All Seeing Eye (13 page)

Not that my new pals would’ve given a shit. So why bother to tell them? Like a trained monkey, I did what I was told. Read objects, read people, and finally laughed grimly when they wanted to know if I could “see” the future, move things with my mind, or, even better, start fires.

“Jesus,” I said with some disdain. “You guys watched too much
X-Files
in your day. Read too many trashy books. Even I don’t believe in that crap.”

“What about life after death?”

With head resting in my hands and a death grip on my skull, I looked up at Hector’s studiously blank face. Charlie was gone, and I knew what he wanted to hear. Maybe I would’ve been kinder if I weren’t being blackmailed. Maybe I wouldn’t, as I’d faced the truth about Tess long ago. I didn’t know for sure. But I did know that at this moment, I didn’t feel kind. My head hurt, my jaw hurt, I was tired and hungry, and I was mad. Yeah, I was pissed as hell, and that did not lead to the path of gentle kindness.

“Grow up, Hector,” I drawled. “There’s no great beyond. No fluffy clouds and halos. No tunnel with a big family reunion at the end. Not once have I ever picked up anything beyond the death of someone when touching an object. Gone is gone. Dead is dead.” I closed my eyes as the headache swelled,
and as I so often did, I saw a lonely pink shoe. The clearest memory of my life, so bright and diamond-sharp that I almost believed I could put out a hand and pick it up. I never tried. I’d already done that once, and from that moment, nothing had ever been completely right or good in my life again.

“Dead is dead,” I repeated with a tightness that thrummed behind my voice like an overly taut guitar string.

I wouldn’t have been too surprised if Allgood had hauled off and popped me one or at the very least walked away. It was his brother I was talking about. Then again, he’d already locked up the one guy who’d beat him to the punch, so to speak. It was my second guess that hit the jackpot. He did walk away, but not before startling me with a hand that rested for the briefest of moments on my shoulder. He knew about Tess and the others. He could guess I’d give anything to believe different … but it wasn’t different. I was literal proof of that.

“Not always,” he countered with a trace of bleakness he either couldn’t hide or didn’t try to. Then he did walk away to herd the last of the “psychics” out. Hours had passed, although it seemed like days, and it didn’t look like anyone else had made the cut. Didn’t I feel special? Shit.

I dropped my gaze back to the desk surface and tried to ignore Hickman’s endless chatter at my elbow. Good old TJ Hickman had finally come from around the partition. And as always, I was
dead on the money. If he had worn women’s panties, they would’ve been big-girl for sure. Pear-shaped, stammering, and cheerfully harmless as a puppy, he regarded me with moon-pie eyes. Round and wide, they had the recaptured belief in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Merlin’s magic all swimming around in there. I’d seen it before. Show people something slightly askew from their normal world, and they’d use it as an excuse to put a bright and shiny glow on their whole damn life. It turned them into kids again. Why, I didn’t know. What kind of miracle was it that I knew his wife made a buckwheat and soy casserole that kept him constipated for days and that he had a box of Twinkies hidden in his garage? Or that his ever-loving mama had sent him to a fat camp every summer he was in high school? Dull, boring, and kind of pitiful, yes. Miracle? No.

“Tylenol,” I muttered between clenched teeth, ruthlessly interrupting his words raining like bright coins.

“Oh. You have a headache?” The stuttering kid on Christmas morning disappeared under the thirty-five-year-old professional. “Is that often a side effect of what you do? How intense a headache do you get? Do you have visual disturbances with them?”

I ignored the questions and repeated with a limp snarl, “Tylenol. I could spell it, but I’d think a guy with a master’s could figure it out on his own.”

The wide mouth snapped shut, and hazel eyes blinked. Nodding, he disappeared in search of the almighty painkiller. Hickman had about as much spine as your average garden slug. Pleasant, good-hearted, but he was there for reasons that trumped his academic background. It was a trait similar in all the lab coats I’d read today. Placid, fearful of authority, and unlikely to stick their noses where they might be chopped off.

In other words, like me, they didn’t know shit.

