So what? Art asked himself as he reached the bottom of the steps and headed down Dearborn to grab a bite at Nico’s. He’d made worse enemies in a long career with the Bureau. What could one measly U.S. Attorney do to him?
Number 6601 needed surgery.
Circling the earth at 150 fifty nautical miles in a ninety-eight-degree sun-synchronous orbit, the two-billion dollar piece of electronic and imaging wizardry known as the KH-14 was just a year into its planned ten-year lifespan when the same shuttle that had placed it into orbit, Atlantis, blasted off from Florida’s Cape Canaveral an hour before dawn. On the fourth revolution Atlantis rendezvoused with the reconnaissance satellite and precisely matched its course and speed. They were man-made moons in tandem orbit of Mother Earth.
As the sun set on the East Coast, two men from the planet earth exited Atlantis and moved via MMUs (manned maneuvering units) the ten yards to number 6601. One astronaut carried tools. The other carried a small case the size of a shoebox. It shone silver in the clear sunlight of space.
The astronaut with the tools opened an access panel on the huge satellite’s side, below and aft of its number two solar panel. He worked carefully and removed four bolts that held a red box in place. One cable went in the red box, and another came out. He disconnected these and pulled the red box free.
It took him twenty more minutes to put the silver box in and reconnect the cables.
After finishing the surgery, the astronauts took the red box with them and reentered Atlantis. They would continue with the “scientific” activities of mission 98-A for another eight days, then land back at Cape Canaveral, weather permitting.
Number 6601 required only five minutes to recover from surgery, just long enough to recalibrate itself with controllers on the ground at several secret installations across the United States. The first thing it did was spit a stream of electronic gibberish toward the earthbound receiving stations. All of them answered back with the same gibberish. They understood each other. But no one else did.
Number 6601 had just been taught a new language.
It was very late when the father sat in the rocker in the corner of his child’s room and helped his son onto his lap. The son wore white flannel pajamas highlighted with tiny blue snowflakes, and when he curled up in the strong arms his nose pressed into the crook of his father’s neck. The son detected the faint scent of motor oil, and this comforted him. He slid his thumb into his mouth and closed his lips around it.
“Wander boy, wander far, wander to the farthest star,” the father began to softly sing. His pitch was off, his rhythm tortured. The son found assurance in the song sung his father’s way; it was the only way he knew. “Wander boy, wander far, dreams are what you’re made of.”
Eyes closed, and the son began to suck his thumb. The father stared blankly at a bare wall and continued the melody. He had long ago stopped asking God to heal his son. He accepted him now. “Under a tree by a house, by a field washed with rain, lies a boy all alone with his thoughts and his dreams.”
The father loved his son. He had sung to him every night of his life but one. It was their special time. “Wander boy, wander far...” At this point he continued only in a hum. “Hmmm-hm-hm-hmm hmmm-hmmm-hm-hm-hmmm.”
The son fell asleep in the safety of his father’s arms.
Half a world away there was no safety for the son of another father. His body was already cold.
But in the quiet of this Midwest home, there was only peace as the father hummed the lullaby, his son resting serenely as the night marched on. The ritual was unchanging.
For now.
Chapter One
The Sky is Falling
Simon Lynch sat alone in the small room at a square table, chair back from its edge, hands folded on his lap, his upper body swaying forward and back in a precise, measured motion, the equal of any metronome. His eyes, green and cautious, darted about the bare tabletop, focusing on no one spot for more than a second. A few blonde hairs hung loose over his forehead. His lips moved quickly, incrementally, in some silent recitation.
The four walls of the room were off-white. Except for a door they seemed bare. One wasn’t.
“How old is he?” Dr. Anne Jefferson asked as she watched the image on the large television monitor. The subject was fifteen feet distant in a soundproof observation room. A perfectly hidden camera was bringing the pictures to them.
“He turned sixteen two weeks ago,” Dr. Chas Ohlmeyer answered. A clipboard rested on his knee. A notebook computer glowed on Anne’s lap. “How can you do observations on that thing?”
“This?” Her head shook with a smile. Her smile was her most striking feature, or so her new husband had told her. When she wasn’t smiling she was merely a classic beauty, skin the color of light chocolate and smooth as a newborn’s, eyes translucent in the right light, black hair pulled into a loose ponytail because of the storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. “You still have a couch in your office, don’t you?”
Ohlmeyer accepted the friendly jab. “And Freud is my idol.”
Anne chuckled, then gave her attention back to the monitor. “So, Simon Lynch. You think he’s a Kanner?”
Ohlmeyer’s face did the equivalent of a shrug. “I’m hoping you can help in that determination. He’s only been coming to Thayer for a couple months. It’s taken about that long to acclimate him so he’d open up a bit. Then last week…well, you’ll see.”
She studied the young man on the screen. At first blush an untrained eye might see a case of nerves. The scene did, she had to admit, look like something out of a police drama; the interrogation room, a bland cube with one door and a light fixture in the ceiling’s center, suspect at the table, waiting for the good guy-bad guy team of cops to come in. It was not that, though, and the behavior was not a case of nerves. The reason was far more profound.
From the left of the screen the door opened. Anne noted immediately that the pace of Simon’s rocking picked up a bit. A young woman entered, spoke a few comforting words to the subject, and set a box on the table before retreating. The door closed with a soft click.
“What is that?”
“A puzzle,” Ohlmeyer answered. His lined face bore a subtle grin. “We’ve discovered that Simon likes puzzles.”
Anne’s fingers tapped at the condensed keyboard, recording the beginnings of her observation. Thirty seconds into the session the pace of her typing slowed, then stopped, and she leaned in close to the monitor, her eyes wide. “Oh my.”
Simon Lynch had the contents of the box, five hundred jigsaw pieces of random size and shape, spread out upon the table, none touching another. The top of the box, emblazoned with a picture of a covered bridge in a pastoral setting, he laid face down on the floor without as much as a glance at it. The plain bottom of the box followed. Then he went about starting the puzzle.
“Chas, he is…”
“I know.”
First Simon had to get all the pieces turned the same direction…without letting them touch. They could only touch when he placed them together. And they could only go together when the picture side of each was face down. When the table top was nothing but a jumble of gray jigsaw piece backs, Simon’s rocking stopped. He leaned further forward and, eyes still dancing, began interlocking the pieces. Perfectly. With nary a test fit.