All Seeing Eye

  Yeah, I was all sorts of cheered. I shifted my gaze from a fat blue butterfly and a positively obese puff-chested robin to look at the room around me. I was still in the infirmary. A curtain pulled around my bed gave me the illusion of privacy without the actual benefits. There was the pull and tug of sticky pads and wires on my bare chest; apparently, I was hooked up to a heart monitor. In case I tried checking out of life early before they’d wrung me dry of whatever made me useful to them, the doc could pop in with a shot of adrenaline to get the old pump going. How’d that old Eagles song go? “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave”? Hell, I couldn’t do either.

  I sat up a few inches and took in more. The bedrails were padded with blankets and tape. I wasn’t sure if that was to protect my mind or my skull. A stray touch or seizures. Or both. I was covered with a sheet, and when I peered under it, I could see scrub pants and socked feet. At least I didn’t see the ultimate indignity: a catheter. It would have been hard to look into those calm gray eyes of Meleah again after that. I stripped the glove off my hand and raised it to touch a sore spot at my hairline. I could feel a low ridge of stitches. Didn’t seem like many. My hand moved to the back of my head, and I winced as I traced a large bump. Sighing, I combed a hand through tangled hair. Not a good day for yours truly. If it was still day. I looked back at the “window.” With that as the only thing to go by, who knew?

  “You’re awake, Mr. Eye.”

  A face peered around the curtain, and a smile bloomed across it as if I was Christmas and Easter and every birthday combined into one. It was Abby-nurse Eden. She came in and took my hand, the one that was still covered with a glove, as naturally as if she were my mother or sister sitting a bedside vigil. “You can’t read people through gloves, right? I’m not hurting you, am I?”

  I shook my head slightly, not trusting my dry throat for speech yet.

  “I’m so relieved you’re all right.” She tightened her grip reassuringly. “Some people here …” She scowled—Florence Nightingale outraged. “They aren’t careful with people. Only their precious things. Scientific bullshit.” Coloring as she said “bullshit.” Judging by the tiny cross hanging around her neck, she was a good Christian or Catholic girl, and cursing wasn’t her thing. “As if any machine could be worth a human being. They make me ashamed to be the smallest part of this stupid project and ashamed of the people in it. They honestly do.”

  Her green eyes solemn, she squeezed my hand again. “I thought being a psychic was like a miracle. So amazing and wonderful. A gift from God. But I think I was wrong. It’s not, is it?”

  “A gift?” This time I answered, my voice as hoarse as I expected. I wished for some water. “Not so much.”

  I tried to ease my hand back. Except for Abby and Houdini, I wasn’t used to all this touching. Sincere and well meant or not. But she didn’t release her grip. Abby would’ve approved.

  “Well, don’t you worry, sweetie.” She was my age, thirty, or a few years younger and calling me sweetie as if I were five. “God might test you, but he rewards you, too. There’s always a balance. For the burden you carry now, you’ll have equal joy. That’s a promise. Have faith that you have good things coming to you. And if you need to talk while you’re here, I’m your nurse. Your advocate. My duty is to you first before anyone else, even your doctor. I’ll do anything to help you. I mean that.” Her green eyes were determined enough to show that when she was on your side, she was totally on your side, and ruthless in her credo and devotion if she had to be.

  “Eden? Is he awake?” A ringless hand pushed the curtain back, and Meleah stepped through. It was hard to think of her as Dr. Guerrera now. Not when Charlie and I could remember her sitting on a lawn with a lap full of yapping puppies or stringing lights on a Christmas tree in an old, snug T-shirt and cheery pink pajama pants with a hole in the knee. And then there was another picture of her, watercolor soft, curled naked in simple cotton sheets the color of buttercups. She was round and full, with a crescent-shaped scar dark on her copper-colored hip.

  “Just now, Dr. Guerrera.” Eden let go of my hand and patted it, just like my grandmother had always done. “I’ll see if I can find him something to eat.” Then she was gone, and I was alone with Meleah.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I thought about it for a moment, cataloguing my aches and pains. “Like shit,” I said honestly.

