Unless they hadn’t.
Unless the guy was lying.
With a great deal of pain, Glenn was able to position himself in the driver’s seat. He started the engine.
Thankfully, the blade hadn’t pierced an artery.
He knew enough about anatomy to know that if it had, he would already be dead.
Quietly, slowly, he guided the car onto the road.
He used his right hand to press down on the knee of his injured leg to keep from flexing the thigh muscles as he accelerated.
The trek back to the car had been brutal, pain rocketing up his leg with every step, no matter how hard he tried to keep pressure off it. But he’d dealt with it just like he’d dealt with things when he was locked up and took a shiv to the stomach and still managed to dig it out and slice out the eyes and cut off the ears of the block-mate who’d tried to kill him.
Glenn headed down the mountain road.
Whoever had been in that chamber had been quick. Strong. Had known how to fight.
But who was he? Who was the woman?
What were they doing there?
RixoTray Pharmaceuticals?
It could have been a lie, but it was a place to start.
Glenn prided himself on being self-controlled, on viewing things objectively, but as he drove back to the motel to take care of the leg, he felt fire rise inside of him.
He was a person who kept his word, so, yes, he would take care of the old man tomorrow afternoon at three like he’d been hired to do. But he wasn’t going to stop there. He would find that guy from the chamber and return the favor, wound for wound, as the Bible put it in Exodus 21:25.
An eye for an eye.
Or in this case, a stab for a stab.
God’s kind of justice.
Or at least Glenn’s kind.
He found himself planning how things would go down: incapacitate the guy, cuff him, and then make him watch as he played with the woman for a while. At last, when he was done with her, stab him in the thigh — and if the blade just so happened to slice through his femoral artery, well, justice in real life didn’t always have to stick to the letter of the law.
So, the plan for tonight: take enough OxyContin to kill the pain in his leg — God knows he had plenty of it on hand — then in the morning call his contact to identify the two people who’d been in that room. Tomorrow, after he’d completed his paying gig, he would deal with them.
He glanced at his wrist to check the time.
But noticed that his watch was missing.
He let out a round of curses. It must have fallen off during the fight in the chamber.
The Twins
I have the assailant’s watch in my pocket.
I’d happened to lift it when I slid my hand across his wrist just before I shoved the blade of his knife into his thigh.
Truthfully, removing the watch was pure instinct from all my years of sleight of hand and street magic, not something I’d consciously planned. During the fight, the last thing I was thinking was how I might remove the guy’s wristwatch, but in any case I have it now, and it might serve as some small clue that could lead us to identifying who our assailant was.
After trying unsuccessfully to reach Fionna or Xavier, I pause beneath one of the path’s lights. Holding the watch in my shirt to keep from getting any more of my fingerprints on it, I carefully study it.
It’s a Reactor Poseidon Limited Edition. Very nice. In my line of work you get to know watches, and even though Reactor is a small company, their watches are amazing. This one won’t even get scratched if you shoot it with a bullet. I couldn’t help but think that a regular street thug would have sold a watch like this for cash if he knew how much it was worth. So the guy we were dealing with might very well be better trained, more of a pro, than I’d earlier assumed.
The watch is relatively new. No engravings. No unique identifying marks, which isn’t exactly surprising considering the craftsmanship and the durability of the materials.
Who knows, Xavier is into CSI kinds of things and would probably jump at the chance to dust the watch for prints. I could get it to him as soon as we meet up again, tomorrow sometime.
Inside the cabin I find Charlene at the table, flipping through the notes we’d used to prepare for this project. “Any luck?”
“No.” I show her the watch, and we discuss it but can’t come up with any other clues, and in the end I stow it in the bedroom and return to her.
I point to the RixoTray research documents that she’d spread out around her when I was outside. “What about you? Did you find anything?”
“Nothing related to quantum entanglement or mind-to-mind communication research. But they are doing research on the temporal lobe — the language-recognition capabilities of the Wernicke’s area — by using an EEG to record brain images and identify thought patterns that relate to linguistic communication. It’s similar in a way to helping paralyzed people communicate by identifying their neural responses to questions.”
“Interesting.”
“Once you know which parts of the brain control which parts of your physiology, you can send electrical currents to those areas to elicit a physical response. Scientists have been experimenting on helping paralyzed people move their limbs, blind people see variations in light, insomniacs sleep, obese people curb their hunger, and even doing work on reducing aggression in criminals. They can even cause hallucinations that patients can’t tell from reality and reduce or eliminate intractable pain.”
She goes on, “Researchers at a number of universities have implanted electrodes into monkeys’ brains and then trained the primates to move robotic arms. At least four computer gaming companies are developing EEG-controlled games in which the games respond—”
“Let me guess — to the player’s thoughts.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“Anyway, one division at RixoTray is focusing on direct brain-computer interfaces and communication. It’s mentioned on a number of grant applications. A neuroscientist named Riah Colette, she’s in charge of the study.”
“Might be helpful to talk with her. See what the specific connection might be to what Tanbyrn’s doing.”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
We agree to follow up on that tomorrow. Then, after a little more discussion about who the attacker might’ve been, I can tell that Charlene’s energy is fading and I realize I’m drained as well — both physically and emotionally. She goes into the bedroom to change and I grab a blanket from the bathroom closet.
When she emerges in the hallway, she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. Nothing Victoria’s Secret seductive, but it’s easy enough to tell she’s in good shape and I’m careful not to stare.
I hold up the blanket. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Really, you don’t need to sleep on the couch, Jevin.” Before I can respond, she catches herself and goes on quickly as if to avert any misunderstanding: “I mean, that is, there’s plenty of room on the bed. I’m just saying it’s okay if you want to sleep with me — next to me. Right? On the other side of the bed.”
“Right.”
“I’m not suggesting at all that we do anything other than sleep.” She doesn’t blush often, but she does now, and it’s a little endearing.
“Of course.”
This conversation could get awfully awkward awfully fast.
As if it hasn’t already.
I have no doubt that if I climb into bed with her, even if she ends up sleeping like a baby, I’ll be too distracted to sleep at all. And I know I’m definitely not ready for her to inadvertently snuggle up to me or accidentally drape her arm across my chest sometime during the night.
“The couch would be best,” I tell her.