Vision (20 page)

“And the ones that failed?”

“The patient remained blind. Or died on the operating table. But in all cases, once the tumor was removed or shrunk, the Alternative Functional Sight was eliminated.”

Bobby stood, fists clenched. “I don’t care about the damn Alternative Sight. I’ll choose the surgery and take my chances.”

“Will you? Before you know the odds?”

He took a step toward Maura Reston to confront her, face to face.

“I don’t get what you’re driving at.”

“What I’m telling you, Bobby Pendell, is that there is a window of opportunity for you. You probably have about three weeks to a month, judging by Dr. Constantine’s medical referral, before your blindness is total and irreversible.”

He stepped back, incredulous. “Dr. Constantine told you about me? What the fuck?”

“Relax, Bobby. We monitor all cases of suspected
Meningioma Type X
. We approached the good doctor.”

“I’ll take my chances if there’s a possible cure.”

“Maybe you should hear what I have to say first, and your options should you elect
not
to have the surgery. I’d suggest you take your seat.”

Pete nuzzled against his shins, and Bobby let the dog lead him to his seat. “Okay, then. I’m all ears.”

Maura Reston resumed her pacing. “Percentage-wise, the surgery is a crapshoot, but we feel offering it is the only ethical thing to do. To deny medical treatment when a cure, though risky, is available, is cruel and un-American. We cover all medical costs, including the long rehabilitation period.”

“The thing is,” Maura continued, “fifty-two percent of all patients die, either during the operation or in the following days. Another ten percent remain blind. Only thirty-eight percent of patients enjoy a total or partial return of their vision. So, bottom line, you have a survival rate of only forty-eight percent, and a success rate of only thirty-eight percent—in total, a sixty-two percent chance you’ll wind up either blind or dead.”

Bobby rubbed his palms against his jeans. “How many patients got all their sight back?”

“About eighteen percent. The other twenty percent had some level of impairment.”

“So, you chose not to take the risk. Why?”

“Do you think an organization that would so greatly benefit from an individual’s choosing to be permanently disabled would not, at the very least, offer an exceptional compensation package for the decision? I was reimbursed for all my schooling, trained in martial arts, computer programming, multiple languages. I was given luxury housing with state-of-the-art accommodations, a personal driver, a chef, a valet. My family’s living and medical expenses are all provided for, even in the event of my death. And that’s in addition to an extremely generous salary, travel allowance, and pension packet.”

“So you gave up your sight for that?”

“I didn’t want to gamble with my life. Worse, I didn’t want to end up blind and drowning in debt. I owed hundreds of thousands of dollars for law school. I didn’t think I had a choice.”

“But I do?”

“Sure you do. You can bet on your life. Fifty-two percent chance you die, forty-eight percent chance you live, possibly blind. Did I mention? Ninety-four percent of the patients who survived lost the Alternative Functional Sight, rendering them completely useless to us. And here’s the important part--if you opt for the surgery and lose the AFS, after you recover, you’re on your own. We disavow any connection to you, financial or otherwise.”

“So, whether you can see or not, there’s no compensation?”

“The surgery is extremely costly. That, and the rehabilitation, is your compensation.”

“And if I die, what does my family get?”

“Nothing. Other than an apology and flowers at your funeral.”

Bobby chewed on a nail, weighing the odds.

“So you see why I made the choice I did? I was going blind anyway. I wasn’t willing to take the fifty-two percent risk of dying. Or waking blind
and
penniless. By joining the Bureau, I’m set for life. And so is my family. We’d pay for your education, Bobby, at any college of your choice. Your brother’s education, too. You’ll be given a house with accommodations for your dad’s disability and yours, with twenty-four-hour care.” She tilted her head, waiting. “If I haven’t been persuasive enough, perhaps a trip to our morgue will sway you.”

“Morgue?” Bobby almost jumped out of his skin. He didn’t think he could possibly confront actual dead bodies.

Maura Reston laughed. “Easy, now. Not that kind of morgue. It’s a warehouse full of artifacts from resolved cases. Before we commit to any kind of arrangement, we need to assess your capabilities.”

She turned and walked toward the wall. A door slid open, leading into a sterile white hallway. “Come with me,” she said.

Bobby and Pete followed her through the winding halls until they stood at the top of a staircase overlooking a vast chamber the size of an airplane hangar, crisscrossed by a network of gleaming metal walls. His heart immediately began to speed up, the terror of what was stored in the huge room pulsing against the backs of his eyeballs.

Bobby followed the
click-clack
and
swish
of Maura Reston’s high heels and cane down the stairs to the concrete floor below. She stopped to retrieve a small contraption the size of a cell phone from a bracket on the wall, plugged an earpiece into her ear, then led him through the endless aisles of what looked like the meat freezers at the Graxton Grill. She stopped suddenly, fingering the controls on the device. Following a brief puff of air and a hiss, a compartment slid out from the wall.

“Put your hand in the drawer,” she said.

“What’s that thing you’re holding do?”

“It’s a gauge. It gives me an auditory readout on your reactions to the objects in here. It’s also a guide, which helps me find my way around in here.” Maura Reston’s voice dripped with smug pride. “You’ll have your own, plus an array of other gadgets, should you join us. Now go ahead, reach your hand in the drawer. I promise, nothing here bites.”

Bobby tentatively dipped his fingers into the open drawer, grazing a thick, braided chain. When he clasped it in his hand, its gruesome history leaped through his skin into his mind like an electric pulse. He gasped at the slow-burning hate that had driven the killer to act.

“Well?” asked Agent Reston.

“A woman,” Bobby said, wanting nothing more than to escape this warehouse of death artifacts. “A secretary. Her boss—he was abusive. He expected, uh, favors from her. She—she wore this every day, until one day, after dreaming about it for months, she walked up behind him and strangled him with it.”