  “That’s probably to be expected, considering what you’ve been through.” She picked up a clipboard that had been hanging off the foot of my bed and began jotting things down. “Could you be a shade more specific? It might make the difference between Tylenol and brain surgery.” There was a hint of a smile on her lips.

  With that motivation, I became a little more verbal. “My head hurts, and I’m stiff pretty much all over.”

  She nodded. “That’s to be expected. You gave your head a good knock, front and back, and you’re bound to have muscle soreness from the seizure. I’ll give you a mild painkiller and a muscle relaxant. You’ll feel better.” Finishing with my chart, she added soberly, “I’ll tell Hector you’re awake. He’s been worried.”

  “I’ll bet.” The words didn’t have the same acid burn that they would’ve before I’d touched that bracelet. It was harder to hate him when I’d seen him grow up through Charlie’s eyes. Harder but not impossible. “You can tell him his guinea pig is alive and kicking. He’ll be thrilled.” More resigned than cutting, but at the moment, off-balance and out of sorts in my body, it was the best I could do.

  She sighed and ran absent fingers along the long braid that trailed across her breast. “He’s a good man, like Charlie was. A good man in an extremely bad situation. I wish you could see that.”

  I could see that, if I looked through Charlie’s eyes. But I could look through my eyes, too. The picture there was different. Sharper-edged, less forgiving. Like me. And oddly enough, despite having read Charlie now, having collected his life … I still didn’t know what Hector and Thackery wanted with me.

  What Charlie and his project—and it had been his brainchild—had been trying to achieve had a superficial resemblance to a psychic event … or in my book, so-called event. But that was it, superficial. It was science, crazy and out there but science nonetheless. What the hell could I do to further the project now that Charlie was gone? And someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make sure it hadn’t worked to begin with. Murder in this kind of closed-doors facility was a high-risk investment and definitely a lot of trouble.

  “I see all sorts of things,” I replied matter-of-factly as I slipped my glove back on. “When Hector gets over here, maybe he can explain to me what some of those things are.” Hector couldn’t have killed Charlie, I was pretty sure of that. Blackmail for a higher cause, one I still didn’t know about, yes, but murder his own brother? Hard to believe. Then again, I’d seen worse come in and out of my shop, and you’d never suspect it from their smiles or sweet little-old-lady faces.

  “Beyond stubborn, the both of you.” She shook her head. “I’ll have Eden bring you the pills with breakfast if you’re feeling up for it.”

  That answered one question. I’d been out of it for nearly twenty-four hours. More than half the time Thackery said they had left. I was surprised that guy wasn’t in here slapping my face ruthlessly until I woke up. Hector did what had to be done, in his mind, without hesitation, but he did have regrets. The esteemed Dr. Thackery wouldn’t waste a second on regret and probably wouldn’t actually recognize the emotion if it bit him in his cold, uptight ass.

  “Breakfast will be …” I checked with my stomach. Dubious, but game. “Okay … I think.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Hector showed up with it himself. The tray held a banana, a sealed container of blueberry yogurt, a carton of milk, and a bowl of oatmeal. “Eden called the cafeteria for this. She said to keep it simple and easily digestible. This is the best I could do,” he said quietly.

  I watched as he set the tray on the
wheeled table beside the bed and expertly pulled the table over my lap. He was back in his lab coat and was sporting sleepless lines and bloodshot eyes. “What, Hector?” I asked. “Long night? Too bad. I slept like a baby.” I opened the milk. “Or someone who was put in a coma by an asshole. Take your pick.” Considering that Hector, as far as I could tell, didn’t know that his brother had died in agony, much less had been murdered, I wasn’t being fair. I felt a pang over that before I remembered where being fair had gotten me in life.

  Here.

  Hector was more than aware of who said asshole was, but he didn’t bother to put up a defense. Pulling up a chair, he sat heavily, much of his natural grace in abeyance. “I thought I’d killed you, Jackson,” he said wearily. “Believe it or not, there’s not much you can say to make me feel worse. I’m right there in the moment: Callous Bastard of the Year.”

