HEAR (15 page)

“I guess that's your blind spot,” Pankaj says with a shrug. “ You can't see him, not really.”

I snort. “ You're making it sound like he's a serial killer or something!”

“Not a
serial
killer . . .” he says, but not in a “that's completely out of the question” tone of voice. “I am saying that his motives in testing ESP and our minds are in no way as pure as he claims. Especially not for someone with his background.”

I get a tingling at the back of my spine. “How much do you know about his background?”

Pankaj takes my left arm and turns it to glance at my Rolex, the one he won for me. It hasn't left my wrist; I feel protected wearing it somehow, like it's one of Wonder Woman's cuffs. It's 8:50. We have ten minutes until the others arrive.

“Follow me.” He hurries out of the lab before I can protest, so I trail him down the hallway to the stairs. He opens the door and descends two flights before exiting on a basement level and strides quickly to the end of a bare cinder-block hallway lit with harsh fluorescent bulbs. He stops in front of an unmarked door. After glancing around to make sure we're completely alone, he leans close and starts to whisper.

“Kass, I want to tell you something. I waited until now because I wasn't sure you were ready to hear it. But as soon as I landed on campus a few weeks ago and shook hands with the professor, I knew something was off. I started digging right away. When you all went to dinner that first night you were here, I was in the library doing research on him. It actually felt like I was getting somewhere when Dan found me and forced me to come out with you guys.”

So
that's
why he was so pissed off that night. He flashes a rueful grin, as if reading my thoughts, which for all I know, he is. I sigh. “What did you find?”

“One roll of microfilm had images copied from your uncle's old lab notebook. For whatever reason, someone had taken pictures of every page in that notebook to make the film. But I couldn't make heads or tails of most of it because it seemed to be about drug development and testing.”

“Something to magnify the brain's response to ESP?”

“Exactly. I found lots of notes that were case histories of some sort. They all included a photo of the subject then listed bizarre details about their love lives, like
S, twenty years old. Not interested in food. Hears conversations in rooms where she's not present. In love for sixteen days
.”

“That's . . . weird.”

He leans closer to me now; his amber eyes seem to take up my entire field of vision. “No kidding. They were
all
like that.
K, seventeen years old. Increased heart rate. Sweaty palms. Correctly predicted path of tornado. Told girlfriend of six weeks he loved her.
”

“Are you trying to tell me that my great-uncle is studying love? That
love
somehow magnifies ESP?”

Pankaj's eyes are searching now; he knows how ridiculous it sounds. “Like I said, I needed more time, but one of the things in your uncle's file was an article by Freud. It's about how the brain works differently when it experiences obsessive feelings of love. That was followed by a sheet of paper with only three words, in your uncle's handwriting:
Blinded by love
. And when I started thinking about it, there was a certain logic to it. When people are blind, their other senses sharpen and become more acute, like their hearing and sense of smell, right?”

I nod. My heart is pounding, and I'm not sure why. “Right.”

“So if you're in love and your brain is being flooded by all these different chemicals and neurotransmitters, you may have a certain tunnel vision, but it may well give you
extra
sensory perception too.”

What he's saying also aligns with Mara's contention that when she's most emotionally engaged, her “vision and her
visions
” are stronger. And then, of course, my uncle's own words echo back to me:
But when I was with Ellen, those largely latent talents became activated, practically supercharged. I
did
have a gift like yours. And when Ellen died, that part of me died with her.

But on the other hand, my own experience with Pete Lewis doesn't fit the pattern. He broke my heart, and then I completely missed the looming disaster. I don't necessarily want to bring Pete up, but I need to understand this.

“What are you thinking?” Pankaj asks, perhaps out of politeness. I can't help but wonder if he already knows. I glance at my fancy Rolex. It's 8:58, two minutes before we need to be upstairs and pretend nothing's going on.

“Okay. So right before I got busted by the cops, I was hanging out with the guy I'd been obsessed with.”

“Oh,” he says evenly. “And?”

“And being with him not only
didn't
tip me off that something bad was about to go down; it pushed me to do the very thing that got me caught.”

Pankaj shrugs. “I guess that's not so surprising either, is it? People who are in love do crazy stuff all the time. They're more ‘suggestible' when they're in that state.” He looks down. “And there are always stories about the stupid things people do because they've been spurned by their lovers.”

I swallow hard, embarrassed. “So it's a double-edged sword,” I say out loud.
All that chemical stimulation can make you hypersensitive, but it can also make you reckless.

Pankaj heads toward the stairwell. “We should head back to the lab. But later this afternoon I'm going to go back to the library and check out more of his files on the microfilm.”

The word reminds me of the little canister of negatives burning a hole in my pocket. “Hey, do you know any places around here where I could get film developed?”

He smiles. “ You use a camera that's not part of your phone? Do you do Civil War reenactments too?”

