HEAR (10 page)

I spend the better part of the next hour with my eyes pressed so close to the film reader that my pupils start burning. I don't find anything else with Brian's name in it.

Some of the pages read like the way he talks, which makes me think he might have written them himself, but the rest concern the army's own research into ESP. They describe predictions from “subjects” identified only by their initials and match them to corresponding articles about disasters—every imaginable horror, from avalanches to explosions in coal mines. Another section compiles the program's failures: forecasts so ridiculously off the mark that the comments made afterward suggest that they put the institute itself in jeopardy.

I push my chair away from the viewing machine and rub my bleary eyes. I don't know what I'm supposed to make of any of this. I take a few deep breaths, eyes still closed, trying to process what I've read—

A brief shudder of nausea ripples through me. It leaves a tingly wake as it passes.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, desperate to flush the feeling out, and in the darkness of my mind's eye, I see a sniper.

But this shooter isn't in a mall, and the environment doesn't look like it's anywhere on or near the Henley campus. The sniper is standing in a nondescript room, setting up a rifle on a window ledge. When he peers through the scope of his weapon, I can see the scene below: on the street a crowd of people is gathered around one man.

The man at the center is the one shaking hands with the others.

The man at the center is the one running for office.

The man at the center is the one whose head explodes after the sniper pulls the trigger, fragments of skull blasting apart in a shower of blood and brain matter.

My eyes snap open. My head jerks forward. I can't breathe. Four letters appear to me: UCLA.

What the hell?

I blink hard several times and try to scrub the image from my mind. Is this the same shooter who killed Graham Pinberg? Someone else? And UCLA?
University of California, Los Angeles?
Is that where this takes place, on the other side of the country? It doesn't make sense, but questions keep coming: Who was the man who was shot? A teacher? An administrator? When does this happen?

Disoriented, I look at my phone to see how much time has passed and realize I'm late for lab. I've got to get out of here as quickly as possible. With trembling fingers, I rebox the microfilm and hand it back to the pretty Brit at the desk.

“Did you find what you need?” she asks.

I can't even muster a nod. “I have no idea.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I run as fast as I can from the library to the Merion Building. But when I reach the lobby, I skid to a stop in front of a makeshift memorial for Professor Pinberg. There are clusters of bouquets and votive candles underneath his framed photo, which hangs on the wall. Next to his picture, someone has taped a piece of paper scrawled with the following inscription:

THE LAW OF CONSERVATION OF ENERGY:

The total amount of energy in an isolated system remains constant over time. A consequence of this law is that energy can neither be created nor destroyed: it can only be transformed from one state to another.

R.I.P. Professor Graham Pinberg, gifted scientist, inspiring teacher, beloved human.

My throat catches as Graham Pinberg again becomes
real
: an actual person and not just a random shooting victim. I think about the loss of this man who meant so much to so many.

I hurry on to the lab, wondering what I'll offer as an excuse for my tardiness, trying to convince myself that in the grand scheme of things it really doesn't matter if I'm a few minutes late. But when I enter to see that Uncle Brian still hasn't arrived, I heave a sigh of relief.

All the other HEARs are sitting on their stools.

“I lost track of time at the library,” I blurt, feeling the need to justify my lateness.

Pankaj laughs. “At the library? A likely story, Legacy.”

I see the glint in his eye as I take my seat. It's like he knows something—something about
me
—and I feel exposed, like I did when he saw my bear, Henry. Pankaj keeps smiling, hands pressed against the table in front of him, revealing the definition of the long, lean muscles of his forearms. The right sleeve of his black T-shirt is carelessly pushed up, giving me a peek at a strong biceps too. My eyes linger there for a moment longer than they should. When I finally look away, I'm embarrassed, like I've just seen something I shouldn't have—something private, something intimate.

“And what were you doing at the library?” he asks.

I hesitate. I want to know how much
they
know about my uncle, but I'm not sure how much I should reveal. If I've learned anything from my past activities as “Ally X,” it's that by staying quiet you put yourself at less risk; you face less exposure. As soon as you open your mouth, you subject yourself to misinterpretation, especially by people you don't know well or people you don't know you can trust.

“Well, I was looking at the pretty picture books,” I say sarcastically. “Just like I'm sure you did when you were there, Rocket.”

As Pankaj stares back at me from under those sideswept black bangs, I wonder what he
was
doing at the library the night I arrived on campus. It's not as if he needed to do any work for classes or research for Uncle Brian.

Our eyes fixed on each other, it feels like we're in the middle of a tug-of-war.

