“What?” Alex says incredulously, throwing his hands in the air. “ You're only saying that because you're a lousy reader!” He sounds angry, but then he winks. “Get it? Perceived failings . . . ?” He and Pankaj laugh. “Okay, so that's the Moon card. What's the Three of Swords?”
“It suggests you've experienced heartbreak.”
The smile drops from Alex's face. “Let's move on to the next card.”
She nods, and her eyes are sympathetic. “The Nine of Swords is really similar to one of the Major Arcana cards, the Hermit. It suggests you're trying to work through some conflict alone, to protect yourself. Look at the image: a woman with her arms crossed, trying to shield her heart. And here, you see the owl? The owl represents wisdom. There's knowledge and support close at hand. It means you can get help if you seek it.” She finally looks up at him, her voice soft. “ You should seek it.”
Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, thanks, Mara.”
She sighs. “It's just what the cards say.”
A long silence settles over the candlelit room. I look at Pankaj, who gives a strained smile. “Switching topics,” he says. “What's the latest with the professor's Internal Review Board meeting? Did they postpone it?”
“I don't think so. In fact”âI look down at my watchâ“I think the meeting's scheduled for about two hours from now.”
“ You're kidding. Professor Black doesn't get a pass for having one of his students die?” Alex sounds offended. “ You'd think he'd get a reprieve for at least a year.”
“Like when your roommate dies, and you automatically get straight As?” Mara says.
“That doesn't happen; that's just an urban legend,” Alex says dismissively. “I don't know. It just seems like
something
good should come from Dan's death. Right?”
But no one answers. Apparently none of us can find an upside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It's a little before four o'clock when I arrive back at Uncle Brian's home, and I find him knotting his tie in front of the hallway mirror. I can feel anxiety wafting off him, and even without the ESP he once had, I'm sure he can feel mine too.
“I need you to tell me something,” I say, skipping the hellos.
He looks at my reflection and continues to form a Windsor knot. “And what might that be?” he asks tersely.
“Did you leave the CIA by choice?”
Brian presses his lips together and yanks the cuffs of his shirt under his coat sleeve. “ Yes, Kassandra. And to answer your next question: had I not quit, I would have been fired. I was broken by grief, no longer trusted anything or anyone, and was no longer useful to the Agency. But you already know all this.”
I move to the stairs and sit, maintaining our mirrored eye contact. “Christopher Figg would have fired you?” I ask him.
He turns to face me. “He would have had to get rid of me, yes. So he privately advised me to take my leave instead.”
As I search his eyes, the puzzle pieces start coming together.
Get rid of me
: another euphemism for “neutralize.” Another euphemism for “murder.”
“He saved your life.”
Brian nods. “That's correct.”
“And that's why when he wanted to run the kids' camps with you here, you agreed. You owed him one. You literally owed him your life.”
Brian turns back to the mirror, straightening his posture for a final once-over. “As I told you, the Agency has relationships with many of the world's best universities, so when Chris offered funding for a special joint project combining some of my research with his, I tried to view it in that context. To see it through a rose-colored lens, as opposed to seeing the cold truth: I was being manipulated.” He looks at his watch and turns away. “Now, have I answered all your questions? Because unfortunately I need to head back to campus. The review board will shortly be deciding my fate.”
He reaches for the doorknob. His hand lingers there for a moment before opening the door. Looking at my uncle now, I wonder if I'm being unfair. He's not the one who caused Dan's death, and from what evidence I have, it seems like he was a target too. Maybe keeping the lab open would, in fact, be the best revenge, a way to show the terrorists, whoever they are, that they haven't won.
“By the way,” he asks quietly, his back still turned, “do you think any of the other HEARs know how this meeting turns out?”
I can hear the smile in his voice. I almost laugh. “I asked. Unfortunately I think we're all in a blind spot here.” But suddenly I get an idea, and I'm about to suggest he call my dad to see if he has any thoughts on the matter, when a white-hot flash of pain cracks through my head. My insides heave and I clamp my hand over my lips to stop myself from vomiting on the rug.
That's when the doorbell rings.
Uncle Brian starts, spins toward me. “Were you expecting someone?”
I shake my head. It's all the response I can muster.
He moves to the side of the hall and peeks out through the curtain. “Speak of the devil,” he mutters, opening the door.
A man with longish white hair, rimless eyeglasses, and a burgundy silk handkerchief billowing out of his blazer's breast pocket stands on the welcome mat. “Brian!” Chris Figg says, holding his hands out expansively. He doesn't wait to be invited in. “It is a good day!” He beams as he crosses the threshold. Despite being as old as my uncle, his demeanor is more like a student's; the pride in his voice suggests he just aced another calculus test. “And hello, Kassandra.” He sticks out his hand, then thinking better of it, pulls me into a hug. “How long has it been?”
