by Thomas Locke
“Brett.” She waited until he turned around. “It’s okay. I understand. These sorts of events are why I’m here. Remember?”
His gaze was hollow. “But you’re not carrying my baggage.”
She clamped down on the urge to tell him what she’d seen of him the previous day. “Maybe we better get started.”
Brett brought the gear downstairs and set it up on the coffee table. He drew a chair over from the dining table, helped Lena fit on the neural net, then waited while she settled back down on the sofa. When she was comfortable, he ran through the same initial phrases, then counted her up.
This time she knew an instant’s hesitation, a mere flash of fear, and then she was up. Ascending.
Free.
Then he spoke. “If there is anything you need to see, you will do this now. You remain in complete control. You will only experience what keeps you in complete safety. You are going now.”
Even before she heard the words, she was moving. She rose from the room, from the house, from the city. She saw none of this, and yet she knew this had occurred. Lena’s focus was gradually drawn south, farther and farther, to where she could see a GMC truck traveling north on I-95. The rear hold was jammed with gear. The truck’s two rows held four people. Charlie Hazard drove and listened as Robin and Chester peppered Bernard Bishop with questions.
She remained there a single breath, then she was drawn even higher. Lena observed the highway and the traffic and the people and the dreams and the frustrations and the needs, a flowing river of human life. The act of being directed was so gentle, Lena could easily have broken free.
Then in the distance a cloud formed. Far to the south, the asphalt ribbon became swallowed by a dark menace. Every kind of malevolent spirit, every form of dark and tainted soul. They knew who she was, they knew about Charlie Hazard, they knew about Bishop, and they were bound together by the aim to destroy them all.
Lena’s form was wracked by a somber tolling, a thunderous message so potent it flung her back and into her physical form.
“You are returning now,” Brett said. His eyes went round as she jerked from the sofa and flung the neural net to the floor.
Lena waited until her breathing had eased, until she could form the words without shrieking them out loud. “They’re coming.”
47
Marjorie’s limo pulled up fifteen minutes later. Lena and Brett went upstairs for a brief moment with Agnes. The old lady was calm and accepting and brilliantly alive. She had remained pain free, without drugs, all night. Lena felt pierced by the uncertainty of whether they might meet again as Frederick helped them load the gear into Marjorie’s waiting limo. The butler’s farewell carried a solemn formality, and he remained standing at the curb until they turned south on Madison and vanished.
On the journey through the Theater District, Brett quietly described the project’s early days. Marjorie sat between them, her gaze aimed straight forward, not moving, not even blinking. Absorbing every word.
Their destination was a rundown warehouse three blocks off the Hudson River. According to Marjorie, the entire block was now owned by one of the bank’s subsidiaries, kept empty while the developers ran the city’s permitting maze.
“Roger has officially leased this to me,” Marjorie told Lena as they rose from the limo. “I quite like playing landlord to a world-changing event.”
Lena asked, “Did you tell Roger about your . . . ?”
“Message,” Marjorie finished. “Not yet. That sort of news requires . . .”
“Delicacy,” Lena offered. “Proper timing.”
“Roger has wanted this far more than me,” Marjorie said. “He has forced himself to move on. This is going to be . . .”
“Special.”
“And intensely difficult for him to accept.” Marjorie hugged herself.
They crossed Tenth Avenue and entered a diner. The linoleum table was sticky and Lena’s coffee mug had crevices around the rim, like someone had tried to eat the ceramic. A secretary from the developer’s office arrived with a set of keys and the rental contract. Fifteen minutes later, Lena’s phone rang. She spoke briefly, then announced, “They’re here.”
As Lena left the diner and crossed the street, she watched the four emerge slowly from the truck. Their motions were stiff in the manner of people who had been driving for a very long while. But they were easy with one another, that much was very clear. They spoke and they smiled, and Robin even gave Charlie a mock blow to the shoulder. Charlie saw them first and spoke a few words that drew the others around.
Robin said in greeting, “Next time you can drive fourteen hours and I’ll go to the spa.”
Charlie and the others stepped up beside Robin. He moved with quiet grace, a hunting cat in chinos and a denim work shirt. The open collar revealed ragged scars to his collarbone and chest. He waited through the introductions, then said, “You need to lose the limo.”
Marjorie appeared fascinated by the man. “Of course.”
Brett told Charlie, “Lena has received a warning that we are already being tracked.”
Charlie’s gaze held the calm finality of prehistoric diamonds, compressed by eons into something hard enough to fracture light. “You ascended?”
“Twice,” Brett replied for her. “The second time was because I received . . . I’m not sure what to call it.”
Charlie nodded, clearly comfortable with the lack of proper words. He said to Lena, “Describe what happened.”
They all gathered there on the broken sidewalk in a condemned neighborhood, chilled by far more than the wind. Robin and Chester listened agog as Lena related her experience.
When she finished, Charlie said, “For the moment, we’ll assume it’s correct. I’ll ask others to confirm your findings.”
“Can I try this thing?” Robin said.
Brett replied, “The stats on first timers are not great. Less than ten percent who try can ascend.”