“No . . . I just have some old negatives I want to get processed. No big deal.”

“What's on them?” Pankaj scans my face.

I know he immediately understands that I've stolen the film from my uncle. He also understands that the research project that he'd gotten started when I first arrived is about to become even more intense.

“Go now,” he says. “I'll hang back here for another minute so we aren't seen walking into the lab together. At the end of the day, we also leave separately. But you'll meet me in town at five
p.m
. in front of that CVS on Horner Street. Got me?”

I nod. “I got you,” I say over my shoulder, and finally start to feel somewhat better.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

At 5:01 that afternoon, Pankaj and I are stepping through the sliding glass doors of the CVS. I pause, breathing in carpet freshener and recycled air-conditioned air.

“I don't want to sound too paranoid, but I'm wondering whose eyeballs will see the pictures before we do,” I whisper to him.

Pankaj shrugs. “I did some Googling at lunch, and aside from the Henley photo lab, which we
de
fi
nitely
don't want to use, this is the only place near here that develops thirty-five millimeter film. I think it's our only option.”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” I reply, trying to force myself to believe it.

A pale guy with unnaturally black slicked-back hair mans the register in the photo center. Though he's wearing the regulation red polo and khakis, his sideburns and tats (red dice, a vintage camera, 1940s pinup model) betray his rockabilly style. His name tag reads
zander
. We stand there for a moment waiting to get the guy's attention, but his eyes are cast down as he looks at something just below the counter.

“Uh . . .
Zander?
” I finally say.

He looks up, dazed. “Dude, sorry about that.” He waves his phone at us. “Just watching the latest news update on that shooting.” He gives a “world's gone crazy” eye roll. “Anyways. How can I help you?”

Interest piqued, Pankaj holds up his index finger. “What did the news say? Did they find the shooter?”

Zander shakes his head. “No. Turned out to be a fluffy feel-good piece about a victim getting released from the hospital. No mention of the loose gun nut.” He leans over the counter, closer to us. “I think it's 'cause they've run out of leads and just want the public to relax.”

Pankaj and I nod back.

“So, I have some negatives for processing?” I put the roll of film on the counter, continuing to hold it for a moment as I try to make up my mind about the guy.

“Old school,” he says, taking the roll from my hands. “Okay, no problem.” He takes a pen and starts filling out an order form. “How many copies of each do you want? And do you want glossy or matte?”

“Just one set. Glossy's good.”

“When will they be ready?” Pankaj asks.

“Like, two to three weeks.”

“Weeks?” Pankaj replies. “How is that even possible?”

“I know, right?” Zander flips his hands out, exposing the tattoo on his inner arm: a boxy black camera with
leica
emblazoned on the lens cap. He gives a sympathetic look. “It's like they send them to China for processing. Actually, that would probably be faster. But they have to go to a lab in Georgia.”

I try to get a read on this guy. He clearly digs old-time photography. And while I sense he's not above helping himself to stuff off the shelves of this store, I also pick up an honor-among-thieves vibe. In short: I see him helping us. “ You wouldn't be able to do it any faster, would you?”

“Kass, he just said they have to send them to Georgia.”

I shake my head. “I'm just thinking that Zander probably knows his way around a darkroom.” I throw a smile at him, a smile that says,
I have faith in you; you can do this; you
will
do this!
“I'll pay you whatever you think is fair. I just need these back fast. Like, as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

His eyes dart around the store, making sure his manager's out of earshot. “Fifty bucks, tomorrow morning?” he breathes.

“Deal.” I flash another smile. “And we'll keep this between us.”

Zander nods and pockets the negatives. “Cool.”

Pankaj and I head for the door.

He waits until we're outside before saying anything. As he steers us back to campus, he shakes his head. “Must admit, Miss Black, that was impressive. How did you know to ask if he could print the pictures? You get some sort of read on him?”

Though I'd like to take credit for sixth-sensing it, I tell Pankaj the truth. “Well, I
did
get the feeling he was inclined to help us. But his tattoo sealed it. I just put two and two together.”

He nods. “Legacy might be smarter than I've given her credit for.”

“A lot smarter, Rocket.”

“I have an idea,”
Pankaj says as we walk back up Horner Street. “It's a good one.” He grabs my hand and drags me to a side street off the square.

I have no idea where we're going, but the block is full of quirky local shops selling things from decorative toddler socks to designer dog accessories. Because the sun is setting, everything is bathed in a pink-and-golden glow, and it reminds me what a great place Henley is—what a great place it
should
be—to go to school.

I keep my eyes on Pankaj when he drops my hand and takes a few steps ahead. He opens one of the shop doors and motions me inside. As I enter and take in the scent of Cece's Ice Cream's freshly baked waffle cones, my mouth starts to water.

“When you're right, you're right,” I say. “This may be your best idea yet.”