I am trapped by the bear hug, unable to speak. It's so constricting that I wonder if he'll snap my ribs.
“Thirteen years,” Brian replies. When Figg releases me, Brian pats him on the arm. “Chris, forgive me for being rude, but I need to leave to get toâ”
Figg stops him with a shake of his head. “Brian, it's handled.”
“Sorry, what?”
He smiles and a certain mischievousness animates his face. “I put in a call to Claire Shipman. She's acting head of the Internal Review Board. I told her that there's no need to put you through the wringer this afternoon when there's already a perfect solution for all of us.”
Brian's eyebrows rise. “A solution?”
Figg seems to be enjoying both Brian's confusion and his own performance. He reaches forward and lays a gnarled hand on my great-uncle's shoulder. “I simply pointed out that they could easily make up your budget shortfall by funneling the money allocated for Graham Pinberg's lab to yours.”
Uncle Brian takes a step back. His face registers a whirlwind of emotions: relief, remorse, and most of all shock. “That seemsâ”
“Like the only way to make the best out of a tragic situation? Like the best way to honor our friend's memory?” Figg interrupts. “I agree. You and I both know Graham would have insisted we all carry on. And now we can. I'll even be there to assist.”
Brian nods automatically, but I can tell he's not present. His mind is racing, and I try to discern what he's thinking, what exactly he feels he owes this man who is once again his savior.
“But what about the fact that the university people don't like my uncle?” I blurt. “Was Pinberg's money really all it took to convince them to keep HEAR open?”
Figg smiles down at me, then glances at Brian. “This one is almost too smart for her own good.” There's an edge in his voice.
I sense danger at the edge, but I need to keep pushing. “And how are you going to be assisting here?”
“Well, Kass, as you so rightly noted, your great-uncle doesn't always get along with everyone.” Figg slides his hands into his pockets, trying a more casual pose. “But I have a way with people and can be very convincing when I need to be. That's why I'm certain that if we team up again, there's no end to what we can accomplish together. In fact, that's why I've decided to leave the Agency and work with Brian full-time once we hammer out some details.”
Uncle Brian's eyes lock on Figg's. I wait for him to respond.
When he doesn't, I do it for him: “What details?”
“That, I'm afraid, is something your great-uncle and I are going to need to work out on our own,” Figg says, eyes still on Brian. “ You understand, I'm sure.”
I do understand. I'm being told to leave. Which is fine, because if I stay a second longer, I just might puke on both of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I stayed away from the house for the rest of the day, opting to wander the campus by myself. I wasn't in the mood to socialize. Not that I had to worry about speaking to anyone; the school grounds are like a ghost town now, deserted, quiet, and terrifying. The smell of the burned library still lingered in the air, and I watched a few of the remaining students load up their cars before getting out of town.
When I walked back to Uncle Brian's house later that night, I went directly to my room. I heard him puttering around on the third floor above me, and though I'm certain he heard me come in, he didn't welcome me home or make any attempt to say hello either.
A note was waiting for me on the kitchen table this morning:
Early meeting in town. See you all in the lab at 9:00. âBB
We're all seated by
the time Brian enters, and it occurs to me that this is the first time he's been with all of us together since the library bombing. I wonder if the others need my great-uncle to provide words of wisdom or to hear him promise everything's going to be okay as much as I do. I glance at Pankaj, but his head is down, his bangs over his eyes, conveying the gloom we all feel.
Brian drops his coat on his chair and places his bag on his desk, then steps to the workstation at the front of the lab. “ You would think that at my age I'd understand death, have some insight about tragedy,” he begins. “But I'm sorry to say I don't. I still can't justify or make sense of it. I can't explain why some of us are taken and some remain behind. Though we only had Dan with us for a short period of time, I think we all sensed what a bright and wonderful young man he was.”
I hear Mara sniffling and pass her a pack of tissues from the plastic CVS bag that's become my de facto book bag since . . . the library.
“But we can't let the loss we feel paralyze us,” Brian continues. “We need to stand against the forces of fear and let Dan's legacy be our lives.” He pauses and looks at each one of us. “I believe we should pay tribute to Dan the same way we're paying tribute to my dear friend Graham, by carrying on with their work.” His voice catches, and he steadies himself at the workstation. After a shaky breath, he goes on. “To be able to do this, we owe a debt of gratitude to my old friend and colleague Chris Figg, who has conditionally agreed to save our lab. And in return for his help, we must help him.”
