Dr. Crestor seemed to read his mind. “Nightmares still giving you problems?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“It’s okay to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s under control.”
“No problem. I’ve been told you’ve been watching the news nonstop.”
“What else can I do? I need to be informed. They can’t find a way to shut off that beacon. Can you believe it? Incompetent, all of them. This decontamination process had better end quickly. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Work?”
Blackwell stared at Crestor, wondering if the doctor was baiting him. Shrinks usually were. “Did you think I’d go hang my head somewhere? The entire world is in jeopardy right now. I’ll be where I belong — at the forefront of the battle.”
“Battle?”
Blackwell jabbed a finger at Crestor. “Don’t do that. Don’t repeat the last word of my sentences. That’s shrink methodology 101. You want to figure me out, ask a direct question.”
“Very well, Alexander. What’s inside the case?”
Blackwell’s eyes slid that direction despite himself. He kept the case with Dr. Stein’s archives and samples inside a refrigerated vault, even sleeping beside it in case someone tried opening it without permission. He knew his father wouldn’t hesitate to examine the contents for himself. And Nathan coveted it as well. He hadn’t directly asked about the case, but Blackwell caught his longing stares when he thought no one noticed. Blackwell planned to open it only in the security of his own personal laboratories, where his hand-chosen team of experts would begin deciphering its secrets.
“Information, doctor. Information.”
“About the phenomenon? What will you do with it?”
“Figure things out. Push the envelope. Stop what’s happening.”
“You sound as if you alone have to do this. Like you can’t allow anyone else to take charge of the situation.”
“Where was everyone else when this Aberration was tearing up the Atlantic? Standing around with their heads in the sand. Someone has to take charge, Doctor.”
“You were in charge of the Gorgon mission.”
“That’s right.”
“And you were in charge of the Tantalus mission.”
“Damn right I was.” Blackwell’s face heated as he caught the expression on Crestor’s face. “You think I screwed those missions up. That I’m responsible for everything going to hell.”
“I’m not thinking anything, Alexander. But one might draw the correlation if so inclined, I suppose.”
“So what are you saying — I’m a failure? I’m in over my head? I don’t know what I’m doing? Maybe I should turn things over to wiser minds, is that it? Like my father, maybe? How much is he paying you?”
“Calm down, Alexander.”
“How much?”
Crestor steepled his fingers, gazing with unflappable calm. “You appear upset. Maybe we should take this up again when you’re calm.”
“Yeah, maybe we should.” Blackwell’s teeth ground together. He couldn’t believe he let the doctor get to him so easily.
“Very well.” Crestor stood up with a disarming smile. “No man is an island, Alexander.”
“A common colloquialism. Why bring it up?”
“You’ve been through hell. Through an experience that challenged your very sanity. Your eyes might not be the only thing affected by it all. You need people, is what I’m saying.”
“I have people, doctor. I employ them by the thousands.”
Crestor lifted an eyebrow. “Until next time, Alexander.”
Blackwell’s jaw clenched. “Wait.”
Crestor paused.
“You think I’m irrational. Reckless. Impulsive. Maybe you’re right. But I’m not the one who’s ailing.”
“I never said—”
“My eyes might be purple, but I’m not afflicted by anything, doctor. Not infected with any alien diseases, or suffering from any type of mental degeneration. You’re the ones who are infected.”
“Us?”
“That’s right. You, my father, the rest of them. You’re infected by fear, panic of a catastrophe you can do nothing to stop.”
“And you’re different?”
“I’m different. But not because of the color of my eyes.” His gaze drifted to the vault. “Because I’m not afraid. I’m ahead of the curve. When the time comes, I’ll be ready.”
“For what?”
“For the Cataclysm.”
Like the rest of the civilized world, Cynthia Graham spent her days and nights terrified. The event the media called the Desolation was still ongoing, with the violet stream of energy already tinting thirty-five percent of the sky a dark purplish color. Predictions indicated the entire world’s atmosphere was at risk.
Outbreaks of bizarre weather had occurred in regions close to the site of the incident. In Puerto Rico a lightning storm had lasted for thirty-six hours. No rain, just unceasing lightning, claiming over five hundred lives. In the Bahamas, a massive storm unleashed a flood of frogs on the islands. Not a drop of water, but thousands of frogs pouring from the clouds.
It was petrifying.
Florida was predicted to be next. Those who could evacuate had fled, leaving the poor and stubborn behind to brace themselves for whatever bizarre phenomenon occurred. The mood around the country was one of fear and desperation. Houses of worship that once struggled to maintain attendants suddenly found themselves filled to near-bursting levels. Survivalists stocked up on non-perishable goods, weapons, ammo, and doomsday bunkers. Looters roamed the streets, breaking and entering with little resistance from law enforcement, who had orders to protect areas of affluence and capitol first. Residents were advised to stay indoors as much as possible, and curfews were enforced in most neighborhoods.
No one knew what was coming.
The uncertainty unsettled Cynthia more than anything else. Fear of the unknown. Fear for Michelle, a newborn infant who had no idea what was happening in the world outside of her window. She gurgled in her crib, tiny fingers stretched toward the rotating mobile hanging above her bed. Cynthia wished she could share her child’s contented obliviousness.
Cynthia.
She raised her head at the sound of her name. “Wayne?”
But Wayne wasn’t there. He had been enlisted by the government to provide support for the survivors of the Tantalus mission, and claimed it wasn’t a request he could refuse. She wasn’t so sure. Michael had been on that mission. She wondered if Wayne wanted to meet Michael alone, talk to him before he came home. Some kind of preemptive action to avoid difficulties when Michael returned.
If he returned. She hadn’t heard from Wayne since he left the mainland. The command center had claimed it impossible to make phone calls from off the coast, too much interference from the aberrant storm. She couldn’t help but feel the worst had happened. Michael perished out there in the unknown, lost to her before she could ever see his face again. Before ever seeing his daughter with his own eyes.
Cynthia.
The second time it was clearer, the voice ringing in her head. Fear reached out, stroked the back of her neck with clammy fingers. The way her name was spoken was so familiar, but impossible. Michael was either lost at sea or dead…
Lightning flashed outside, followed by a clap of thunder that made the walls shudder. The windows glowed behind the shades, staring at her like lavender eyes.
Cynthia.
The voice was outside, a disembodied phantom that whispered her name. Cynthia took a look at Michelle. The baby had gone silent, her eyes wide, shimmering. A smile dimpled her cheeks as if she stared beyond, seeing something Cynthia could not.