Grinning, Pankaj walks to the counter. “A cone of mint chip, please.”

“That's my favorite too!” I exclaim far too gleefully.

“I know. I was ordering that for you. I don't like ice cream.” He gives me a serious nod, but as my eyes widen in disbelief, he breaks out laughing. “Kidding! Who doesn't love ice cream?” He turns back to the boy at the counter. “
Two
cones of mint chip, please.”

We finish our ice cream in the shop, and as we're leaving, he again takes my hand. I shiver from the touch and move closer to him as we walk down the deserted block.

“This is probably where your uncle's experiments with mind control would get interesting,” he whispers.

As I feel his breath on my ear, my whole body begins to tingle. “Mind control?”

“ You know, the dark essence of his life's work.”

“Come on, that's not fair. You can't say that.” I'm beginning to feel defensive again; I'm the only one allowed to question my family's questionable nature.

“ You know it's true. The real reason why he wants people to become suggestible? He wants to be able to control how people act, what they do.”

“Stop. That's a vicious, twisted lie . . .” I try to stay focused on my point, but with him so close, I lose track of what I was saying. “What do you even mean by that anyway?”

“Well, say I wanted you to kiss me right now.” He doesn't break eye contact with me as he speaks.

I shake my head.
That's not going to happen.
The boy is trouble. I know this, and obviously I don't need any more trouble in my life. He can want me to kiss him, but I won't do it. I did it before, but that was simply to prevent his ass from getting kicked. The fact that he was a great kisser was just a nice surprise . . .

“Sure,” he says, dropping my hand and nodding. Then he turns and runs, hanging a left at the first corner, about twenty yards away.

“Hey!” I yell, sprinting to catch up and dashing into the alley after him. Pankaj is breathing heavily and smiles when he sees me. “What was—” I gasp, watching him shake his head as he approaches, backing me against the wall.

And then I'm kissing him. Yanking him closer to me. We move as if we've always known this choreography. My brain feels wiped clean, and I'm aware of nothing but physical sensations. I let my hands explore his back. He kisses the skin on the side of my neck up to my ear, and my whole body warms.

When our eyes finally connect again, he pulls back and blinks slowly several times. He flicks his hair off his forehead then brushes my hair off my face. Closing my eyes again, I hear him say, “What if I told you I implanted the idea to do that in your head?”

My eyes snap open. “What? No you didn't. I did that because I wanted to.”

“Well, that's really nice to hear, but . . .” He shakes his head and presses his lips together. “ You know what? Forget it. Let's just leave it at that.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me what you were going to say.”

“Five seconds before we started kissing, you were offended that I'd slandered your uncle. You basically called me a liar, didn't you?”

This is hard to deny because it's completely true. “Well . . .”

“Well, I would be lying if I didn't admit I find it kind of hot that you get turned on when you're repulsed.”

“Ew!” My head rears back, smacking the wall. “Ow! Gross!”

“Does that mean you want to kiss me again?” Pankaj asks.

Maddeningly, the answer is yes, though I will not admit it, or even think it if I can help myself.

“Okay, so you're trying to prove what?” I reply.

“That I really wanted you to kiss me,” he whispers. “So I was doing my best to put that idea in your head. The experiments your uncle has been running with us—establishing ‘limbic resonance' so we can
in
fl
uence
cards—that's only a few steps away from this.”

“But he's doing that because—” And then I get a flash: an idea that not only might make me feel more confident about what my uncle's up to but might also help him make his case to the Internal Review Board.

“What?” Pankaj asks. “What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking about that archive in the library. It's part of public record, right?”

His head tilts slightly. “What are you suggesting?”

“I want to believe in my uncle's basic goodness. There must be
something
in those files that shows he's looking for a way to help, something that shows
why
he left the CIA and came here to Henley. If we're lucky, we'll prove that he didn't know how his work would be perverted. That he really does have only the best intentions.”

Pankaj slaps his hand to his forehead. “I don't know what Kool-Aid you drank—”

“I'm serious. The possibility at least exists, doesn't it?” I bite my lip. “Be honest.”

“Honestly?” He pauses, looks at the ground, and when he finally looks back into my eyes, his face is serious. “I know very little, but here's what I
honestly
think: you're beautiful, you're brilliant, and you're a badass. Kass, I find you blindingly attractive, and nothing else is as true to me.”

I reach for him, putting my hands around the back of his neck, and pull him to me. My eyes close, and that's when the pain roars through my head. I see flames. This is the clearest vision I've had yet: fire licks a window frame; I hear the crackle of the wood as it burns; I feel the heat of the blaze on my cheeks.

My eyes open.

Pankaj yells, “Fire!”

“Oh God!” I whisper.

I catch a whiff of what I fear is the smell of burning skin.

“Where is it?” Pankaj asks.

I don't have any idea
, I say silently, reading the terror in his eyes.