Agent Reston nodded. “Very impressive. One more.”

Bobby’s palms were damp, sweat sheening his forehead. The cold room suddenly felt very, very warm.

He followed the agent as she strode determinedly through the metal-plated aisles, her contraption giving off gentle beeps. She stopped at another compartment, which slid open with the same puff and hiss.

Bobby lifted the object from inside the drawer, cradling it in his palm. A shattered pocket watch; its tale of assassination exploded into his mind, the murder a glowing network of cold-blooded plotting.
A diplomatic envoy from a European country visiting a Middle Eastern country embroiled in a revolution. A smiling young man with a package. A bomb detonates, killing them both, along with scores of bystanders
.

Bobby dropped the watch in horror. It hit the floor with a
clunk
as Maura Reston’s gadget beeped and whirred in a frenzy of alerts.

“Your AFS is off the charts, Bobby.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your abilities will provide a vital service to the Bureau and the Department of Homeland Security. You have a top level talent, and can expect to be paid at the highest scale.”

Bobby had nothing to say. His head hurt from the pressure of the millions of deaths locked inside the metal cases. He wondered what day after day of touching murder would do to a mind.

Agent Reston led him through the endless aisles to where her partner waited, Pete padding after them.

“Agent Whitworth will take you home. You have a week to decide, Bobby. At that time, we will get in touch with you again. Do you understand the decision you need to make?”

Bobby nodded, though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Yes, I think I do.”

“There’s just one more thing. Since you’re a minor, we’ll need your father’s consent to either sign for the surgery, or waive the privilege and allow you to join the Bureau. We’ll be in touch in a week to see what you’ve decided.”

B
obby found himself standing on wobbly legs, dropped off at his house.

Scratch Lake would have to wait. He’d made a promise to Coco that they’d investigate the murderer’s trail, and he intended to keep it. He had no doubt that, if the government was willing to pay him good money for his strange ability, it could certainly help him untangle the mystery of the Graxton killer.

Bobby sat on the front stoop to think. His soul screamed for color, for light, for blue skies, for smiles, for Gabe’s gleaming hair. For the mountains. For photographs of Mom.

But he’d done his grieving for himself already. He’d already accepted the coming blindness as inevitable.

The thing that gnawed at him, that consumed him, was who would take care of Aaron and Dad when he couldn’t? If he signed on the dotted line, none of them would ever have to worry again.

To risk dying over a guaranteed meal ticket for life seemed an unbelievably selfish decision to Bobby. How could he do that to Aaron? There was only one choice to make. And he only had a week to explain it all to Dad and convince him to go along with it.

Even in his messed-up state, Dad understood sacrifice and hard choices. And Aaron—Aaron would be fine.

Back home, Bobby struggled to dial Coco’s number. After he joined the Bureau, life wouldn’t be a struggle at all.

After what felt like a bazillion rings, Coco answered, his voice flat and without tone. “The wake is tomorrow. How am I going to manage?”

“You will. I’ll be there with you.”

“I was going to mention that you might want to skip that, dude. There’s a lot of talk that Sheriff Barclay has slid off the deep end. He’s kind of unhinged. Says he’s getting ready to arrest you for Dana’s murder.”

“That’s ridiculous. He’s not even on the case.”

“I know. But the man has a gun. And he’s been drinking even more than usual. The troopers have taken over, but who knows? I’d keep a low profile.”

“He’s crazy with pain. Who wouldn’t be? Dana was his only daughter. Don’t blame the poor guy for wanting to take it out on someone. Which is another reason our little mission today is important. If we solve the murder, for real, Barclay can get off the ledge.”

“You got a lot of confidence in this weird ability of yours, don’t you, numbnuts?”

“I do,” Bobby said with total conviction.

An hour later, Coco pulled up in his lemon-colored Bug and, meeting Bobby on the front stoop, bent his long frame to tie his sneakers. “I was just thinking,” he said. “What if Sheriff Barclay isn’t crazy with grief? What if he’s crazy with guilt?”

“What do you mean?”

Coco stood to his full, lanky height and looked directly at Bobby. Bobby squinted, trying to bring him into focus.

“What I mean is that Sheriff Barclay abused Dana. She was just starting to get the courage to tell me about it. What if she threatened to tell everyone? What if he killed her and made it look like the serial killer did it?”

Bobby rubbed his chin. “I—I don’t know. That never occurred to me. I don’t think—”

“What makes you so sure your spooky ability is infallible?”

“I don’t know, Coco. Maybe if we investigate, I’ll pick up more details. Maybe there’s something I missed.”

They drove to Coco’s house, parked, and hiked from his back yard down the trail that fed into the same tract of woods that bordered the ball field. Bobby realized quickly that, although the colors around him remained saturated and bright, they now bled together in a feathery blur, the details smoothed out and softened. In the shadow of the thick woods, it was getting harder to see. He grabbed a long stick to help him follow the darkening trail.

“You okay, buddy? Your eyes giving you trouble?”

He turned to Coco. “I’ll let you know if I need your help. Right now, I’m fine.”

“Stubborn putz,” Coco muttered.

They walked like that for what seemed miles before Bobby picked up the subtle vibration. He was surprised and pleased that there wasn’t the slightest sign of a headache as the visions started to pour in. He wondered if the medication Dr. Constantine had given him was responsible.

The trail led them to a steep incline, over rocks and tree stumps. Though it was getting harder to see, Bobby still refused any help from Coco.

“This isn’t boot camp, Pendell. Lighten up.”

“Shut it. You’re messing with my process.”

“Umm, Bobby, there’s a big, uh, disruption to your process a few yards ahead, and it isn’t a bear. Unless bears know how to aim rifles.”

“What?” A little further up the path was a large, blurred figure. A figure he recognized instantly.