  And there came that taste of Charlie. A shuffling of pages, a fanning of faded photographs. Hector joining the Army to pay for his college so Charlie wouldn’t be put in the position of being financially responsible for his younger brother. Because of that, Charlie had been able to work his own way through school along with quite a few scholarships and grants. MIT wasn’t cheap even with those things. What Hector had done had made it possible for Charlie, made it possible for them both.

  Grumbling silently at myself, I felt the dark-edged emotions lighten some. I fought it, but you can’t escape knowledge, not really, even when it’s not your own. Ripping the foil off the yogurt, I said almost under my breath, “Maybe you’ll get a plaque in the mail.”

  He blinked, confused at a comment that was far less razor-edged than what he expected. “Maybe. So … how are you doing?”

  I took a few spoonfuls of the yogurt and gave it a moment. When my stomach accepted it without incident, I moved on to the oatmeal. “Didn’t you ask the doc?” I asked with a knowing quirk of my eyebrow. Of course, he had. He might have all the regrets in the world, but he still needed me for some reason. There wasn’t anything about my health that he wasn’t going to know.

  “Yes, I did,” he responded, leaning back in the chair and washing a hand over his tired face. He kept his eyes on me, though, somber. Sincere. “But now I’m asking you, and I don’t just mean physically.”

  Ah. Talking about your innermost crap. First Eden, now Hector. Like the few times Abby showed up with the chick-flick movies and forced me and Houdini to suffer through the talk, talk, talk that fixed everyone’s problems, enriched their lives, and closed the hole in the ozone layer, all while she snuffled with her own box of Kleenex. What fun. Yeah, right … maybe later.

  “Charlie was your brother, Hector, not mine. He was my roommate for a while and a nice kid, but that was a lifetime ago. A memory.” The banana was a little soft, but I ate it anyway. Concentrating on it was easier than concentrating on other things.

  “A memory,” he repeated, then dropped the hammer. “Fine, I’ll accept that’s what he was before, but what is he now?”

  Christ. He had to go there, didn’t he? He couldn’t let me enjoy the goddamn banana, he had to push it. I pushed the table and tray away, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  Eyes narrowed on me. “You’re stalling.”

  “I’ve been in this bed almost twenty-four hours, and you think I’m stalling?” I folded my arms. “Hey, if it’s proof you want, pick a spot. I’m up for a challenge. I think I’ve got enough to spell my name and yours.”

  He snorted. “I stand corrected. It’s down about fifteen feet and on your right.”

  He was right, of course. I was stalling, but that didn’t make the need any less pressing. By the time I came back, I was feeling slightly more relaxed. The fact that I’d actually been able to walk there and back without anyone holding my hand or standing guard helped more than I would’ve guessed. Naturally, there would be someone outside the infirmary door to make sure I didn’t make a break for it, but I still wasn’t going to take that tiny bit of freedom for granted.

  By the time I sat on the edge of the bed and folded my arms, I was more than ready to work toward having all my freedom back. “Okay, Hector. Let’s get down to business. I know what Charlie was doing. I know about the experiment, and I know that he died during it.” Died being the cleanest, safest word for what had happened. “Now for what I don’t know. What do you need me for?”

  “You saw it all, then? You saw the experiment … you know what he was trying to do? You understand it?”

  I shifted my shoulders. “Eh. Think of it like reading the blurb on the back of a book. I get the general outline. I know what Charlie was trying to do, but I don’t really understand anything. I don’t get the how, and I definitely don’t get the why. I’m not really up on my quantum physics and whatnot.” I shook my head and said dryly, “Astral projection. What will you wacky scientists come up with next?” Because basically, that had been Charlie’s goal, the project’s goal: the dissociation of awareness from human form. Charlie had wanted to be able to come and go from his body like it was a summer-house at the beach. Wacky wasn’t quite the word.

