HEAR (19 page)

“Because memory is slippery,” I say, repeating what Uncle Brian told me. “Especially when trauma's involved.”

Pankaj hesitates. “Kass, if you know something, tell me,” he pleads.

“I don't.” I shake my head, adamant. “I don't know anything, I swear.”

But he and I both know these pictures are clues to the answers we seek.

His phone pings with a text from Mara:
on 2nd
fl
oor.

“Come on, we need to find Mara and Alex,” he says after a moment.
Let's keep this to ourselves
, he adds silently, though he didn't have to. It's understood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

We race up the stairs to find Alex and Mara sitting side by side against a closed door.

“No microfilm readers,” Mara says as she hops to her feet. “But the good news is that we found a screening room. Unfortunately,” she twists the doorknob, “it's locked.”

Alex stands and claps his hand on my shoulder. “But there are advantages to having sketchy friends, aren't there?” He gives me a wink.

No use trying to argue; he's right. I glance back toward the stairwell. Though there were security guards and even some students milling around on the ground floor, the second floor seems deserted. I quickly pull my keys out of my pocket and insert the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, jiggling the rake in the top of the lock. When I feel the pins drop, I twist the knob, and the door swings open on a darkened room.

I turn back to the others. “Okay,
my
job here is done. Now which one of
you
can thread this weird old film through a movie projector?”

“Me.” Mara holds out her hand. “I can.”

I'm doubtful, but I shove my keys back into one pocket and pull the microfilm from another. “All yours.”

She takes the film from my hand and vanishes into the shadows.

Alex follows, flicking on the lights. Pankaj and I exchange a wary glance and creep in after them, shutting the door behind us. The room is smaller than I expected, strewn with folding chairs and with a large screen at the far end. Several projectors, everything from a multimedia LCD to a Super 8mm film projector, sit on a table near the door.

“One of these should do the trick,” Mara says, perusing the devices. She settles on the one that looks oldest to me and feeds the film through it. She pushes various levers until we hear a locking sound. “Good,” she says, flipping on the projector's light. Images blink across the screen.

“Nice!” Pankaj exclaims, sounding relieved something's gone right.

Alex flicks off the lights.

But a moment later the picture turns back to black. The spinning wheel makes a slapping sound as the tail of the film smacks the metal reel.

“Sorry, my bad for jinxing it,” Pankaj mutters.

“I just need to find a way to slow it down,” Mara says, mostly to herself. After a few minutes of tinkering, she looks up. “It'll be herky-jerky, but this should do it.”

Images flash in front of our eyes: nondescript buildings, shot from various perspectives. It looks a lot like Google Street View. I can't fathom why someone thought these places were important enough to catalog.

“They're targets,” Alex says, answering my unasked question.

“What makes you say that?” I ask.

“Because if I were planning an attack, this is exactly the type of information I'd want too.”

None of us have an answer for that, but we all nod.

Next, there's a flowchart of hierarchy for the Counterintelligence Center Latin America team. I lean forward in my chair. Deputy Director Ellen Rios is at the top. Graham Pinberg, Brian Black, and Christopher Figg are below: “Analysts.” Next to Graham Pinberg's name is a small
x
along with a hand-scribbled note reading
Resigned 10/13/83
. There's nothin
g surprising or illuminating in this, and I slump back in my chair until the next document comes up:

My eyes go directly to the cause of death box. Though I wouldn't know how to state the “cause” of death when someone's blown to bits, I'm pretty sure it should be considered anything but “natural.”

I look to Pankaj, but his eyes are fixed on the screen as he scans the next document, a letter to Christopher Figg confirming his appointment to the position of Deputy Director of Latin American Operations. The one that follows is an interdepartmental memo stamped
confidential
.

Due to BB's erratic behavior the Agency can no longer consider him a trusted asset and recommends his ouster. The committee proposes two potential courses of action:

1. Burn notice

2. Neutralize

Pursuant to the nature of these operations, sign-off is required from MKJ. We respectfully urge immediate action, whichever course is chosen.

Pankaj whistles. “They don't kid around.”

“I don't understand what that means,” Mara says from behind the projector.

“A burn notice is something an intelligence agency issues to discredit an agent or informant,” Pankaj replies, flinching as he glances over his shoulder because of the pain in his side. “I knew all those hours I spent watching TV detective shows would come in handy one day . . . Anyway, a burn notice means a person has become unreliable. Maybe they've flipped allegiances or gone bonkers or whatever. So from burn notice forward, all the other agents are literally supposed to trash or ‘burn' any information the person provides.”

“And neutralizing an agent means offing him.” Alex illustrates with a finger slash across his throat. When I start shaking my head, he looks at me with surprise. “Seriously, Kass, that's what it means. Trust me.”

“No, Alex, I'm sure you're right about that. I mean
this
doesn't make sense.” I point to the memo. “After Ellen Rios was killed by ‘natural causes,' Chris Figg took over her position, and Uncle Brian got booted from the Agency for acting crazy.”

“ Yeah.” Pankaj rubs the bottom of his chin. “And that all kind of makes sense given what happened, doesn't it?”

“No, it doesn't. Here's why: If my uncle was really considered such a loose cannon that he could no longer be trusted by the CIA, why would Chris Figg, who had just been promoted within the organization, choose to run a camp with him here?”

Nobody has an answer. I glance around the room; Alex shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. “They were friends. Maybe Figg felt bad for him. Or maybe he, personally, never lost faith in Professor Black? Maybe Figg knew once he'd recovered he'd start working on something groundbreaking.”

“Well, then he was right about that,” I mumble.