Division of labor, they called it. I’d picked that out of one of the many brains I’d stirred through. There was an operation already running, Project Summerland. They were to screen for any possible psychic talent for the project, and that was all they knew. Sum total of their nonknowledge. And while some were more curious than others, no one had poked around to see what they could find out. They accepted the sketchy information they were given and did what they were told. Not a single troublemaker in the lot. I’d bet my ass Hector had handpicked every last damn one of them. Of course, this would be the same Hector who hadn’t let me read him as the day had dragged on. Everyone else had been fair game but not Allgood. Not the only person in the room who actually seemed to know what was going on. Wouldn’t want to throw me a crumb, now, would he?

By the time Allgood returned, I was in the process of popping three more painkillers. He glanced
at my still-unopened bottle of water. “You are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I put the heels of my hands over my eyes and rubbed.

“Yes, and I realize exactly how much choice you’ve had in that.” He looked as tired as I felt. “Come on, Eye. I’ll take you to medical, then to get something to eat.”

I dropped my hands and shook my head. “No. I already said I don’t need a doctor.” And neither did I need to end the day by being poked and prodded by some sadist with icy hands.

“Hickman said you have a headache.” He picked up the bottle of water and rolled it between his hands. “It’s obvious that it’s from what you’ve been doing today.”

“Yeah, couldn’t have been that punch to the jaw,” I said with an antagonistic grunt.

“Very well.” He sighed as he tossed the bottle to a lab coat walking by. “Then you’ll have the EEG and a CAT scan tomorrow. Now, let’s see what fine cuisine they’re serving in the mess.”

I’d imagined the tests would come headache or no. Map the brain, map the ability. Map me. I rubbed my eyes again and rose to my feet. “As long as you don’t make me read the pork and beans,” I grunted as I slipped my gloves back on.

The cafeteria, luckily enough, was in the same building. No slogging through mud was required, which was good, considering I’d long lost track of
my shoes. The place was empty except for a few chattering whitecoats and two soldiers off in a corner. It was stuffed cabbage roll night, apparently, and I passed over it in favor of sticky macaroni and cheese, greens, runny instant mashed potatoes, and a glass of chocolate milk. Unfortunately, there was no beer on tap. Just my luck. I was hungry enough that I could actually eat the swill, and I did, shoveling it down with need if not enthusiasm.

“Not a big cabbage roll fan?” Allgood sat down opposite me as the table rocked on one uneven leg from the added weight of his tray.

“Vegetarian,” I said succinctly. The piece of white bread I’d been given on the side was rock-hard, but I slathered it with butter and ate it anyway. It wasn’t any worse than Cane Lake food. Wasn’t any better, either, but it wasn’t worse.

“Does that have anything to do with your …” He fished a small bottle from his pocket, poured a shot of foamy white liquid, and chugged it before finishing. “Talent?”

Quick. Always so quick. Like his brother had been. With the edge of my appetite less sharp, I began to shove piles of food back and forth with my fork. It was an old habit, one that had gotten my ears boxed but good in the Boyd days. After all, one shouldn’t waste the precious food that his lazy ass had nothing to do with putting on the table.

“It’s not like people,” I offered absently. “I don’t get clear memories, just fuzzy flashes. Nuzzling for
milk, the falling rain on your back, the smell of wet hay.” I looked away from the ground beef on his plate. “The feel of a steel bolt punching through your skull.”

There was silence, then the sound of porcelain scraping the surface of the table as Allgood pushed his plate away. “What do you sense when you drink that?”

I looked up to see him indicate my glass of milk and almost smiled despite myself. “Warm sun and sweet grass.”

If I had a bad day, which, now that I ran my own life, was a helluva lot less than the old days, I sat on the floor with Houdini, placed a hand on his broad head, and soaked up endless doggy wonder. A full stomach, a well-chewed toy, a soft couch—through a dog’s eyes, that was a true glory that couldn’t be matched, the only heaven in existence. I missed the furball, missed him like crazy. I turned my attention back to my food and quickly cleaned the plate. I didn’t waste any more words on Allgood. He was the reason I was missing my dog, my carefully constructed life.

