us in a big circle.”

  Troy shouted, “I’ll be there in a minute” without taking his eyes off Farkas.

  “I already admitted that my real destination was a reef,” Farkas said. “You’ll forgive me if I didn’t point it out as we passed. I didn’t think that would be to my advantage.”

  It was Troy’s turn to chuff. He might well have been tempted to toss Farkas overboard if he’d seen a school of dorsal fins off the prow.

  Troy decided he had all the information he was likely to get, and in retrospect there was no sense discussing ethics with a man who had no soul.

  He reached forward to recheck Farkas’s bonds. The duct tape had bunched up a bit around the ends overnight, but it had yielded little to the Croatian’s best efforts at escape. Farkas may as well be in chains. “We’re going to leave you now.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Not quite.” Troy reached into a
drawer and withdrew Farkas’s modified camera and special UV-C filtering sunglasses. “I figured out how your neuron-frying system works. Now you’re going to learn how it feels. Got anything you want to get off your chest? Any message you’d like to leave for yourself?”

  Farkas eyed the camera for a long moment, and then looked up at Troy. “I had expected the sharks,” he said, his voice cool as glacial ice.

  Troy donned the sunglasses. “You deserve the sharks. As does your employer, and for that matter all the lawyers who pull tricks to set guilty clients free. But I’m not starting down that slippery slope. I’m not going to become like you.” He brought the camera to his eye and added, “That said, I will feed you to the sharks if you blink.”

  Farkas nodded his understanding, his approval.

  Troy paused with his finger on the button, and then lowered the camera. He confirmed for the third time that he had set the wavelength to erase four years according to the chart taped inside the back cover. “When you awake, you will have no recollection of compound 456, or Luther, or the lives you have ruined.”

  Farkas nodded stoically. “I suppose you think I should thank you.”

  Troy pressed the button.

  Farkas’s head jolted back as though shocked when the UV-C bathed his face. Then his eyes rolled back and closed and his body went limp as a wet noodle.

  “You’re damn right you should. Four destructive years. Dozens of damaged lives. And instead of paying for your crimes, you’re getting a clean conscience and a second chance. Make the most of it, you bastard.”

  Troy ran up the stairs without looking back.

  As soon as Emmy saw him she pointed to the navigational display. Troy saw the elf’s shoe silhouette of Grand Cayman dead ahead. They were actually coming at it from the northwest, whereas Jamaica was on the other side of the island, one hundred and eighty miles to the southeast.

  “So we lose half a day,” he said. “It could be worse.”

  “It is worse. We’re low on gas. We have no choice but to stop at Grand Cayman.”

  “You worried about the wanted posters?”

  “It’s more than that,” Emmy said. “I listened to the radio while you were below dealing with our friend. The whole island is looking for the Cop-Killing Couple. That’s what they’re calling us. No doubt they have our pictures—fresh color ones from the bank’s security cameras—decorating every gas pump on the island.”

  “Maybe we could siphon off another yacht’s gas.”

  “No good. They’re intercepting and searching all outgoing vessels. Once we enter port, that’s it.”

  “Can’t we make Little Cayman or Cayman Brac?”

  “They’re both ninety miles away. Out of range.”

  “So you’re suggesting that we dock and abandon the yacht?”

  “I don’t think we have a viable alternative.”

  “So be it.”

  “But what then?” Emmy asked. “How do we get to Miami with the whole island looking for us? I might be able to slip through the gauntlet disguised as a teenage boy, but not you. Those scars of yours are like bullseyes on your head—and I absolutely refuse to lose you.”

  Troy wrapped his arms around her. “So what’s new? Personally, I’m glad to be back in the game—so long as I’ve got you by my side. Besides, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 56

  Drama

  “DUDE, YOU’RE BURNING.”

  “It’s an experiment,” Troy replied without looking up. “Coppertone pays me to do this. You should talk to them. Easy money.”

  “No thanks, man. But you have yourself a ball.”

  With the whole island looking for his famous dimple and scars, Troy was hiding in plain site like an ostrich with his head in the sand. Emmy had left him on Seven-Mile and told him to burn.

  As the teenagers walked off down the beach, laughing among themselves, the sea breeze brought a familiar scent to his nose. A second later he heard, “This is going to hurt.” Then he felt an icy blade slip between his shoulder blades.

  Troy whipped his head around to see Emmy standing over him holding an inverted bottle of aloe vera. “I wasn’t finished,” she said. He saw her face crinkle and knew that she had winked behind her imitation Cartier sunglasses. He flipped back over and checked Ironman while she rubbed the freezing lotion into his scorched skin. She had been gone for over three hours.

  “How did it go at Tropical Towers? Did you get the car?”