“That's strange,” Mara interjects, her tone clipped and her voice a notch louder than it should be. “After our trip to the museum, I sensed you didn't like looking at pictures, Kass. I thought you found the whole thing really intimidating.”

“ You're intimidated by art?” Dan asks.

“By artists,” Mara replies for me. She peels a piece of ginger candy out of its wax-paper wrapper and pops it into her mouth, almost daring me to respond.

“It's because most artists are seriously deranged,” I say. “But the way they twist and misinterpret obvious signs and signals is always really interesting to me.”

Alex leans forward in his chair. “So, Kass, here's what you missed when you were at ‘the library.'” With his mocking tone, he manages to poke fun at both Pankaj's teasing and my supposed studiousness. “I was just telling these guys that when I was roaming around the campus, you know, after the shooting, I ran into this girl I'd seen around once or twice before. We started chatting, and I guess she could tell how upset I was because she invited me to a party in her friends' room tonight. She probably just felt sorry for me.”

Yeah, right
, I think. I'm sure this girl's motives were that pure.

“Anyway, should be fun, and I want you guys to come with.”

“Who is this mystery girl?” Mara grumbles.

“Her name's Erika. Comp lit major. Silky brown hair, sea-green eyes, and an English accent that's to die for.”

I'm tempted to ask if it's the Hounskull girl, the one who works in the Peabody Special Collections Room, but at that moment, Uncle Brian walks in—with three empty wineglasses.

“No, I haven't been drinking,” he says dryly by way of a greeting. He places the glasses on the front workstation. “But as someone who's traditionally found his solace in work, especially during difficult moments, I hope you'll understand why I need to stay focused on our project. It's through experimentation and hard work that we make discoveries and unearth logic, and these things seem in short supply at a time like this.”

We all nod. Brian catches my eye. In that moment, I also get that he wants to proceed as if the program's not in jeopardy, as if its survival is assured. So I give him another nod to let him know I'll keep his confidence.

“Thank you,” Brian says. “Now, you may also wonder, will I be filling these glasses with wine? I'm sorry to tell you the answer is no.”

“What if I do
really
well?” Pankaj jokes.

“Then paradoxically you'll experience failure, and you'll be even happier the glass is empty.”

“Huh?” Pankaj turns to Dan. “Did you understand that, or am I somehow drunk already?”

Brian laughs. “The failure I refer to will be that of the glass itself.” He picks one up by the stem and holds it out for our inspection. “No visible chips or cracks, a nice weight, not even a stray lipstick mark . . . But this glass is covered with fissures and defects that are invisible to the naked eye. Keep that in mind.” He sets the glass down. “Every material, from glass to concrete, has a natural frequency at which it vibrates, a ‘resonant frequency.'” He walks over to the whiteboard and writes the term in all caps. “Imagine a tower of Jell-O is sitting on a tray. What happens if I send energy into it by giving that tray a shove?”

“The Jell-O starts jiggling,” I say.

“Right, and if you shove it hard enough, eventually you'll be able to get it to break apart. Of course, every object has a different resonant frequency, so you'd have to send a great deal more energy into a slab of concrete to get it to jiggle like Jell-O. Now, what other phenomena produce vibrational energy?”

“Sound waves,” Dan says.

“Very good.”

“Professor, should we start warming up our vocal cords?” asks Alex with an amused nod at the glasses.

“That is not what I have planned.”

But suddenly I think I know what he does have planned. “ You want to see if we can shatter these glasses with our brain waves, don't you?”

He smiles at me. “Correct.”

Before anyone can respond, protest, or even laugh, my phone rings. As the telltale “Big Poppa” ringtone blares, my eyes widen in panic. Guiltily, I shove my hand into my bag to silence it.

“Kassandra,” Brian says, “when you find your phone, I want you to tell your father that he should refrain from calling—even if he is simply returning your calls. After the rampage at the mall, I was in touch with everyone's families. I reassured them that you were all fine, and there was no need to worry.”

I feel my head nodding as my fingers wrap around the familiar shape and yank it up to my ear. “Hello?” I croak.

“Kassie! So glad to reach you.”

Dad.
The sound of his voice causes a small lump to materialize in my throat. But Uncle Brian fixes me with his stare, and I can't unlock from his gaze.

“Dad, I'm really sorry, but I can't talk now.” My uncle rolls his hand to remind me of the message I need to deliver. “Oh, and, um, parents can't call while we're here, so I gotta go. Sorry.”

“Kass, are you all right? Please—”

I hang up and slip the phone back into my bag. My hands shake. I hear myself breathing heavily and try to be still and silent.

“I did wonder who'd be the first to break that rule,” Brian says dispassionately. He turns back to the wineglasses.

“Who'd you guess?” asks Alex.

