Thirst No. 5 (19 page)

“I might have picked up a bug.”

“Bullshit. I’m worried you’ve bruised your brain. There could be internal swelling. That’s nothing to fool with.”

“If that was the case I wouldn’t be up and walking around.”

“For your information you can hardly walk. Plus I gave you a few drops of my blood. It might be masking your symptoms. You have to go to the hospital.” I stand. “I’m not going to take no for an answer anymore. I’m calling for an ambulance.”

He reaches out and grabs my hand. “Don’t, Sita, please. I can’t leave you. I can’t explain but I need you to trust me. I have to stay with you.”

“What if you die?”

“Then it was meant to be.”

I go to snap at him, impatient, but there is something in his voice that makes me stop. He does not say the old phrase in a casual way. He means it, or rather, he knows that’s the case. I sit back down, still holding on to his hand.

“Will you ever tell me who you are?” I ask.

“You’ll figure it out.”

“You’re an alien. You’ve been sent to earth to screw with our minds.”

He lays his head back on the pillows. “I wish there were supernatural beings like that. Who would come to earth and make everything all better.”

“With three hundred billion stars in the Milky Way, there must be someone out there who is curious about us. Perhaps someone billions of years more evolved than us.”

“So advanced they would seem like gods to us?” he says.

“Yes.”

He stares at me a long time. “You’re thinking of Krishna.”

I hesitate. “I think about him a lot. But no, I was thinking about something else. A weird dream I had once.”

“A dream?”

“Yeah, a dream. Why do you act so surprised?”

“Seymour wrote about it in his story about your life. Those people you met in the desert. The ones who sent you back in time, to the Middle Ages. To an earlier version of yourself.”

I don’t know why but my face is suddenly flush with blood as if I’m embarrassed. It’s worse, actually, I feel as if he is talking openly about a deeply buried sin of mine.

“What Seymour wrote in his book never really happened,” I say. “He was picking up my thoughts, it’s true, but certain events got distorted in the process. I never went back in time.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Now you’re being silly.” I let go of his hand and step to the window. Thirty stories below us Times Square bustles with crowds looking for a place to eat lunch. It’s one forty-five in the afternoon. I add, “If you did happen to read that part of Seymour’s story, then you know I died at the end. So you can see what I mean by distortion.”

“I’m not saying he got everything a hundred percent accurate. But the idea that you were able to go into the past, your past, and correct a mistake was fascinating. Something must have inspired it.”

“I just told you, it was a dream.”

“How did he latch onto your dream?”

“I don’t know, how did he write about me at all? We’re close, it’s a mystery. Let’s leave it at that, all right?”

“You brought it up. I assumed you wanted to talk about it.” He pauses. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

I turn back to him. “The only thing that upsets me right now is your fever. It’s getting worse. At the hospital they can do a procedure where they drill a tiny hole in your skull. It sounds
gruesome but it’s a relatively simple operation. If your brain is bruised and swelling, then it gives the buildup of fluid a way out. It acts as an escape valve. They do it and I bet that your fever goes away in thirty minutes.”

“You’re not used to taking no for an answer, are you?”

“No.”

He sighs. “We don’t have time.”

I stride back to the bed. “I know that. But we have nowhere to go right now. So the hospital can’t hurt.”

“We don’t know
exactly
where to go. But there’s a good chance this Nevada facility is crucial. Why don’t we head that way while I try to break into Larson’s computer?”

“Sarah Goodwin was abducted on the East Coast. I’m not willing to leave this part of the country until I’m convinced she’s elsewhere.” I pause. “How long do you think it’s going to take you to hack into that thing?”

Mr. Grey considers. “If I haven’t broken through the firewall in four hours, I’m not going to break in.”

I pick up his food tray and step toward the door. “I’ll let you work. If you suddenly feel like you’re dying, give a holler.”

“Wait, Sita?”

I stop at the door. “Yes?”

“When you and Matt were gone, I overheard Seymour and Brutran talking about a small book you recovered at the Goodwins’ house. I got the impression it’s about the Veil of Veronica.”

“That’s right. But I haven’t been able to read it. It’s in code.”

“Would you like me to take a look at it?”

“Sure. But I can’t distract you from Larson’s computer. You know finding Sarah has to be our top priority.”

“What if there’s something in the book that helps us locate her?”

“It’s centuries old. I hardly think it can help us—”

He interrupts. “We don’t know what can help. Leave me the book.” He pauses. “As long as you trust me with it.”

“I trust you more than you know.” Pulling the book from my back pocket, I hand it over. Once more I step toward the door. “If you should translate it, don’t show it to anyone except me. But if for any reason I’m not here, keep it to yourself.”

“Are you planning a small trip?”

I open the door. “Work,” I say.

In the main living space that connects our suites, I hand the half-finished glass of milk Mr. Grey was drinking to Brutran. I’m careful to only touch the top rim and the bottom, and I set it down on a table beside her.

“What’s this?” she asks. Jolie lies on the sofa beside her, reading a book. I can hear Seymour napping in his room and Matt is playing that damn game in the other.

“This glass has Mr. Grey’s fingerprints all over it. Do whatever it is you have to do but get it dusted. You should have no trouble getting a clear specimen. Then contact whoever it is
who handles your dirty work at the FBI and run the fingerprint through their database.”

“You want Mr. Grey’s real name and address,” Brutran says.

“I want it fast.”

Brutran carefully lifts the glass and stands. “There’s a store near here where I can buy what I need. Can you watch Jolie?”

“It will be my pleasure.” I take Brutran’s place on the sofa and watch as she empties the milk into the sink, then collects her bag. I add, “Talk to me when you return.”