“Still, I want to give it a go.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll make it happen.”
Robin actually bounced on her toes. She asked Lena, “Is it as cool as it sounds?”
“Better,” Lena replied. “By about ten thousand percent.”
Brett told Charlie, “The neural nets seem to increase the success rate. We tried with four. Only one ascended. But what was most interesting is that the other three had what can only be described as unique experiences.”
Bishop asked softly, “And the patient?”
“As of an hour ago, Mrs. Lockwood remained off her meds and pain free.”
Bishop wiped his mouth slowly, back and forth, compressing the emotions that creased his face.
Charlie patted the doctor’s shoulder and said, “Let’s get out of this wind.”
The nicest part of the warehouse was the upstairs, reached by a metal stairwell that climbed the right-hand wall. There was nothing to suggest it would be anything more than a suite of threadbare offices. Marjorie unlocked a solid wood door and they entered a three-bedroom apartment. The setting held a certain Zen-like quality, with muted lighting and woven tatami carpets and lotus blossoms imprinted into the off-white wallpaper. The front room had done service as an office, evident from the multiple cables still sprouting from every wall. Two skylights adorned with stained glass painted the room in hues of rose and umber.
Robin took one look and declared, “I’m moving in.”
“Actually,” Charlie replied, “we all are.”
Marjorie cleared her throat. “Now may be a good time to offer my husband’s objections to that idea.”
“You don’t need to stay,” Charlie replied. “No one is required to take it to the next level. But if you’re in, this is home for the duration.”
Marjorie waited until Charlie led Bishop into the rear bedrooms to say, “That man scares me a little.”
Brett replied, “Probably a good thing.”
Lena asked, “Does he frighten you too?”
“Not the man,�
�� Brett replied. “But the reason why he’s here. What he represents.”
“The cloud beyond the horizon,” Lena said. “The boogeymen who are hunting us.”
Marjorie shivered.
Brett faced the four of them, Lena and Marjorie and Robin and Chester. “Here’s what you need to remember. Charlie Hazard will die before he lets anyone in his team get hurt.”
Chester said, “Is it true what he said, we can leave?”
Lena replied, “Absolutely.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Robin protested.
“Hey, this has been fun and all, but I’m a banker,” Chester said.
“What am I, the nanny?” Robin shot back. “Did you even hear what Bernie was saying?”
“I was sitting right there beside you. I heard every word.”
“All this represents a major breakthrough,” Robin said. “Besides which, it could be fun.”
“This guy talked about dying and you call it fun?” Chester looked from one to the other. “You’re all nuts.”
Lena settled a hand on Robin’s arm, cutting off her next comment. “Go back to the office. Play damage control. We need somebody protecting our backs, right, Robin?”
She muttered something that Lena was fairly certain had nothing to do with agreement. Chester looked from one to the other, then turned and left without a backward glance.
Robin took a hard breath. “I actually liked the guy.”
“There’s nothing wrong with knowing your limits,” Marjorie said.
Lena took that as her cue. “Maybe you should go.”
Marjorie was clearly tempted, but in the end she shook her head and said, “So what happens now?”
Brett’s voice had gone quiet, somber as a messenger of death. “In a few minutes Charlie will come back and say that our first objective is to define the danger. And the second is to define our defense.”
Lena read the unspoken in Brett’s gaze. “I’ll need to go back up again?”
“Ascend,” Brett corrected. “Since you found the threat, he’ll probably think it’s a good idea.”
“Will you come with me?”
She could see the objections in his gaze. And was ready to accept them all. Now was definitely not a time for arguments. The threat was too real, their numbers too paltry. But when he spoke, it was to say, “Yes, Lena. If I can.”
48
Reese awoke to the sound of a prison claxon. She jerked awake, gasping with fear of the nightmare’s return. But her eyes focused upon a beautiful little apartment, with sliding glass doors that reflected nothing more dangerous than a dark night. She rose from the bed and opened the doors and stepped outside. Her apartment was on the third floor and faced east, over the pool enclosure and the residential community beyond. Dawn was a pale hue of promise and calm. The houses beyond the motel’s enclosure were silent, the wind still. The air was perfumed by late spring jasmine and a distant orange grove.
The balcony chairs were old and worn, remnants from the motel’s previous incarnation. She sat until the sun’s rim emerged from the trees and the rooftops, and the birds rose in chattering clouds, and the neighborhood streets came to life. She returned inside, showered, and dressed. The tension remained with her, a tight ball that she doubted would ever fully unravel. But she had slept well, and there had been no repeat of the monster dreams. For today, it was enough.
The café operated on a twenty-four-hour clock. A couple of voyagers offered her a sleepy hello, then went back to their eggs and soft conversation. Through the rear doors she saw that another few surrounded one of the tables by the pool.
While she was waiting for her breakfast, Kevin appeared in the doorway. He looked as rumpled and exhausted as the previous day. He hurried over and said, “You need to come.”
“Can I get my coffee?”
Kevin barked across the counter, “Coffee. Large. Two. Now.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“Not enough.” He accepted the two paper cups and handed one to her. “Let’s go.”