“I had odds on Kass. But back to our work. As I was saying, your goal is to shatter one of these glasses with the energy your brain waves emit. I'm going to make it easy on you this morning and let you put your heads together on this one, so today you'll be working in teams of two. However, it seems only fair that because Kass broke the phone call rule and was late today, she'll go it alone.”

Glorious.
My cheeks feel as if they're on fire. Still, something dawns on me: Uncle Brian came in after I did. He should have no way of knowing I was late . . .

“Mara, you work with Pankaj. Dan, you team up with Alex.” Brian hands each team a glass, then gives me the one that remains. He reaches into a cabinet and pulls out five pairs of safety goggles. “Better safe than sorry,” he adds, handing them out.

We move to stations well apart from one another. I set my wineglass in the middle of my table, grateful for the distraction, grateful that there's no attention focused on me right now, ready to work. But I'm starting to feel midmorning fuzzy from lack of sleep. I put the lab goggles on, close my eyes, and try to focus on quieting my breathing. Keeping it even and soft. As the repetitive inhalations and exhalations fill my ears,
I feel that electric twitch again.

The sniper.

Once more, I'm witnessing the execution, an act of violence I cannot place, recognize, or comprehend. I'm left with only the visceral feeling of a witness: terror. It's not the mall shooting; it's political. It's not recent either. But this time, in the aftermath, I stay with the gunman. He stows his rifle in a bag then dashes down a stairwell and into an alley, empty but for one abandoned car. The assassin flings open the back passenger-side door and dives inside. A driver, previously concealed, bolts up behind the wheel. The car is in motion even before the sniper has the chance to yank his door closed.

As the car peels onto the street, I see the license plate begins with “CC,” the international code for Consular Corps.

The baseball-capped driver looks in the rearview mirror to check if anyone's following. I know the face; I've seen it before. But it isn't until the man takes off his cap and a ponytail tumbles out that I recognize the driver as Chris Figg, my uncle's colleague and the director of Camp Dodona.

When my eyes pop open, I find myself staring at the wineglass in front of me.

It shatters with a loud and frightening resonance.

CHAPTER TWELVE

To get to Alex's friend's party, I need to enter the university through Amory Gate, at the north edge of campus. Its imposing size and ornate filigree design make it an iconic reminder of how beautiful and daunting this place can be. And as I approach, I remember my first encounter here, when I received that hard shove for attempting to exit through its middle arch. Though campus custom does permit me to
enter
through the central access point, I'm not taking any chances tonight. I scurry through the door on the far left side, unable to shake the feeling that people are watching and waiting to pounce.

I'm still trying to figure out how to process the vision of my former camp director at the wheel of the getaway car for an assassination. I wasn't about to trouble Uncle Brian with it. To start, I have no idea if it even happened or whether this powerful “brain wave” was just the result of my imagination running wild. But what was very real, and what remains in the front of my mind, is the shattered wineglass and the energy I produced to destroy it. I felt like a live wire for the rest of the afternoon.

That was one of the reasons I decided to go for a run before the party this evening.

It was my first since I arrived at Henley. In my old life, running was a bit of a religion for me. It not only made me feel better; it made me feel smarter. There's hard science behind that too: running causes brain-cell growth. So I did cross-country in the fall, indoor in the winter, and outdoor track in the spring. And though I discovered I liked being part of a team—being part of a group instead of acting independently was novel for me—I joined because it forced me to run every day. Considering my other major “extracurricular,” possessing stamina and the ability to sprint seemed like very good things indeed.

Ironically, before today, the last time I sprinted was the day I got caught breaking into Sean Mitchell's car: the crime that landed me here.

In retrospect, I should
have turned around and gone straight home after my conversation with Pete Lewis.

I didn't
exactly
lie to Mara when the topic turned to love. Pete was the boy I'd been in love with for as long as I could remember.

I'd gone looking for Pete that afternoon and found him by the soccer field before his practice. A classmate of ours had been assaulted after passing out at a party, and Pete's friend Sean was the perpetrator. Pete knew it too; rumor was Sean had shown friends the video on his cell phone. But when I asked Pete to do the right thing and stand up for the girl, he not only refused; he told me not to worry about it. “It really wasn't a big deal,” he said, and he added that the girl had always liked Sean. As if that made it okay.

His response enraged me, and it destroyed my illusion of the person I believed Pete to be. I'd spent years thinking I was in love with this boy. But the “Pete” I loved was kind and smart and had a sense of right and wrong. He bore no resemblance to this heartless and witless asshole. It was all so clear, so plain now: I was in love with a fantasy, not the real person. I'd been deluding myself about him from the start.