My eyes meet Pankaj's.
Here we go
,
he says silently.
“How?” Alex asks.
“He has intelligence about another imminent attack, one targeting more of our best and brightest.”
Alex used exactly the same phrase, “best and brightest,” when he theorized why people would bomb Peabody Library. But the fact that he was right doesn't give me any sense of security or confidence in our abilities; it just makes me even more uncomfortable.
Brian pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “He believes you may be able to identify the terrorists involved.”
I think of the memorial in the chapel planned for Erika and Dan tomorrow. People who never met either of them will come and weep. After tragedies like this, you see these enormous outpourings of grief from the community. Strangers come to cry because they think,
It could have been me. It could have been my loved one.
And they feel connected by the shattered illusion of safety they once shared.
“And how are we supposed to do that?” Mara demands. “Identify these terrorists?”
“Remote viewing,” Brian replies. “A version of one of the exercises we've done previously. I have no idea what the prompts are or what type of visions they may lead to.” He heads to his desk and opens the large bottom drawer, removing a manila envelope. “But whatever the prompts inspire, I want you to tell me what you think or see or feel. Even if it seems to have nothing to do with terrorism as we tend to think of it. Understood?”
We nod in silence. The mourning period is over, apparently.
“Now, we need to do this in a designated testing area. Come.” Without another word, he leads us out of the lab. We follow him down to the basement. After we descend two flights in silence, he points to a door at the end of the hall. It's the same spot where Pankaj and I had our hushed conference, two lifetimes ago.
Alex clears his throat. “Professor Black, I had a thought,” he says. “Given how urgent this situation is, maybe now would be a good time for us to try the booster you've been working on.”
Brian doesn't answer. His gaze flickers over Alex's face, scrutinizing every detail.
“We all know what you're working on,” Alex continues.
“What else do you know, Alex?” he asks.
After a moment, Alex shrugs. “The booster is designed to make ESP sharper for those people who have it. It also gives ESP to people who don't.” He pauses. “Like you.”
My uncle casts a sidelong glance at me, as if silently accusing me of sharing information that should have been our family's business alone. But I'm with Alex; this is hardly our family's business anymore. Three people are dead. More may die very soon.
“Professor Black, it
is
true that your drug could work on the wider population, isn't it?” Alex demands.
Brian turns back to the closed door at the end of the hall. “ Yes,” he admits.
“So if it's that powerful, why don't we all give it a shot?”
“Because I don't know if it's safe,” Brian snaps. “The drug is still an x factor. I won't risk harming any one of you with it.”
I shake my head, not caring that he sees. He's lying. At the very least, he's covering up, given how he's treated us to date. He'll deny me contact with my own father; he'll keep us on campus with terrorists at large; but he won't let us try out this drug that he's certain will work? Yet even as I lay out the conditions and contradictions in my mind, I get the logic: this isn't his decision. It's coming from Christopher Figg. Now that Brian has joined up with his old friend again, I wonder how much control my great-uncle really has . . . over not only his life, but ours.
The room is empty
but for five soft brown leather chairs, lined up and facing the back wall. Directly across from each chair is a semirecessed light, its caged bulb partially protruding from the wall. It's like the set of a bizarro sixties game show.
“Please take your seats in this order,” Brian says. “Mara, Pankaj, Kass, Alex.”
“Restraints?” Mara says, wagging the straps on the sides of her seat.
“ You need not concern yourselves with those,” Brian says. “We won't be using them for this experiment.”
Pankaj shoots me a look.
You caught that, right?
For
this
experiment
,
I answer silently.
Yeah, I caught that.
Mara describes a commercial
landscape full of strip malls, fast-food places, and budget hotel chains. “Felt like what you see when you're driving on an Interstate in the heartland.” In the distance she saw a car dealership's giant American flag waving in the wind. But what she heard was the sound of screaming, a small voice begging, “Stop!” She then saw the terrified face of a little girl. “And all of a sudden, there was this thundering crash,” she says. “And the screaming ended . . . The little girl's screaming ended.”
Alex reports seeing something
similar, though his scene is more detailed: big American flag, McDonald's playground abutting a prefab hotel that was designed to look like a ch
â
teau. “The girl was tortured before she was killed,” he says. “And I heard the crash too. It was the sound of her skull smashing against a brightly colored slide.”
Pankaj reels off a
string of numbers: 6102429587. He describes his vision by saying it was like a computer overlay on his brain. He then gives a data dump, stating chains of numerals, all separated by dots, making them sound like geolocation coordinates.
I see nothing.