Either sensing my mood, which wasn’t hard to do, or too tired to make further conversation, he left me alone as I finished eating. Then we were off to retrieve my muddy shoes and make our way back through the swamp to my luxurious suite. If possible, it seemed smaller than it had before. A shoe box to cram me into as if I were a crow with a broken wing.

I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be nursed back to health or buried in the backyard.

“How’s your head?”

I sat on the bed and skinned off my shirt. “Fine,” I said shortly.

“Jaw?”

He did go on and on about the suddenly precarious state of my health. If I was a cat, he’d already be digging a hole in the backyard for my ass.

“You know,” I offered matter-of-factly, “the concern would be a helluva lot more sincere if you weren’t the cause of all this. Wonder what Charlie would say about how you’re treating his old roommate.” I didn’t say “friend.” I wasn’t that much of a hypocrite, not even to drive home the sharpest of points.

And sharp it was. Allgood’s knuckles tightened to the whiteness of bone on the doorknob. “Who knows?” he said in a voice empty and cold. “Perhaps you’ll get to ask him.” The door closed between us, and I was left to ponder the implications of that.

Could be it was the backyard for me after all.

The next day was spent with Dr. Mengele—at least, that’s what I expected, a military doctor with cold hands and frozen heart. When you’re the powerless guinea pig caught up in an experiment you can’t yet fathom, you don’t hold out much hope that the guy who sticks you with the needles is going to pet you first. I was wrong, on one count, anyway. Dr. M. Guerrera had warm hands, even through a snug set of latex gloves. She also had dove-gray eyes and a gentle curve of mouth, nude of lipstick or gloss. Black hair was caught back in a tight braid that fell nearly to her waist. It wasn’t the blue-black of Allgood’s but was streaked with a rich rust brown. Her skin was the same color as those streaks, only several shades lighter. She reminded me of my kindergarten teacher all those years ago. Miss Bethany had made us cupcakes, given us hugs, and matter-of-factly wiped up the blood that gushed from noses busted by monkey bars or playground brawls. Warmth and competence. Just what you want in a doctor.

Yeah, I’d have come over all fuzzy if not for the whole prisoner-against-my-will situation. Call me difficult, if you want. Smiling nurturer versus heartless jackbooted monster, it didn’t matter. She was still the enemy. And I’d be willing to bet it’d be a cold day in hell before a lollipop would follow any of what they planned to do to me.

Hector had roused me at eight
A.M.
and marched me straight to their medical facility. There was no stop at the cafeteria. Some of the tests would require a contrast agent injected intravenously, he informed me. Wouldn’t want to vomit chunks of leathery eggs or hunks of processed cheese should I have an anaphylactic reaction to that, now, would we? If I had good aim, damn straight I would want that. I would stuff down second helpings if that would contribute to the cause. But, as always, good old Hector was less than the picture of indulgent cooperation.

The facility itself was well equipped, even to the eyes of a typical layperson … me. The room was big enough for ten beds with space left over. I balked in the doorway at the sight of gleaming metal, starched sheets, and the sharp, tongue-coating smell of disinfectant. I’d never had a good experience in a place with those particular things, and I didn’t expect this time to be any different. Granny Rosemary had died in a place like this. She’d been Glory’s and my best hope—our only hope—of staying out of the system. But of course, she’d died
because, hell, where would the punch line be without that, right?

At Mom and Tess’s funeral, she’d sat down in one of those cheap plastic folding chairs and never got back up again. Purple with flecks of foam on her lips, she’d been hauled away in an ambulance. She’d lingered for a day or two, but I never got my hopes up. By then, I’d gotten the message but good. You only had to pound it into my brain so many times before I made the connection. Hope was the candy in the pervert’s pocket, the stereotypical soap in the prison shower, the cheese in the trap. And life … well, life was what happened when you leaned in for a look.

“Mr. Eye.” Hector’s voice was patient in my ear but unyielding. “The tests are painless, I promise you.”