I knew I needed to calm down. I knew I needed to regroup and recover. But though I felt sick to my stomach, I decided that if Pete wouldn't help, I would make things right on my own. I knew Sean kept his phone in his book bag, and he always locked his bag in his car before practice. I would get into the car, take the phone, and anonymously turn over the evidence to the authorities.

Straightforward enough.

I didn't count on the squad car.

Though I knew the local police cruised the school grounds on a semi-regular basis, I wasn't thinking properly or “seeing” straight. So I somehow missed the approaching patrol car. I was sliding the wire lock pick through Sean's window when the police car rolled to a stop in front of me. The police officer called out to me and I panicked. Then I started running.

Jumping out of his car, the cop pursued me on foot. I ran for the familiar territory of the woods behind the school. I knew I'd opened a good distance between us, but I couldn't resist the urge to look back to double-check.

Another mistake.

Turning, I failed to see the root of a tree directly ahead of me, and a fraction of a second later, my arms were dog-paddling the air as I went slamming into the ground. It was a bone-rattling fall, and as I scrambled to my feet, the officer threw his body at me, making me his tackling dummy. It took him a three count before he was able to catch his breath and huff out the words: “I . . . said . . . ‘Freeze' . . . bitch!”

I tried to explain. The problem was that I was the one who'd been caught in the act of committing a crime, and by the time Sean was “strongly encouraged” to hand over his phone, the video he'd taken had magically disappeared. No evidence of the assault remained. An official search warrant was required to try to retrieve the file, so the powers that be decided on a deal: official charges wouldn't be pressed against Sean or me. However,
my
“obstruction of justice”—running away from the police on school grounds—was crime enough to get me expelled.

I spent my run this afternoon mentally rehashing the whole incident, regretting what I could and should have done differently. Who would have guessed my need to sprint now would somehow feel every bit as strong as it did in the past?

The party is in
a suite on the second floor of a senior dorm. It's in full swing by the time I arrive. The guys who live here have tricked the place out nicely, and they've even set up a small bar next to the fireplace where the keg sits. A combination of stolen road signs and neon beer ads adorn the walls along with a giant Henley banner, navy blue stitched with gold.

My eyes immediately find Pankaj sitting at a poker table in one corner of the room. I don't see the others, so I meander over. Pankaj has changed his clothes since earlier in the day. Instead of the black T, he's in a short-sleeved ivory-colored guayabera. Despite the heat, he looks cool, almost elegant, and there's a calm intensity in his amber eyes. I can practically picture him in a party scene in an alcohol ad.

I look down at what I'm wearing and a wave of embarrassment crashes over me. The ripped jean shorts were a mistake, the lack of makeup a boneheaded call. Was I trying to look bad? I grab the small makeup bag in my purse, remembering that it's stocked with Birchbox samples. I turn and quickly apply two strokes of mascara, and then the O-Gloss. I still need a wardrobe overhaul, but at least my lashes and lips look good . . . hopefully even appealing.

The poker table is one of those authentic green-felt deals, and it looks like it's been passed down from student to student for decades. You can probably date it by the rings left by wet beer cups. The three other guys at the table are all beefy, and they all sport Henley-branded athletic wear. There are also two girls at the table. One's wearing a baseball cap slung low on her forehead. She's studying the game with an intense look of concentration. The other is the preppy Brit from the library, who I'm now positive is the one who invited Alex, though Alex is nowhere to be seen.

When the hand is called, Pankaj lays out his cards for the others to see. He smiles at the guy directly across from him. The guy doesn't smile back.

“Well,” Pankaj says, “I guess that's how it goes.” He reaches into the center of the table and sweeps up not only the pile of chips but also an expensive-looking watch.

Not good
, I think.
When personal belongings become part of the pot, it tends to mean one of two things: (1) a player is desperate and out of money, but still eager to gamble; (2) that same player is getting hustled. That's when trouble starts. Especially if alcohol is involved.

The guy's cheeks flush. His hairline is soaked with sweat. I can't tell if this is because it's insanely hot in the room, because he's drunk, or because he's hot, drunk,
and
angry. The guy's got about forty pounds on Pankaj: some muscle, some flab.

“ You cheated,” the guy hisses.

“I don't know what you're talking about, man.” Pankaj's tone is calm as he shakes his head. “I was sitting here playing, same as you.”

“ You were counting.”

“Which is technically not illegal,” the English girl says. “Just frowned upon.”

“He was counting cards,” the guy repeats to the other two guys. He pushes his chair back and stands. “So you either give me my watch back right now, or else.”

