Cuff Lynx (26 page)

“And this is science? That blue vapor in the hall was science?”

“Constructed in a laboratory, heavily researched for decades,” I said. “And I have probably seriously overstepped by telling you that. You, however, have a unique gift, and your notes over the next forty-eight hours are extremely important to my mission.”

A knock sounded at the door. I opened it for Deep.

“Hey, the picture’s back up, the teams moved on to their next piece, and I’m all yours.” He looked over at Gater. “Unless you need privacy.”

“We’re done.” I focused on Gater. “Getting the art back in place, it’s not busywork. It’s mission-specific and the sooner it’s done, the better.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gater stood and left the room, looking like he’d eaten a fistful of sour grapes.

Deep went over to the computer. “Ready. What’s my first search?”

“Can you find contact information on Colonel Nelson Scott, US Army Retired?”

Thirty-Three

N
elson Scott was dead. He died in a car accident two days after he packed his desk up and walked away from the newly-defunded Galaxy Project’s office. That left only one US military-trained remote influencer alive. The day Nelson Scott wrapped his Honda around a tree was the same day that Allan Leverone went to see Dr. Laura East, the psychiatrist from the project who monitored the physical and mental health of the remote viewers. Leverone had been complaining of severe and recurrent headaches. She wanted him to check into the army hospital for testing. Once there, he was quickly transferred to the psych ward.

According to Deep’s hacked records, Leverone went on a course of drugs that basically put him into a stuporous state — hmmm. Like General Elliot. Leverone was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, and they kept him medicated and out of commission for a year and a half before his wife accepted the ODPMC – Other Designated Physical or Mental Conditions discharge — on his behalf and was able to get him released and put into a private clinic to clean his system of the drugs.

Home again, Leverone had a visit from the Secret Service, who thought his mental health put the president at risk. If you read between the lines of that report, really, it was national security at risk. Even discredited by his seemingly fabricated diagnosis, Leverone wanted the world to know all about his work in influencing and that he had trained others. Others? How many others? Who were they? Did he really, or was this a ploy?

I remembered back to the Wyoming campfire when General Coleridge said he was protecting himself from wannabes, looky-loos, and influencers, but then said there were only two people who were chosen by the project to train in influencing, and they were chosen for their altruism. Altruism. It seemed Leverone experienced a seismic shift at the mental health hospital and became Indigo, the Puppet Master.

I was sitting on a rock near the water. The November sun glittered its doorknobbing protection across the surface. I picked up pebbles and threw them into the river, watching the concentric circles expand and multiply.

Deep had dug up 911 tapes from Leverone’s Maryland home. Paramedics and the hazmat unit deployed to find that someone from the Leverone household had shut the garage door with the generator running, following a massive electrical storm that left the area without electricity. Leverone had been awoken by his cat and managed to get the family out. I remembered General Coleridge telling me that one time, they almost took out one of our viewer’s whole family by setting up a generator in their garage and filling the house with carbon monoxide. It was Leverone’s. First sedated into oblivion, then attacked in his own home. My head spun with this new data.

A search of newspaper articles over the next few days found a warning about carbon monoxide and the dangers of using generators. The reporters held up the Leverones as the poster family for what could go wrong. Leverone’s wife and son died that night. He and his daughter were treated and released from the hospital in time to attend the funeral.

Who arranged for the funerals and paid for them if Leverone was hospitalized? I had asked. The funeral home listed General and Sandra Elliot on their receipt. Holy moly!

After the funeral, Allan Leverone disappeared and reemerged like Mr. Hyde in a new guise.

That could do it, I thought, tossing another rock into the river. I could go from altruistic to pure anger and vengeance if the government had killed to shut me up, and tried to kill me too. Major Trudy explained how it felt to wake up one day disowned by the country you served. Then to be hospitalized that way, removed from the service, name besmirched with a diagnosis that would cause people to discount every word spoken, then murdering his wife and son?

I have felt angry and vengeful for the things I have gone through over the last two years, and it was so miniscule in scope compared to what Allan Leverone had experienced. I let my mind wander, exploring how it would feel if I knew someone killed Striker because of me. The sensations that expanded out of my heart were so poisonous that I slammed the door on those thoughts. The lingering bitter aftertaste, though, told me I would turn over every rock and stone to find everyone involved, and I would crush them under my heel.

Boom. Gone. Leverone and his daughter. I would be, too. I’d disappear. That was a simple survival strategy.

Now Spyder and I knew that Leverone was called the Puppet Master, or Indigo. We didn’t know what legal alias he used for things like his driver’s license, housing and banking. Nor did we have anything on his daughter. There had been no follow-up. Deep couldn’t find a single entity–not police, not military, not any of the alphabets–who were keeping tabs on him.

Somehow the powers that be thought it important enough to drug him and attempt to kill him, but then, when he disappeared, he was out of sight, out of mind? That made no darned sense. Unless maybe he had used his specialized skillset to make this go away. Perhaps he used his influencing to make his name slip through the cracks of those who tried to find him so his file ended up shoved into the back of a dusty closet somewhere. Was that possible? Could someone energetically hide their name? It seemed to have worked on General Coleridge and Major Trudy. Of course, I’d need to verify, verify, verify. Right now I was thinking hypothetically, and this was all conjecture.

I needed information.

What I needed was my own remote viewer.

I swung by the grocery store and picked up a few bags of ingredients, then went to knock on Major Trudy’s door.

Major Trudy wore a clean shirt this time and his hair was professionally cut, unlike last time, when it looked like he’d hacked at his hair with a pair of round-nosed scissors. The pinched look around his eyes had eased a little.

“Yes, to whatever you want,” he said, opening the door.

I laughed. “So I can use your kitchen to cook up a roast?”

