Curse (Blur Trilogy Book 3) (17 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Tane’s snoring doesn’t let up, even when we slow down and exit the highway.

“He must need to catch up on his sleep,” Al
ys
ha whispers.

“I guess so.”

“So you’ve been quiet for a while.”

“Just thinking. Looking at the scenery.”

“Hey.” She pats my knee. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how you knew there were seventy-two cars back at the parking garage. There couldn’t have been time to count them.”

“I do it without thinking. Numbers. Math. It’s like this constant thing going on in the back of my mind.”

“Sure, no, I get that . . .” Our driver makes a turn, taking us onto a quiet country road lined with horse fields. “So, you said you were looking at the scenery. Describe it to me. What do you see?”

“Fourteen horses. Some rolling hills in the background. It all looks really peaceful. Blue sky. White clouds.” Then I catch myself. “Wait. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you, does it? The colors blue or white.”

“Not exactly. Tell me about the sk
y—
not how it looks, but how it makes you feel when you look at it.”

“Okay, so let’s see. Think of warm sunlight on your face. Or maybe touching velvet or silk with your fingers.”

“Okay.”

“Now imagine listening to Rush.”

“Rush?”

“The band.”

“I don’t know their music.”

“How could you not know Rush?”

“Sorry.”

“
Tom Sawyer
?
Fly by Night
?
The Spirit of Radio
?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Alysha, we’re seriously going to need to introduce you to some contemporary culture when all this is done.”

“Sorry.”

“Okay, well then, think of the most beautiful music you ever heard.”

“Mozart.”

“Oh. Well, okay. I guess.”

“Not a fan of classical music?”

“Not so much, but we’ll go with it. So, the sunlight, the silk, the music. That’s what the sky is like today out there, only for my eyes.”

“It’s beautiful.” Her voice is soft, almost reverent.

We ride for a couple of minutes in silence.

“Daniel, have you ever heard the story of ‘The Country of the Blind’ by H. G. Wells?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was first published like a hundred years ago. When you said that about the colors not making sense to me, you made me think of it.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s been a while since I read it—Braille, you know.”

“Sure.”

“As I remember, there’s this mountain climber in the Andes Mountains. I don’t know if this is exactl
y
accurate, but I’ll just tell it to
yo
u. One night he goes out to find some rocks for a shelter or something and ends up slipping down a glacier. He survives, but he discovers that on all sides he’s surrounded b
y
these sheer cliffs thousands of feet high. The onl
y
thing he can do is make his wa
y
down into the valle
y.
Eventuall
y,
he comes to some llamas grazing there, and then, farther down, he finds a village. All the homes lie along a single road. Ever
y
one of them is windowless and awkwardl
y
built with strange angles. Then he sees the people. When he waves to them, the
y
don’t respond. Finall
y,
when the
y
turn their heads, he realizes that the
y
have no e
yes—j
ust shriveled slits of skin where their e
ye
balls should be.”

“That reminds me of the type of story a couple of my friends, Kyle and Mia, might tell. For them, the creepier the better. But, sorr
y—y
ou were saying?”

“Turns out, the climber had heard legends about this place before, but he didn’t think they were true. According to the stories, all the people in the village, because of some birth defect or disease, are born with no eyes. It’d been going on for so long that everyone there had forgotten about everything dealing with sight, and even that there was any world at all outside of their valley.”

“What happens to him?”

“A couple of the men feel his face, his eyes, and they’re shocked—they think something is growing there that shouldn’t be. When he tries to explain that he was climbing on the mountain, they have no idea what he’s talking about. They think he’s insane. Eventually, they take him to their elders to try to figure out what they should do with him.”

“I’ll bet he amazes them with his stories of life beyond the valley.”

“That’s the thing. He tries to, but it doesn’t work. He tells them about sunlight on waves, and glowing clouds at dusk and the thousands of shades of green in the forest. He talks about sprawling cities and technolog
y
and civilizatio
n—e
ver
yt
hin
g—a
nd the
y
think it’s all a fair
y
tale too strange to be true. The more he explains about what he sees, the more the
y
think he’s mad. Time goes b
y.
Because of the cliffs, he can’t leave the valle
y.
Eventuall
y
he and this
yo
ung woman fall in love. But the elders still think he’s insane and the
y
figure that the problem is the growths on his face.”

“Oh. His eyes.”

“Right. They talk it over and eventually tell him that he can only marry her if he’ll let them remove the growths. And then, also, he needs to renounce all his stories and agree that there’s no world beyond the valley. And he must never speak of those things again.”

“So, basically, agree to live a lie.”

“In a sense, yeah, although I never really thought of it like that. Huh . . . In any case, he loves her so much and he wants to be with her so badly that he decides to let them poke out his eyes.”

