“But he’s heard everything we’re talking about here?”
“Yes.”
“That’s sort of creepy. I’m glad I’m not in his shoes.” She tapped his toe. “Or, well, whatever.” She gave a girlish giggle as if all this was somehow funny.
Dr. Malhotra turned toward the door. “Heston, prepare the patient for the scan. I have a few things to discuss with Miss Hendrix. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
After Dr. Malhotra left, Heston stared for a long time at the man lying there in front of him.
Patient 175-4.
Thad Becker.
He could see Thad breathing with the help of the ventilator, his eyes closed, his chest moving ever so slightly with the life that was pumping through him. The man was aware. He’d been aware the whole time and had heard the whole conversation about his condition.
Heston knew what he needed to do.
At the counter, he prepared a syringe with a very specific cocktail of drugs.
He had no idea what would happen to him if he did this, he didn’t know if Colonel Byrne would do to him what he’d done to this man, but Heston couldn’t bear to think about Thad lying here for months or years having his neural synapses studied in a sterile, objective way without any consideration for his desires.
There really was no reason to use an alcohol pad to clean off Thad’s arm before inserting the syringe, but Heston did it out of habit — only realizing afterward how ludicrous it was, in this case, to take steps to eliminate or reduce potential infection.
He placed the tip of the needle against Thad’s arm and hesitated for a moment. The machine beeped in a quiet, steady rhythm beside him.
Thad didn’t move. Couldn’t move. And Heston wasn’t sure if he would have pulled away if he could, or if he would have reached over and pressed the needle in himself.
The patient couldn’t make that decision, though, so Heston did it for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he injected the cocktail of drugs into Thad’s arm. He wasn’t sure an apology was really necessary when you’re releasing someone from a living hell. He wasn’t sure it was necessary to apologize for killing someone who’d just been told he was going to be trapped there, in that locked-in state, for years or even decades, but still, Heston did apologize.
After a few more seconds the monitors stopped registering the signs of life and went blank. It was over.
As he was whispering a quiet prayer for this man, that he might find some peace in the afterlife, Heston heard a shuffling sound behind him near the door.
He turned, yes, he was aware of that—
And of seeing a gray blur of movement—
But that was the last thing he was aware of because someone swung a rod and struck him hard against the side of the head, and he crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.
Dr. Malhotra, who was holding one of the sturdy pipes used in the robotic research, stared down at Heston.
“It looks like you just found someone to replace Thad,” Calista said.
“No. I’ve got something better in mind.”
Billboards
Someone else must have called the police even before we did, because by the time we arrive at Emilio’s house two officers are already there.
We tell them the truth: We’d come over to our murdered friend Emilio Benigno’s house to see if we could notice anything out of the ordinary, we found the door open, stepped inside, saw that the place was a mess, and heard someone leaving through the back door. We followed him just long enough to get a plate number and a description of the pickup and then reported it to the authorities. We finish by explaining what happened in the Philippines.
“And what made you think there might be something out of the ordinary at your friend’s house?” the beefy officer, whose name tag reads “A. Geisler,” asks me in a somewhat accusing tone.
“Because he was murdered.”
“In the Philippines.”
“That’s right.”
“With cobras.”
“Yes. So are you looking for the pickup? Did you put out an all-points bulletin or whatever you call it these days on the vehicle? Whoever was in this house might have been involved with planning Emilio’s death.”
His partner, Officer O’Nan, a slim man with a substantial mustache, answers instead. “I saw that on the news about Benigno. They said it was an accident. He was bitten by the snakes while trying to do a magic trick.”
“It was not an accident,” I tell them.
“I think that’s something you should leave for the police to look into.”
“We tried that.” Xavier is getting frustrated. “Didn’t get us anywhere. And if it was an accident, who was ransacking his home?”
“Burglars who watch the news and knew he was dead, that his house was empty, and that he was a successful international performer who would have money.”
I gesture toward the house. “Burglars who leave his checkbook and credit card on his desk but tear all his books off the bookshelves? They were looking for something specific.”
The two cops exchange glances.
“Uh-huh,” Geisler mumbles. “Wait here for a minute.”
They walk to the patrol car, and Geisler gets on the radio while O’Nan just watches Xavier and me.
“What are you thinking?” I ask Xav in a voice quiet enough to remain unheard by the two cops.
“I’m thinking, if someone was looking for that USB drive, we really need to find out what’s on it.” His words are as soft as mine were. “As soon as possible.”
Before they find out we have it.
“I’m with you there.”
Xavier calls Fionna, and while they’re talking, he shakes his head and I get the message: Nothing yet.
The minutes stretch out, and when I glance at my watch I can see it’s already nearly ten. The cops are still conferring with each other, taking turns on the radio. Maybe it’s a good sign, maybe they’re actually going to do something about all this.
Finally, they return and O’Nan tells us, “You can go. We’ll take it from here.”
“Take what from here? The murder investigation?”
He eyes me coolly. I don’t look away. Finally, he clears his throat. “Look, like I said, I saw the news, okay? It’s all over the Internet, what your friend was trying to do. It was an accident in another country. We don’t have jurisdiction there.”
“But if this person who was in the house was involved, you have jurisdiction over—”
“You’re a magician, right? You got that show over at the Arête?”
I try to keep the exasperation out of my voice. “What gave me away?”
“The billboards. All over the city. I thought I recognized you.”
“Good job.”
This guy was a real Sherlock Holmes.
“Stick to doing magic tricks, Mr. Banks,” Geisler says coolly.
He and his partner assure us that they’ll take care of everything and exhort us to stop playing detective. As we’re wrapping up the oh-so-productive conversation, Fionna phones and I excuse myself to take the call.
“Anything on the white pickup’s plates?” I ask her.
“Nothing solid, although they are government-issued, which tells us something right there. If the truck is from this security firm Xavier was thinking of, I would think they’d be privately issued plates instead.”
“Unless it was for Groom Lake.”
“Maybe. I can’t verify that either way. I’m still working on the USB drive — Lonnie’s not up yet. I haven’t heard from Charlene. When do you think you and Xavier will be getting back?”
“Maybe twenty minutes or so.”
After I hang up, the officers ask us a few more questions, then Xavier and I climb back into the DB9. Both of us are quiet. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I’m thinking of Emilio and all this mystery surrounding him.