by Lynn Sholes
As she approached the Victorian home, she saw a black SUV parked in front. Miller had mentioned that there were two FBI agents on duty outside whenever he was home.
Cotten pulled into a curbside space and switched off the engine. The rain was pounding harder now—the underbelly of the furious clouds swollen and menacing.
She got out and opened her umbrella. Seeing that the passenger’s side door was opening on the agent’s vehicle, she held up her hand. No need for them both to get soaked. The door closed again, and she stood by as the window came down a few inches.
“Ms. Stone, can I see some ID?” the agent asked as the downpour intensified. “Formality. Sorry, especially in this weather.” His last words were buried in an ear-splitting crack of thunder.
Cotten pulled her press credentials from her inside coat pocket and passed them through the window.
The agent shined a flashlight on them and then back out the window to her face. He returned the ID to Cotten. “Try to stay dry. Dr. Miller is expecting you.”
She ran along the front walk and up the entrance steps. At the door, she huddled beneath the portico and rang the bell.
A moment later, Mrs. Miller opened the door. “Ms. Stone. Good to see you again,” Mrs. Miller said as she motioned Cotten in.
“Thanks,” Cotten said, closing the umbrella and trying not to drip water on the hardwood floors. “You have a wonderful home.”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Miller took Cotten’s coat and hung it on a brass coat rack. “It was built in seventeen-ninety. We’ve completely refurbished it from floor to ceiling and tried to maintain its heritage. It’s been the home to three presidential cabinet members and two ambassadors over the years.”
“Ms. Stone.” Philip Miller came across the living room, his hand outstretched. “Nasty night out there.”
“And getting worse,” Cotten said, shaking his hand. Her statement was punctuated by another thunderbolt. “Thanks for cooperating. I have to apologize again for accosting you and your wife on the sidewalks of Arlington.”
“You were just doing your job,” he said. “And I’m grateful that you believed me.” He gestured that she sit on one of two couches facing each other in the middle of the living room. Burning logs crackled and hissed in the fireplace a few feet away.
“Can I get you something warm to drink?” Mrs. Miller asked. “Coffee, tea?”
“Tea would be great.”
“Philip?” Mrs. Miller asked.
“Tea would be fine for me, too.”
Cotten watched his wife disappear down a hall. Once she was gone, Cotten said, “I know this is awkward for you, working so closely with Secretary Mace. But I believe that identifying the person who has been stalking my friend and her daughter is more important than you can possibly imagine.”
“Not awkward at all,” Miller said. “It’s time he paid his dues.”
“Really?” she said. “So you two don’t get along.”
“We behave in public. But I have good reason for my distaste. I made a bid for governor of Arkansas a number of years ago. Rizben backed my opponent with an amazing amount of funding and support. He wound up buying the candidate and the election as far as I’m concerned. And one of the biggest campaign issues was converting old military bases into private research centers. The argument was that it would create jobs and increase the tax base. All it really did was filter money back to Rizben, I’m sure. He was heavily invested in some of those research outfits that expressed interest in the plan. There were a lot of other ways those facilities could have been utilized for public good. There was plenty of name calling and mud slinging. Consequently, there’s still a lot of animosity between us. So rather than me confronting Rizben, I’d prefer to turn over what I’ve found and let you do it through the media. I have no problem throwing him under the bus.”
“Did he actually convert any of the old military installations into commercial projects?”
“One, maybe. The whole matter seemed to fade away after the election. I guess I had called too much attention to it, and it became a hot potato. Like I say, there is no love lost.” He reached in his pocket and took out a miniature cassette tape. “This will do the job.”
“What is it?” Cotten asked.
“Recordings of phone conversations from a wiretap—another reason it has to go through you. You do protect your sources?”
“Absolutely.”
Miller waved the tape. “This can never be connected back to me, but what I’ve got here is irrefutable proof that Rizben ordered the torching of the Jordan farm. What it doesn’t explain is why.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Cotten said. “Figuring that out is my job, and I guarantee it will never be linked to you in any way. You have my word.”
“Good. And there seems to be something else. I’m not sure what it’s all about, maybe you’ll figure that out, too. Let me ask you, does the word thodium mean anything to you?”
Cotten was about to say no when intense white light flooded through the windows as lightning struck right outside. The explosive crack of thunder was instantaneous, telling Cotten the house was probably struck.
“My God,” Miller said, standing.
Loud popping and sizzling caused them both to turn toward the fireplace. The blaze increased in brilliance as the fingers of flames leaped out into the room. Then a brilliant blue sphere about the size of a baseball emerged from the fire and floated a few feet above the hearth.
The globe sparked radial tentacles as it moved in a slow, random, zigzag. Behind it trailed a comet-like tail of white light.
Before either of them could react, the sphere shot from the fireplace hitting Miller square in the forehead.
Miller screamed and clawed at his face, his hair on fire. Then he collapsed onto the floor.
Cotten grabbed a pillow from the couch and smothered the fire.
“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Miller said. The tray of teacups and saucers slipped from her hands and crashed. “Philip. Philip.” She rushed to his side.