Every eye in the room and beyond watched them hurry back down the hall and through the lobby and out into the early morning heat. “What’s the matter?”
Kevin crossed the parking lot. When the office building’s glass doors did not slide back fast enough, he kicked them impatiently. “I have no idea.”
“We have a very serious problem,” Vera announced.
Kevin’s chair could not contain him. He stood by the window, shifting from heel to toe and back again. His nervousness was contagious. Reese could feel the ropy tendrils swirl across the table’s polished surface and ensnare her.
Vera went on, “There is a man we must find. His name is Dr. Bernard Bishop.”
Reese waited for Kevin to ask the necessary questions. But his only response to the news was to start pacing. Back and forth, the length of his office, moving from shadow to the window’s light to shadow again.
Reese reached across the table for his yellow pad and pen. She asked, “Doctor of what?”
“He was formerly a spinal surgeon. More recently he has been working as a GP in an urgent-care clinic.”
“Where?”
“Savannah.”
“Is that where he was a surgeon?”
“Yes. There and Jacksonville. Is this really necessary?”
“I have no idea.”
“The man has gone missing. We want you to find him.”
But Reese was no longer paying attention to the new task. Kevin’s nervous motions were a distraction. She swiveled her chair so she was looking at the wall beyond his desk. Thinking.
Vera demanded, “Are you there?”
“Give me a minute.” Reese heard something. A vague hint, nothing more. She felt like a feral cat that had caught the first scent upon the wind. She pulled the speaker closer to her. It was just her and Vera now. “This means a new duty. Something we’ve never tried before. It may help us to have details of this guy’s life.”
It was Vera’s turn to go quiet. Then, “Hold on.”
When the phone went quiet, Kevin asked, “What are you—”
“Not now.” She kept her gaze upon the empty legal pad in her lap. Writing her thoughts in a secret script. When Vera came back on, Reese was ready.
“All right,” Vera said. “Ask your questions.”
“Why did this man stop being a surgeon?”
Again there was a long silent moment, then Vera said, “We might have had something to do with that.”
“Understood.” There it was again. The vague wisp telling her that the quarry she had been hunting was close. “You’ve had this Bishop under surveillance?”
“Off and on. Mostly via bugs and cameras.”
“When did he go off grid?”
“The day before yesterday, Bishop left his place of employment in the late afternoon. We don’t have the exact time yet. He went by a storage unit where he kept . . . certain elements from his . . . previous work. He stopped by a bank. Then he went to his apartment. Our knowledge becomes sketchy after that. He may have checked into a local hotel, but if so the room was under a different name.”
“Was he alone?”
“No. Four people we have not yet identified came and took him. Or he went voluntarily. We don’t know.”
“Were they police?”
“We don’t think so. They showed the clinic receptionist no badges.”
Reese stared at the pad and sorted through all her unwritten thoughts. “So what you’re saying is, it took a day and a half to sound the alarm.”
“The doctor has made no change to his routine in almost a year. The surveillance understandably grew lax.” Vera hesitated, then added, “We also want you to tell us who took him.”
“Give me those addresses for where you know and where you suspect he went after going off grid.” But when Vera rattled them off, Reese did not write them down. She was not after data. She wanted to keep the woman talking. Because the breeze had shifted in her direction now,
carrying the first clear confirmation that the prey was close. And vulnerable. “What would be your ideal outcome here?”
“My ideal . . . We want you to find the man and these four others. Immediately!”
“Do you want where he is at the moment, or where he will be in the future?”
Vera’s standard ire shattered like a crystal globe hitting granite. “You can do that?”
“We can try. Give me your optimal solution.”
“Wait.” The phone clicked off. Reese drew a circle in the middle of the yellow page. Then she drew a vertical line down the center of the circle, and another line at a ninety-degree angle. Creating a target with crosshairs. She ground the pen into the juncture of the two lines. A bullet hole right through Vera’s heart.
Vera came back on and said, “We want the individual’s position twelve hours out. At a point where he is isolated.”
Reese kept enlarging the dark point at the target’s center. “I have no idea how long we will require to obtain this information, or even if it’s possible.”
“We need this immediately. Now get to work.”
But when the call ended, Reese remained there in the chair, staring down at the pad in her lap. She knew Kevin kept pacing because his shadow passed back and forth over the target Reese had drawn. She also knew what it was that had robbed him of sleep and kept him moving. The tension had a name now.
“The key is the missing neural nets,” Reese said.
“They’re not missing,” Kevin replied. “A van comes and picks them up.”
“But we don’t know where they’re going.”
“They’re developing their own team. A second set of voyagers.” Kevin’s fear was palpable. “Soon as they’re operational, we’re surplus material. They’ll take us out.”
Reese responded because she wanted him to understand his fear. Though she did not share it. Not at all. “You’ve always operated by the book,” Reese said. “You were a good physicist, and then a better administrator. You handled a nation’s darkest secrets. You got burned, you came back. You are giving this your very best. And for what. So you can wake up and wonder if today’s the day they deliver a bullet with your name etched on it.”