He swung his arm wide, directing me to his kitchen. “You’re buttering me up with cooking. You want more information.”

“You are a very smart man.” I grinned at him. “I thought I might put this in the oven to slow roast it, and while it was cooking, I could hire you.” I put the bags on the counter and started to unpack them.

“To read another list off?”

“I have a series of remote viewing tasks, and I’d like your input.” I reached out to wash my hands before I began. “I’m not trained to be a monitor, but I get the gist, especially about being careful not to lead you. I do have training in hypnotism, and that conversely has a lot to do with leading.”

Major Trudy handed me a roll of paper towels, and I trapped it between my elbow and body to tear off a couple of sheets.

He said, “The process, from the monitor’s point of view, has some aspects that are similar to hypnosis, especially record-keeping and monitoring the wellbeing of the person in an altered state. In hypnosis and remote viewing both, the goal is to gather information. In hypnosis, one can only gather information that is in the subject’s conscious or subconscious mind. In remote viewing, the information available is infinite.”

“Do you have a roasting pan?” I asked.

He reached into a lower cabinet and pulled one out, then laid out a cutting board and knife. “To monitor my wellbeing requires equipment, and I’m not set up for that.”

“Basic vital data, oxygen, blood pressure, heart rate? I brought that with me in my car.”

He scratched at his jaw, wiggled his lips, scrunched his nose, and looked at the ceiling. Then he asked, “How much are you thinking of paying me?”

“One month’s mortgage for each of your sessions, as long as each session gives me actionable information. And, if I am successful on my mission, I will pay off your house completely.” That last sentence popped out of my mouth before I gave it full thought. How in the red was Iniquus? Did it matter? If I was successful on this mission, Iniqqus would have a renaissance and this money would be a drop in the bucket. If I failed, there would be no Iniquus.

He blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“No, sir, I am very serious.”

He blinked again. “You’re kidding.” He bent at the waist and put his hands on his knees, tears ran down his face. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

I respectfully gave him some space to deal with his emotions. I turned to the cutting board and worked on chopping up the onions and roasting vegetables. My roast should be big enough to feed him for a week. I hoped so. Major Trudy blew his nose in some paper towels, and splashed cold water on his face. General Coleridge said that being connected to the collective unconscious made stoicism impossible—emotions bubbled up too big and loud to hold them back. And I knew how embarrassing that could feel, especially for a soldier.

With Major Trudy lying comfortably on the blow-up mattress I had brought along, I hooked him up to the machines and reassured him that I was an EMT and knew what I was doing–well, as far as monitoring his vitals. He gave me a couple of pointers on how to conduct myself–mainly, I was to remain neutral, no matter what I saw or heard while he did the work.

I pulled out the first envelope. Deep had pulled up a random number generator and placed the number on the top of each. So even though I knew what all of the questions were, I didn’t know which one this was. It was a stretch, but I could still call it mostly-double blind.

Task number 9377269 (locate needed information)

HET – winking. I recognize this room. I’ve been here before.

Monitor – address?

HET – Washington, DC.

Monitor – What do you see?

HET – A book shelf with logs and journals, a desk, a dentist chair with vital signs-monitoring equipment.

Monitor – Specific log?

HET – Top drawer, right-hand side.

Monitor – Describe placement of the room.

HET – This room has a bathroom on the other side of that wall. It is centered in a larger square. The outside wall is constructed of windows, and bright lights. Domestic. Living. Working. Quiet. There. . .

I waited.

Monitor - There. . .?

I looked over at his vitals, and they all seemed fine. I rubbed sweaty palms down my thighs. I had no idea what I was doing. I was all bluster and bravado; now, here I was just freaking clueless. I took in a deep breath.

Monitor – Describe.

HET – Light, colors, swirling. . .

Monitor – You’re doorknobing. Rise above and locate.

HET – Two, maybe four. Perhaps a reflection?

Monitor – Locate.

HET – Corners of outer box.

Monitor - Rise above through the ceiling, leaving the doorknobs behind. Can you see the top of the roof?

HET – Yes.

Monitor - Rise farther up until you can see the roof of the building and the streets.

HET – There.

Monitor - Describe.

HET – White, stone, takes up entire block, tall, military, weapons, guarded.

Monitor - Go to nearest landmark building.

HET – There.

Monitor – Name of building?

HET – Library. Starts with M.

Monitor – Where is this in relation to the target building?

HET – One block, due west.

Monitor – Go to street level of target.

HET – There.

Monitor - Look up. Count the number of windows from bottom to top until you arrive at the level of the room you just described.

This was actually partly like using a claw at grocery stores to try to trap the toy you want and bring it back to the chute, and partly like going behind the Veil, where I tried to piece together sensory input.

HET – Thirteenth window up. No windows beyond.

Monitor – Come back. Draw your data and write your summary.

I went to the kitchen to check on the roast and left Major Trudy to his report. Here’s what I took away. The logbooks I needed were on the top floor of the Omega Building. A log book which would be particularly useful was stashed in the top drawer of the desk. Of course, there was a thirty-five percent chance this was all hooey. It didn’t feel like hooey, though. I crossed my fingers to up the good juju.

Major Trudy came into the kitchen, scrubbing his palms into his eye sockets. “I need some coffee. You didn’t happen to pick some up at the store, did you?”

“I did.” I pulled out the Via instant granules. “The setting from your viewing—get any pings? Did it seem familiar?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve been there before,” he said, pulling down a coffee mug and lifting it toward me.

“Yes, please.”

He reached for another, filled them with water, and stuck them in the microwave. “Now whether it’s somewhere I visited in person or in the ether – I have no clue.”

I had a ton of questions. It was everything I could do to keep my lips sealed tight. If I prejudiced his next tasks, and he gave me bad information, my life could very well be on the line.