Mara straightens. “What do you mean?” she asks. “Do you know something, Kass?”

I wonder if
she
already knows what I know. But at this point, we have to share any information we have, redundant or not. “He's working on a drug that will boost visions. A drug to get his ESP back.” Again, I scan the room and try to get a read on the others; again, I find them inscrutable.

Alex lets his chair fall forward, and it hits the floor with a bang. “ You know what? I'm going to retract my earlier hypothesis about the library just being a symbol for a terrorist. The drug is obviously the motive. That's why all of this stuff is happening.”

“But if that's the case, why not just bomb the lab?” Pankaj asks.

“Think about it: the stuff in this archive is
history
.” Alex's face is somber. “The drug is the future. Literally, it's about seeing the future. So if I wanted to scare Professor Black, I'd start by annihilating his history to show him how easily I can erase any legacy he hopes to leave.”

Alex's theory makes a sick kind of sense. But agreeing with it doesn't provide any solace. It just fills me with rage.

“So Dan died because somebody wants to scare my uncle?”

“Is Professor Black scared?” Alex asks me.

I nod.

“Then the plan worked.”

As we leave the
Elliot Center, Mara suggests we go back to her dorm room “to see what the cards have to say.” I don't know that any of us wants a reading, but I'm certain none of us want to be alone.

Mara's room is pretty much what I imagined: tchotchke and candle filled, with a dream catcher tacked above her bed and a batik dragon on the wall.

Alex flops on the bed, and Pankaj makes himself comfortable on a big bolster pillow on the floor. The boys seem completely at home, as if they've both spent time in these exact positions before. Unfortunately their comfort only sparks discomfort in me. It feels like the union of three has come together, and I'm the odd man out. I look at Mara, who's shuffling the tarot cards but scrutinizing my face; it's as if she can see what I'm feeling.

“Kass, let's start with you,” she says. “We get the best readings when we have questions to ask. You look like you're seeking something, which means you're receptive to finding an answer. If you have nothing to ask—if you assume you already know everything—you're incapable of learning anything.”

I reflexively want to disagree with her, but I don't think she's wrong. “Okay, fine,” I reply.

When she finishes shuffling the cards, Mara carefully fans them on her desk and instructs me to pick three. I point to the cards I want, and she plucks them from the deck, placing them in front of me.

She turns over the first card. It's a smiling Grim Reaper holding a long scythe. On the bottom it says
death
.

“The Death card?” I shake my head. “ You did that on purpose.”

Mara gasps as if I've truly offended her. “ You picked it yourself.”

“The Death card?” I repeat. “ You're saying you in no way manipulated the deck so that this would be the one to appear?”

Her posture straightens. “I would never do that! Do you
really
think I'd be that insensitive after what just happened to Dan and Erika? Anyway, it's not literal. Death's message is about change. You have to shed long-held beliefs if you want to gain new energy and new life.” She fixes her eyes on mine. “The only way for you to move forward is to let go of your ego and admit to your mistakes.”

I return her stare.
Admit my mistakes?
I'm about to tell her the only mistake I made was letting her anywhere near my “fortune,” but she raises a finger.

“But that's just the first card,” she tells me. “We need to see what the others say.”

“ You know what? I think I'm going to stop at Death.”

“ Your loss,” she huffs. “But maybe your closed-mindedness is something you should take a look at.”

“Who wants to go next?” I ask sarcastically. “Pankaj?”

“Nah, I'm good from the last one.” There's an edge in his voice.

The last one?
I'm somehow stung by this, as if he just confessed to kissing another girl.

“I did Pankaj last night,” Mara says. She glances at Alex as she reshuffles the deck.

Alex hops off the bed. “Do me.”

Mara nods, spreading the deck in front of him, once again fanning the cards carefully. But this time I notice that her fingers are trembling. Even after all that's happened, I have no idea what's going through this girl's head. Why is
she
nervous? Is she worried she's the outsider?

Alex pulls three cards from the deck and places each one face up in front of her. “All righty then, what can the Moon, the Three of Swords, and the Nine of Swords tell you about me?”

Mara's eyes roam from card to card. “It's an intense draw,” she murmurs, her fingernails drumming the surface of the desk. “The first is your past. It's about what's influenced you and the energies that surrounded you. The middle card is your present situation, and the third is about your future possibilities.”

“So what does the Moon have to say about Alex's past?” Pankaj asks.

“The Moon is a shadowy figure—in every sense.” Mara's voice quavers and she clears her throat. “She's closely associated with our unconscious and the astrological sign Pisces, which is known for being psychic and mysterious.”

Alex looks to Mara for something, maybe approval, but her eyes remain on the reading. “That seems to track, doesn't it?” he asks.

“We know the Moon literally turns the tides. Figuratively, she moves us by speaking to our animal instincts.” Mara seems to be gaining confidence as she speaks. “See on the card how the crayfish is crawling out of the water and there's a dog and a wolf howling into the distance? These represent the dawning of our consciousness. They also embody our deepest fears.”

Alex sniffs, unimpressed. I can't blame him. Not only has he always been skeptical of the tarot stuff; Mara's “reading” is general enough to fit anything or anyone.

“Of course the Moon also lets us dream our way out of these scary situations. If you were on a sinister path, you could still change it. Jung believed the Moon represents our ‘shadow self,' or the unconscious mind. He thought the happier the person seems on the outside, the darker the person's soul. He also believed that this shadow was prone to projection.”

“Like this?” Alex makes bunny ears with his fingers, letting the flickering candlelight cast its projection against the wall.

Mara shakes her head, now entirely self-assured. “No, meaning you turn your own personal insecurities into perceived failings in others.”