Cotten knelt next to him and pressed her fingertips to Miller’s neck, searching for a pulse in his carotid.
Nothing.
“Do something,” Mrs. Miller screamed.
“Call 9-1-1,” Cotten said. “Go!” At the same time, she jumped up and raced to the front door. Pulling it open, she stood on the front steps and waved her arms at the agents in the black SUV. When she was sure they had seen her and were coming, she ran back to Miller, knelt, and started CPR. The odor of singed hair and burnt skin filled her nostrils as she leaned over him and pumped his chest.
“What the hell?” the first agent said, running into the room. He had a gun in his hand but holstered it as he activated his radio and broadcast an alert for assistance.
“Step away from Dr. Miller,” the second agent ordered Cotten.
She ignored him and continued applying CPR.
“They’re coming,” Mrs. Miller shouted as she ran back into the room. “The ambulance is on the way.”
“Ms. Stone,” the agent said, “I need you to stand and step away.”
Cotten reluctantly got to her feet and moved back as the agent took over applying the CPR.
“What happened?” the other agent asked Mrs. Miller.
“I left my husband and Ms. Stone talking while I went to get them some tea. I heard a loud explosion outside. A second later, my husband screamed. When I rushed back into the living room, Philip was lying on the floor and Ms. Stone was kneeling beside him.”
Over the sound of the rain and thunder, Cotten heard the faint droning of a siren.
The agent looked at Cotten. “What happened to him?”
“We were talking when lightning must have struck the house. A bolt of lightning or an electrical discharge or something that looked like a glowing blue ball came into the house through
the fireplace. By the time we both saw it, Dr. Miller was struck in the head. He collapsed. His hair caught fire and I put it out.” She pointed to the blackened pillow on the floor.
There was a commotion at the front door as the EMTs entered and moved toward Miller’s body. Cotten heard the static squawk of their radios and the crackle of plastic and paper as one paramedic opened his kit and peeled back the wrappings of needles and tubes while the other EMT cut Miller’s shirt open.
She was sure they would do all they could to revive their patient, but in her gut, Cotten knew it was to no avail. This was more than a freak accident. This was another message directed at her. She was getting too close. Back off.
As she watched the medical technicians work on Philip Miller, she noticed that his shoes were blown off and parts of his clothes burned. There was only a single red spot on his forehead. One of the buttons on Miller’s shirt had melted into his chest.
Mrs. Miller stood beside them, sobbing, her hand over her mouth. The shock had to be so great that she wasn’t even able to process what had happened, Cotten thought.
When the paramedic lifted Miller’s hand to start an IV, she saw him quickly drop it.
“What the—” he said.
The flesh of Miller’s right hand was fused to the melted cassette tape.
indigos
Alan, Devin, Lindsay, and Tera stepped out onto the twentieth floor of CyberSys.
“That will be all,” Alan said, leaving the guards behind.
Lindsay was impressed by the sleekness of the décor— all glass, aluminum, and mirror-finished stainless steel, and not a single fingerprint or smudge anywhere that she could see.
Tera took Devin’s hand as Alan led them to his private office.
As they entered, Lindsay saw a woman standing beside the desk looking at a computer screen. She whipped around, seemingly startled. “Alan,” she said, “I was just tidying up. I thought you were going to be out for a while.”
“We were,” he said. “But something came up. Kai, this is Lindsay Jordan and her daughter, Tera.” He turned to Lindsay. “Kai Chiang is my personal assistant.”
Kai leaned toward Alan and kissed him on the cheek as if she wanted to force a more elaborate introduction.
“Well, she’s more than just an assistant,” Alan said. “Kai and I—”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Kai said. “We try not to be too obvious. Affairs in the workplace usually don’t breed good morale.”
Tera snuggled against her mother’s side.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” Alan said, motioning to the leather couches and matching oversized chairs.
Lindsay took one of the chairs, and Tera sat in her lap. Kai and Alan occupied a couch while Devin plopped onto the floor at his father’s feet.
“So, what’s this all about?” Kai asked.
Alan stretched his arm along the rim of the couch behind Kai’s shoulders. “Ms. Jordan says she has some information regarding the kidnapping.”
Tera squeezed her mother’s hand.
“Really,” Kai said. She glared at Lindsay. “You are aware that the case is closed—the kidnapper was identified?”
Lindsay nodded. “Yes, I saw that on TV, but I hope you will hear me out.”
Devin put the shell to his ear, looked across at Tera, and smiled.
Alan’s delight in seeing the way his son responded to Tera was obvious.
Kai slid her hand onto Alan’s knee and eyed Lindsay. “You understand that Mr. Olsen and his son have both been through quite an ordeal. We are trying to get back to normalcy and wouldn’t want anything to interfere with that.”
“No, of course not,” Lindsay said.
Kai continued. “And Devin is a special child. We can’t let him be exploited.”
“Then you will probably be more open to what I am going to tell you,” Lindsay said. “Like Devin, Tera is also special.”
Kai leaned forward. “I don’t think you understand,” she said condescendingly. She lowered the volume of her voice to almost a whisper, as if that would keep Devin from hearing her. “Devin is an autistic savant.”