The road we’re on ends about a quarter mile ahead of us at an elaborate sculpted metal gate.

The horse fence also terminates there, and since we’re starting to slow down again, I’m guessing that’s our destination.

“On the night before they’re going to do it, he steps out to look at the stars one last time. And as he does, he remembers the climb and falling into the valley and the old life he used to have. And there, in the starlight, he notices a crack in the rock face that he hadn’t really paid much attention to before. And so he needs to make a decision: What’s more important, being with the woman he loves but knowing that he would be living a lie, or pursuing the chance to be free?”

“And lose her forever.”

“Yes.”

“What does he choose?”

“The story ends with him starting to climb.”

“We never find out if he makes it out alive?”

“We never do.”

“But he decides to leave the one he loves.”

“Yes, to be with the truth. Which he loves more.”

As I’m contemplating that, our driver pulls up to the security gate.

At last Tane stirs, rubs his e
ye
s, and looks around. “Where are we?”

“We’re here,” the driver tells him. Then the gate swings open and he takes us up a long curving driveway that ends in front of an expansive southern mansion.

Mia reappeared on the staircase and told Kyle and Nicole, “Alright, here’s the deal: Sue Ellen’s cool with us going, as long as we come back tonight. We have until eleven. We need to be careful, drive safe, you know, the whole routine, but we’re good to go if you’re still up for it.”

“Let’s do it,” Kyle said. “Let’s go.”

“It’s a good thing that I’m eighteen or this would never happen.”

“And that you’re so responsible.”

“That too.”

Nicole rose. “My purse is in the other room. I’ll meet you two at the car.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I figure that senators probably make a pretty good living, but this place seems like way more than I would expect from someone who’s just a politician.

A distinguished-looking man who’s maybe ten years older than my dad is standing out front waiting for us, hands clasped behind his back.

As we get out of the car, he greets us each with a brisk handshake and introduces himself as Senator Brad Amundsen. Once he has our names, he ushers us inside. “Come on. Let’s see what
yo
u can do to help me find Petra.”

His lavish living room sprawls the entire length of the house.

He scrolls across a tablet computer and an automated video screen lowers on the far wall as the blinds dial sideways. I assume it’s to shut out the sunlight so it’ll be easier to see what’s projected up there.

“Has there been any word on Malcolm?” he asks me, probably because I’m the one he’s been speaking with on the phone.

“No. And no one except for you has called his cell.”

I fill him in on what little we know about the circumstances surrounding Malcolm’s disappearance.

“Well, he trusts you,” he says, “and that’s enough for me. He said you’ve all helped find missing people through your visions, or whatever you want to call—wait, forgive my manners; I’m just anxious to get started. Before we move forward, can I offer you anything to eat or drink?”

The last meal I had was Sue Ellen’s southern dinner last night, so I accept the offer, and I’m glad when Tane and Alysha do as well so I won’t seem rude by being the only one eating.

The senator directs his cook to prepare some lunch for us, then as she leaves, he asks about my shoulder, how I hurt it. Leaving out the part about the blur, I explain that a truck bumped into me, but that I’m alright.

“Bumped?”

“With an attitude. Really, I’m fine.”

“Okay, well . . .” He shifts his attention to the tablet again. “How much did Malcolm tell you about what’s happened to Petra?”

“Very little,” Alysha answers. “Just that she has visions too, and that she was taken.”

“Okay.”

He taps at his computer.

A college graduation photo of a
yo
ung woman appears on the wall’s video screen. Blond. Prett
y.
Somewhat lonel
y-
looking.

“She was a double major in accounting and engineering.”

“So, good at math?” I ask.

“That and logic. Yes. Extraordinarily good.”

Okay. There it is again—analytical thinking, that trait we all have in common.

The senator points to the screen. “I wasn’t sure what to pull up here, but I have links to her online photo albums, social media posts, and microblogs. I don’t know all her passwords, but we should be able to at least review most of her profiles.”

More pictures flow past us, and we describe them to Alysha as they do—some formal, some informal. Indoors. Outdoors. Selfies. Group photos.

In most of them, Petra appears content, but not especially happy, and I wonder how much of that is just her personality or how much is a result of her being troubled by her blurs.

Reviewing these pictures reminds me of looking through the photos of Grandpa that Mom sent me yesterday. My memory’s clearer than it was when I woke up this morning, and now I can recall having the revelation that the boy in the road was really a blur of me as a child.

I’m caught in the middle of three mysteries.

Petra’s kidnapping.

Malcolm’s disappearance.

My own recent blurs.

Three completely different puzzles.

Yet, as varied as they are, I can’t shake the feeling that they’re all related, and that somehow each of them holds the key to unlocking the others.