  “The military uses for it would be immense, I’m sure you’re aware.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bracelet that had taken me down so swiftly. I gave it an uneasy look as he turned it over in his hands. “But to Charlie, it was simply the pure love of doing what was thought to be impossible. To be able to travel instantly or nearly so. To perhaps see things no one had seen before. To be spirit outside of flesh.”

  Good old Charlie, smart as hell but obviously crazy as a bedbug. “Yeah, okay, whatever … but it didn’t work out for him, did it?” I pointed out.

  “No.” He studied the bracelet, then put it away. “There were successes of a sort, with computer models and animal experimentation.”

  I didn’t ask them how they knew if Rover was taking a walk on the astral side or not. I already knew … almost. I saw it through Charlie’s eyes. Something about brain waves and measuring the ambient energy patterns in the air. I didn’t actually understand it or have anywhere close to a complete cataloguing of the information. It was more like hearing the occasional phrase, in Charlie’s voice, drift through my head. Bits and pieces that made up an elaborate painting. I might not see or understand every stroke of the masterpiece, but I could see the picture.

  “So it worked fine with Rover but not for Charlie. Anyone know why?” I met his eyes squarely. I knew why, but Hector didn’t … I hoped. Even if I knew for sure, spreading that knowledge couldn’t help my situation. It could only hurt it. What would a murderer do if he thought a psychic knew the motive for his murder and was only a mandatory project-personnel reading away from figuring out his identity? Nothing good.

  “No.” He cleared a suddenly constricted throat. “There were no malfunctions found. No energy spikes. No reason for Charlie to die. We didn’t even know it was … painful until you told us. We thought his heart simply stopped while he was in a state very similar to a deep sleep.”

  It wasn’t a moment I wanted to relive even in passing, and I went on quickly. “We still haven’t gotten around to why I’m here. What the hell do you possibly think I can do for your project?”

  “We need you to find Charles.”

  I turned my head to see my best pal Dr. Thackery standing by the curtain. He looked marginally more rested than Hector but not by much. He’d had a late night, too, apparently, but I would’ve been willing to bet the long-gone homestead that it wasn’t spent worrying about me.

  “What?” I asked in disbelief.

  “We want you to find Charles,” he repeated, “by reading him.”

  All right, what was this? What the hell was this? “You want me to find what? His ghost?” I asked derisively. “I can’t read a ghost. Mainly because I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  He stepped further into the room, face as bland as my morning oatmeal. “Charles isn’t a ghost … precisely. How shall I put this so you might
grasp it?” he pondered in a tone so supercilious that I wanted to beat him on the head with my oatmeal bowl. “Charles is no longer living, true, but he’s not dead. Well, not entirely dead.” A long finger tapped his chin as he finished absently. “Not yet.”

  Hector’s jaw muscles bunched at the casual dismissal of his brother’s life, but he said nothing.

  All right, this was about as weird as it got, and coming from a homegrown Georgia psychic, that was saying something. “Hector,” I demanded, “what is this bullshit this guy is flinging? What’s he saying about Charlie?” I might not completely trust Allgood, but I damn sure trusted him more than Thackery. If I’d died on that cold bastard’s immaculate lab floor, his first thought would’ve been for the project, his second for calling the janitor to clean up my remains. Hector was far from perfect, but he was worlds away a better man than that. And right now, except for Eden’s sympathy and duty, he was the only one remotely on my side.

  “He’s right,” he said thickly. “Charlie’s not gone. Not completely. His body died, but not before the experiment succeeded. Apparently, he was passing into a state of astral projection just as his heart stopped. Meleah couldn’t … we couldn’t revive him. There was nothing for him to return to.”

  “And he’s just floating out there?” This was nuts. Flat-out nuts.

  “We’re not sure what he’s doing or even how aware he is, but he’s there.” Hector stood, stripped off his lab coat, and hung it over the back of his chair. “The machine activated. It flooded Charlie’s body with alpha-wave ions to trigger an OOB. It worked just as it had once before. He’d made it once before.”

  OOB being an out-of-body experience. But this particular time, unlike the first, he hadn’t made it back.

  “How do you know he actually made it the first time?” I asked skeptically.