“You’re not working with Matt?” she asks.

I give her a look. I don’t have to say anything.

T
hree hours later I land at Logan International Airport in Boston. I took our Gulfstream IV. I enjoyed the time alone in the air. In my pocket is a paper that contains a faxed photograph of a driver’s license that belongs to Joel Grey of 14742 Barney Drive, Lawrence, Massachusetts. Birth date November 12, 1975.

The picture is black-and-white, but there’s no mistaking that it’s our mysterious Mr. Grey—who, damn my romantic nature, suddenly feels a lot less special somehow. The guy is married to Kathleen Grey, and Brutran’s FBI contact says he has two children: a son and a daughter, ten-year-old Hal and six-month-old Sally.

The FBI contact said Kathleen Grey filed a missing-person report two months ago. It concerned her husband.

Two months ago. That was when my world suddenly
turned upside down. When the Telar sent an assassin to my country home in Missouri to dispose of me. The same day Lisa showed up at my door with her boyfriend and told me about Brutran’s IIC. Since then my life has been a living hell.

Sounds like I haven’t been alone.

I have the Greys’ phone number but don’t call ahead. After renting a car at the airport, I drive straight to the Grey residence. I don’t know what kind of career Kathleen has but I’m hoping with such a young child she’ll be at home. Who knows, maybe anxiously waiting by the phone for word on her missing husband.

The residence is a modest three-bedroom redbrick affair that looks like it was built before homes cost more than a year’s salary. It sits at the end of a cozy cul-de-sac but the lawn needs cutting and the windows are dusty and I can’t help but figure it’s because the man of the house has been gone longer than expected. Knocking at the door, I pray Mr. Grey didn’t tell his wife he was going around the block to get a carton of milk or diapers for the baby just before he disappeared.

Kathleen Grey answers with Sally Grey in her hands. She peeks through the curtains before opening the door. I suppose I look harmless enough. Go figure, I’ve killed more people than anyone alive, except perhaps whoever happens to be currently occupying the White House.

“Kathleen Grey? I’m Special Agent Lara Wine,” I say, flashing an FBI badge Brutran was thoughtful enough to pick up for me while she was busy tracking down Mr. Grey’s
fingerprints. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” I ask.

She pales at my question, and with her sunny hair and tan complexion the lack of color is a stretch. My unexpected appearance frightens her. She assumes I bring bad news. However, the woman isn’t weak. She’s not the type to turn heads but I can see the strength in her face and the intelligence behind her hazel eyes.

“Is this about Joel?” she asks anxiously.

“Please, relax, I’m not a bearer of bad news. I should have called ahead, I’m sorry. But I thought maybe we should talk in person. May I come in?”

“Do you know Agent David Waters?” she asks. Smart girl. She’s testing me; there is no such agent.

“I haven’t heard of him. Does he work out of the downtown office?”

“Excuse me, I probably got his name wrong.” She opens the door. “Come in. Please forgive the mess. I was just about to give my daughter a bath.”

We sit across from each other in the living room. Sally bounces on her mother’s knee and stares at me with eyes so big and green she looks like she was born with the luck of the Irish. Boston should be a perfect place for her to grow up.

I dive right in. “May I ask a few questions about Joel before I bring you up to date?” I say.

Kathleen is puzzled. “Questions? I told the police and the FBI everything I know.”

“I’m sure you did. But to be frank, I’m not familiar with all the ins and outs of your husband’s case. My link to Mr. Grey is via another case. I’ll explain in a minute. But first, give me a quick rundown on when and where Joel disappeared?”

“You want me to start at the beginning?”

“If it would not be too much trouble.”

“It happened two months ago. He left one morning to go to work but he never arrived. They called to ask where he was and I told them I had no idea. But I knew he hadn’t been in an accident. He stopped at the bank and withdrew ten thousand dollars before he disappeared.”

“Was ten thousand all of your savings?”

“It was less than five percent. Joel would never have left us destitute. He’s a very loving father and husband.”

“But you haven’t heard from him since?”

“Not a word.”

“Did the police find his car?”

“You should read his file. They found it at Logan Airport, the keys in the glove compartment.”

“Before he disappeared, did he give any sign of being troubled?”

She hesitates. “No.”

“Any indication at all?” I persist.

“Well, Joel has always loved astronomy. Since he was a kid, he’d spend months grinding mirrors for homemade telescopes. There are eight of them in our garage. The two big ones—he
loved nothing more than to load them in our SUV with my son and drive out to the country where the city lights don’t block out the stars. Sometimes he’d stay out all night. Hal, that’s our boy, he’d end up sleeping in the SUV.”

“Did he suddenly give up this hobby before he vanished?”

“On the contrary. Instead of once a month, he began to go out three times a week. Only he stopped taking Hal. It was strange. How can you stare at the sky so much? I used to ask him that but he’d change the subject. It got so I thought he was seeing another woman. So I followed him one night.”

“And?”

She shrugs. “He drove out of town to a secluded spot near Destiny and set up his telescopes. He spent the whole time staring through the lens at the sky.” She pauses. “But I did notice one thing that was odd.”

“What?”

“He never took any pictures. That’s Joel’s great love—to do time-lapse photography. But he never even set up his camera equipment.”

“What does your husband do for a living?” I ask.

“He works as a systems analyst for General Electric.”

“He oversees a team of computer programmers?”

“That’s right. He’s good at his job.”

“Mrs. Grey, how good is he? What I’m asking is—do his fellow employees consider him a genius?”

“He’s not like that. He’s a competent programmer himself but his greatest skill is managing a team. Getting everyone to work together. You can ask anyone at GE, they all love him.” She stops to wipe away a tear. “He’s real lovable.”