“Petra’s visions started soon after my marriage to her mother ended four years ago,” Senator Amundsen explains. “Petra was seventeen at the time. My ex-wife was going through some difficult personal issues and Petra ended up in my custody. What else can I tell you? Petra hasn’t had an easy go of it either. She takes antipsychotic meds.”

He mentions the name of the drugs and I recognize them from when I was researching medications last year. The doctors had wanted me to take them too. Pretty powerful stuff.

“She needs them every day.” He looks at us urgently. “I’m not sure how going without them for these last few days will affect her.”

Alysha has put on her dark sunglasses. I’m not sure why. “Have there been any news reports about her disappearance?”

“No. The kidnappers were ver
y
clea
r—n
o media. No one else besides the driver that I sent to pick
yo
u up knows she’s gon
e—w
ell, and Malcolm. She was taken on Frida
y
night. She’d just left the hotel where she works as an accountant. She was walking to her car when . . . Well . . .”

He loses his train of thought for a moment and stares off into space.

Obviously, thinking about his daughter’s abduction is hard for him.

However, overall, he seems remarkably poised and clear-headed for a man who’s going through something like this.

At last, he goes on. “I had one of my staff members obtain the security footage from the hotel’s exterior camera. The angle isn’t quite right and the camera must be old because the image is grainy and black and white, but you can at least see what happens.” He scrolls across his tablet. “Here, I’ll pull it up.”

Though Alysha can’t see him, she sits directly facing him, no doubt zeroing in on where he is by the sound of his voice. “Is there sound?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He finds the file and opens it.

In the footage, Petra approaches a car, then crosses the street to where a woman is standing beside a minivan. It looks like she’s calming down a baby that she has in her arms.

The woman hands Petra the child, and while she’s distracted, the minivan’s side door whips open, and a man grabs Petra.

As he drags her backward and she struggles to get free, she drops everything.

The woman picks up Petra’s purse, and what is now obviously a doll that was wrapped in the blankets, before closing the minivan’s door.

Soon, the minivan pulls away and the woman takes off in Petra’s car.

Because of the shadows and angles, it’s impossible to see the face of either of the two kidnappers.

We watch it a second time and I explain to Alysha what’s happening.

Suddenly, it hits me. “That’s the same minivan.”

“What do you mean?”

“The minivan they’re using. It’s the same one that was in the parking garage next to where Tane found Malcolm’s phone. The plates. They match.”

She gasps. “But you don’t think they had Malcolm in it while we were there? I mean, do you?”

I don’t know what to say.

It’s a terrible thought—that we might have been that close and missed our chance to help him.

In anger, Tane smacks the arm of his chair.

I turn to the senator. “I know you’re not supposed to contact the police, but do you have anyone who could check the parking garage to see if that minivan is still there?”

“Absolutely.”

I verif
y
that he has the correct location and he makes the call. When he’s done, I ask him if he can rewind the video.

“To where?”

“To just before Petra was taken. I want to see when those people drove up, how long they were waiting for her.”

He has to back it up ten minutes to find when the minivan rolls to a stop beside the curb. The woman gets out and wraps that doll in the blanket. A moment later, the man steps out as well and speaks with her briefly before climbing back in to wait for Petra.

This time, though, I can see the guy’s face, and, apparently Tane notices the same thing I do. “Daniel, that’s the guy who was shooting at us by the elevator, isn’t it?”

“It sure looks like it.”

Senator Amundsen glances at us curiously. “What are you talking about?”

“After Malcolm disappeared,” I tell him, “a man—that man—came after us, tried to kill us. Senator, when did you first realize Petra had been kidnapped?”

“It wasn’t until the middle of the night. I’d flown back from D.C. to do some work here at the house for an important Senate inquiry. I arrived home at just a little after ten. Rather than get her own place, Petra stays here at the estate, over in the east wing of the house.”

He gestures toward where that is. “Since I haven’t been home much in the last few months, I was hoping to sa
y
hi to her, but in the end, I was exhausted and went to bed around eleven. Sometime before dawn, m
y
phone rang and woke me up. The call came from her number, but when I answered it, it wasn’t her. A man’s voice told me to check m
y
emai
l—t
hat’s it, that’s al
l—t
hen he hung up. When I opened m
y
email, I found the video, the one with their demands.”

As he explains all this, he begins staring at the screen on the wall, an empty look shadowing his eyes.

“I tried calling back to her number but no one answered. Her car is still missing. No texts. No messages. No more emails. I contacted the phone company and they told me there haven’t been any outgoing calls from her phone since that one was made in the middle of the night. I tried to track her cell through one of those locate-your-phone apps, but I couldn’t find it.”

“Is it possible to see the video?” I ask. “The one the kidnappers sent you?”

“Of course.” He taps at the tablet and an image of Petra seated on a cot appears on the video screen. “And for this one, there is sound.”

He presses “Play.”

And the video begins.