“Why don't you show him what you mean by ‘or else'? Like, or else
what
?” one of the other guys interrupts with a menacing grin. He stands too, as does the third guy.

“Or I'll make him sorry.”

“I understand why you're upset,” Pankaj says. “This is a very nice watch.” In a fluid movement, he takes it from his right hand and slides it over his left, clasping it around his wrist. “If you want to try to win it back, I'm happy to keep playing.”

I glance around the room. I wonder how many of this guy's friends will join in on the “make him sorry” promise. It doesn't seem like an especially violent crowd, but heat, beer, losing, and testosterone is never a great combination . . . I move to the nearest window, look down at the ground floor below, and yank the window up as far as I can.

“Thanks,” the Brit says to me, trying to fan herself with her hand.

“I know, right? So hot in here.” I walk back to the table as things appear to be getting even more heated.

“ You have ten seconds to take my watch off your arm and give it back to me,” the first guy barks. “One . . .”

Pankaj, who's also now on his feet, seems unfazed.

“Two . . . three . . .”

I look at the guy. I am certain when he gets to “nine” he's going to hop over the table and deck Pankaj. I don't think this is nearly as obvious to Pankaj, though.

“Six . . . sev—”

“My contact! I just lost my contact!” I shout. “Can anyone help me look for it?” I bend down, purposely knocking into a few people near me to create a distraction. Only one person makes an effort to help, but that's enough. The time and space allow me to dart forward and grab Pankaj's hand. “Follow me,” I whisper, yanking him down to a crouch so the crowd obscures us and then pulling him back to the open window. “Jump!” He flashes me an
are you crazy?
look, requiring me to add: “It's two flights, you baby! Jump!”

His poker rivals rush from the table. Their chairs crash to the floor behind them.

“Gangway!” Pankaj whisper yells, then hops out the window. I vault out behind him. It's only in midair that I realize it actually
is
pretty far to the ground. When I land, I fall onto my back with a thud.

“What the hell?” someone shouts above us.

Followed by: “Where'd he go?”

Pankaj leaps to his feet and helps me to mine, dusting the dirt and grass off his ivory linen shirt. “ You didn't have to do that. I had everything under control and—”

“Quiet!” I whisper. My back is aching, and my sides are bruised, but I ignore the pain. We're still right below the window, right at the edge of the building, far too close for comfort, but because I'm unfamiliar with the environment, I don't know if we should try to make a run for it now or stay hidden. A second later the question is answered for us. The heavy wooden dorm door slams open, and out comes a stampede. It's hard to tell how many of the guys have mobilized, but the odds of outrunning them have just plunged.

My eyes scour our surroundings in a panic. The nearby shrub is just big enough to conceal one of us. I stop thinking as instinct and adrenaline take over. With one hand I grab the top of Pankaj's arm; with the other I reach for the back of his head. I yank him to me because I need to make this believable; I need to make this appear spontaneously passionate and sloppy. I kiss him hard, pushing him into the shrub and shielding him from the group of guys who gallop past us.

“Show your face, asshole!” the watchless loser yells into the night. Several of his friends are screaming taunts of their own. They're still close by, but moving farther away. There's also a high-pitched voice screaming inside my head:
We do NOT kiss
fi
rst. This is NOT. WHAT. WE. DO!
And then another tone comes through, this one lower and calmer. It's the voice of my inner strategist, who is confident enough to tell my inner Miss Manners to shut up.

“Get back here, dick!” another voice calls out. “And give Pat his watch back!”

I know Pankaj wants to show himself; he wants to prove that he can take whatever it is they throw at him. I also know that this isn't going to be a fair fight; there are too many of them. With every shout, Pankaj squirms, and I can feel the tug of his pride and his need to defend himself. I understand it, I even respect it, but I am not going to let this happen, so I inhale deeply and press myself against him more urgently.

At a certain point, a magnetic pull takes over, and we're drawn into each other with what feels like a furious click. His lips are on my cheek, my tongue, my neck. There's no space or air between us. The force keeps us pinned to one another, and when we finally come up for breath, the air is still and silent.

My heart is pounding and my clothes are a mess. Pankaj's lovely linen shirt is now totally wrinkled, grass stained, and smudged with dirt. I have no idea how much time has passed. Either the unhappy meatheads have run far enough away that we can no longer hear them, or they've abandoned their mission and headed back to the party.

Pankaj blinks at me. He runs his hand through his hair. It's trembling slightly. “ You know, you're pretty good at that, Legacy,” he murmurs.

“I come from a long line of perfectionists,” I say, realizing the bobby pin that was holding my hair back now hangs uselessly at the side of my head. I can only imagine what I look like—and it's not perfection.