  “I did,” Emmy said, finishing with his back. “I also picked up some children’s sunscreen for your face. It’s thick and white and will camouflage your scars.” She popped the top off a small tube and began dabbing lotion on his forehead as though she were finger painting. Satisfied, she moved on to his nose and ears. “It might look like a disguise if I only do your forehead. This way, you look more like a careless tourist.” She finished and said, “Those ripe shoulders of yours complete the picture nicely, so long as you have your shirt off.”

  “Aren’t you going to put any on my chin?”

  “Too conspicuous. But I picked you up this lovely cognac cigar.” She pulled a glass tube from her beach bag. The cigar inside was long and fat, and looked like it would burn for hours. Liberating the cigar, she popped it in his mouth and then stepped back to admire her creation. “Way too goofy to fit the cop-killer mold.”

  “Thanks. But this isn’t going to get me past the kind of serious check they’re bound to have at the airport.”

  “Sea port,” she corrected. “I picked us up a couple of cruise ship IDs. And probably not. My sunglasses won’t cut it either. That’s why our next stop is the Cayman Drama Society.”

  “Cruise ship IDs?”

  “They’re like electronic hotel keys, except that they have your name and cabin number printed on them. You use them for identification when embarking and disembarking.”

  “And you just picked them up?”

  “From a beach bag emblazoned with the Neptune cruise line logo. Now, get in the car.”

  Troy made the connection between the Cayman Drama Society and disguises as he hunkered down in the back seat. He closed his eyes as they drove, focusing on the hum of the Camry’s tires and shifting as necessary to keep his back out of the sun.

  Emmy turned on the radio and station surfed until she found news. The announcer was midway through a story about the impact of increased cruise ship traffic. Apparently, the island’s 9,200-person cap on cruise passengers was routinely exceeded, sometimes by as much as two hundred and fifty percent. The bumper crops of tourists were a boon to George Town’s working residents and business owners, but a bane to everyone else.

  “Back to the day’s top story. Sixty-two law enforcement officers from neighboring islands arrived on Grand Cayman this morning, volunteering their weekends to join in the hunt for the couple that brutally murdered two of their own. We advise all our listeners to be on the lookout for the unidentified pair, but not to approach them under any circumstances as they are considered extremely dangerous. He is Caucasian, approximately one hundred and eighty-five centimeters and ninety kilos, with dark hair, blue eyes, two v-shaped scars above his right eye, and a Kirk-Douglas dimple on his chin. She is around one hundred and sixty centimeters, forty-five kilos, with dark hair, fair skin and bright green eyes. Anyone—”

  Emmy turned off the radio. “We’re here. Just in time from the sound of things.”

  “Is it safe for me and my distinctively dimpled chin to emerge?” Troy asked, pulling Farkas’s Kangol cap low on his forehead.

  “Looks that way; I only see one other car, an old green pickup. The theater is sandwiched between a forest and a school, and it’s Saturday afternoon.”

  He got out and asked, “What exactly are you hoping to purloin?”

  “Heavy makeup, facial hair, tinted contact lenses. I figure that this is the best place on the island to get everything we need with minimal exposure.”

  “What technique do you have in mind?�
��

  “You’ll see.” She knocked on the right half of the double door. No answer. As she began a second round the left door swung out and a tall black man of some sixty years asked, “May I hep ya?” He had a mouth bursting with white teeth, friendly eyes, and wore navy coveralls that had seen no fewer than a thousand washings.

  “Hi. I’m Josephine Jamison. I’m a makeup artist at Universal Studios, Hollywood. I’m on vacation—here on a cruise—and I was hoping to talk some kind soul into showing me around your fine theater, particularly backstage.” She flashed a heart-stopping smile.

  “Well, I dunno how our li’l the-ater compares to what you got in Hollywood, but we’s mighty proud of it. Come on in, Miss Jamison.” He looked up at Troy. “Mista Jamison. Welcome. I’m William.”

  They stepped inside and the janitor secured the door. The theater was dark but for the light emanating from someplace backstage. The air smelled of freshly cut wood.

  “I’s been here since we opened back in eighty-seven. Know every inch of her, so I don’t really need the lights ‘cept where I’s workin’. I can turn them on for you though if you’d like?”

  “It’s really the backstage we’re interested in,” Emmy said. “Particularly your costume and wardrobe facilities. That’s my specialty.”

  “Right this way, ma’am. Right this way.”

  Troy had an uneasy feeling as he followed William back toward the source of the light. Emmy was good, but this struck him as too easy. Then again, he had not gone through life with a centerfold figure and a smile that opened doors.

  William led them down a passage to the right of the stage which turned into a wide hallway that ran behind it. The hallway was as tall as the stage itself, and full of tethered ropes and electrical switches and miscellaneous props. Several doors lined the wall off to the right. “This is the room you’re looking fa’,” William said, opening a door marked Makeup. Troy held back as William ushered Emmy through.