“Indigo,” Tera said.
“Shh,” Lindsay whispered through her daughter’s golden hair. “Remember what we talked about?”
“Indigo, Indigo, Indigo,” Devin said.
Lindsay brushed Tera’s bangs back. “Well, I wasn’t going to start with that, but . . . have you ever heard of Indigo children?” she said to Alan.
Devin waved one hand beside his ear.
“I’ve done considerable research on my son’s condition,” Alan said. “And yes, one of the things I’ve run across is the mention of a connection between some kids with autism and what they are calling Indigo children. Same thing with exceedingly gifted kids—and ADD and ADHD kids for that matter. So, yes, I’ve looked into that a little. I know they are given the name Indigo because of the supposed deep blue aura surrounding their bodies and that they have certain unexplained talents. But I have to confess that I dropped the ball and didn’t pursue it much further—other than it inspiring me in choosing the color for the CyberSys thunderbolt logo, that is. I thought the whole concept was fascinating.”
It’s way more than fascinating, Lindsay thought. It’s downright scary.
“And I certainly saw several characteristics in my son, but I think I just got sick of labels for Devin. To me, labeling is really the equivalent of name calling, only on a socially acceptable level. I finally had enough. Devin is Devin.”
“I agree,” Lindsay said sympathetically. She knew too well what it was like to protect a child from the rest of the world’s misconceptions. The heartaches. “Maybe during some of that research, you read about a recent wave of these—forgive the label—Indigo children being born. They believe there have always been Indigos, but not many. Then in the late 1970s, there was a major wave of births, but nothing compared to the Indigos being born just before and since the year 2000. I believe they are really wise old souls who are here to lead us through terrible times. To prepare us for enlightenment, some say. These children have metagifts. Tera is an Indigo. I can’t see their auras, but Tera can. When she saw Devin on the television, she immediately recognized him as one of her own.”
Kai rolled her eyes. “Alan, I think we should thank Ms. Jordan for her visit and—”
“No, please, Mr. Olsen. Let me finish. I promise you will be glad you listened.”
Alan rested his forearms on his thighs and tapped his fingertips together. “Would you mind if Devin and Tera go to the playroom? It adjoins my office. I had it especially built for Devin. It’s pretty much self-contained—bathroom, refrigerator, toys, games. There’s no other way in or out other than through here. They’ll be safe, and I’ll feel more comfortable with our conversation.”
Lindsay checked Tera’s expression. “Okay with you, Ladybug?”
Tera nodded.
“Kai would you show the kids the playroom and maybe rustle up a snack for them?” Alan said.
From Kai’s sour expression, Lindsay could tell that Alan’s suggestion didn’t sit well with his special assistant. But Kai agreed and led the children away.
“She’s just trying to be protective,” Alan said, nodding toward the closing door. “I am interested in what you have to say, and I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m afraid I have little time this morning.”
“Thanks for your patience,” Lindsay said. “I feel like I’m being a scatterbrain, but there’s so much to tell.”
Alan nodded, and gestured for her to continue.
Lindsay took a deep breath. “Tera has some unique gifts. She is an artist, a poet, and above all a spiritual child. All Indigos know who they are spiritually. I’m convinced they have some kind of heavenly connection. And I know how you must be feeling right now. I’ve been coming to terms with all this, bit
by bit, for eight years.”
“But this Indigo thing,” Alan said. “Like I told you, I entertained it for a short time. But in the end I realized that Devin is an autistic savant, no more, no less, and that’s enough burden for him to bear.”
“I don’t know his specialty, but I understand that savant’s have immense gifts. He doesn’t have to be a poet or an artist, or a virtuoso. Devin does have some special talents, right?”
Alan stared at the floor. “Yes, if you mean his ability with numbers and dates. He memorizes anything he’s ever read.” He looked up, seemingly pleased at his next thought. “Devin can read two pages at a time—one with his left eye, one with his right.” His expression faded. “Ms. Jordan, you’ve given me plenty to think about, but I don’t see what any of this has to do with Devin’s kidnapping. So why don’t we call it a day.”
Lindsay knew his next words would be to politely ask her to leave. It was hard to believe he had listened to her this long. She had to do something. She couldn’t stop now.
Alan started to stand. “I thank you for all your concern about my son, but—”
Lindsay didn’t move. “I didn’t want to come here.” Her voice trembled with its rising volume. “But Tera was so insistent, so beside herself, I had to bring her. I am convinced there is a link between Tera and Devin that will lead to uncovering more about Devin’s kidnapping.”
Alan shifted. “Devin was kidnapped for money, pure and simple greed.”
“But I read there was never any ransom note. Did you ever pay anything to anybody?”
“No. But the authorities found a note. It just hadn’t been sent yet.”
“Why would someone kidnap a child for money and wait so long to make a ransom demand? It doesn’t make sense. I think . . . Tera thinks there’s another reason someone would want to kidnap your son.”
Alan fidgeted, his face blanched, and she knew she had pricked a nerve.
“All right, Ms. Jordan, what does your daughter think is the reason?”
“Tera said the kidnappers wanted to steal information your son had memorized—numbers he has in his head.”