Mind's Eye (24 page)

She had already acknowledged he had hit all the right romantic buttons when he first appeared in her office. And even though he had put her life in jeopardy in the first place, he had also saved it. Now her life was literally in his hands.

So was falling for him just a survival mechanism programmed into her genes by natural selection? Was she subconsciously trying to have sex with him to have more of an emotional hold on someone upon whom her life now depended?

Not that sex was even possible in her current condition, she realized. Nothing like a gunshot to the upper thigh to kill off working through even the first page of the Kama Sutra. Was that why Hall had been such a gentleman?

“Nick,”
she broadcast as she pulled a water bottle and can of soda from the refrigerator,
“I’ve noticed you’ve been practically sitting on your hands. Is that because you’re afraid to hurt me?”

There was a pause.
“Yes. I can’t tell you how much I’d love to lie to you,”
replied Hall from the family room,
“and pretend it’s because I’m such a gentleman.
But I’ve noticed you wincing in pain when you re-aggravate your injury. So I’m trying to prevent any outbreaks of horrible screaming while I’m kissing you.”

While he had been broadcasting she had made her way back to the family room and handed him his drink, resuming her place close to him on the couch.

How incredibly thoughtful
, she thought, making sure she did so in such a way that Hall wouldn’t “overhear” it. Even she had forgotten about her injury while they had been kissing.

She decided her feelings had to be real. She couldn’t imagine fooling herself to this degree. And even if she was, she decided she didn’t care. It didn’t matter if her amorous feelings for Nick Hall
were
just part of a pre-programmed survival instinct, a possibility that would have never even occurred to her before she had met him.

The only thing that mattered was that she wanted him.
Bad
.

How long did it take an upper thigh to heal, anyway?

“Listen . . . Megan,” began Hall. “I’ve been thinking.” He sighed and took a large swig of the yellowish liquid inside the can. “You are . . . well, you’re
amazing
. I can’t even describe the way I’m feeling about you. But I think we might be making a mistake.”

She gazed at him calmly, but didn’t respond.

“I’m a shell of a man. With no past. And a pretty scary future. Neither of us know what you’re getting into here if you form any kind of attachment to me. What I’m getting into. Hell, I could even be married for all I know. Just because I don’t have a ring doesn’t mean much. I didn’t have a wallet or a memory either when I awoke in that dumpster.”

“I know all this,” said Megan.

“I know you do. I just don’t want to hurt you. Or me. You’re an incredible woman, and I really think my feelings toward you are . . . well . . . real. But I can’t be sure my emotions aren’t just playing me for a fool. Because you’re the most important person in my life. The
only
person in my life. So maybe subconsciously, I’m trying to have a deeper relationship with you just to have more of an emotional hold on you. I don’t think this is the case, but I don’t know.” He frowned in frustration. “Am I making any sense?”

Megan grinned. He had basically re-created her thinking exactly. If that wasn’t a sign from on high, nothing was. “Perfect sense,” she said, leaning in and kissing him once again. “And I’m willing to take my chances. You can’t deny that we’re very good together. I’m convinced this would be true even if it weren’t for everything else going on.”

Hall nodded, palpably relieved. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Megan gestured toward the stairs, which led to the Glandons’ master bedroom. “Sex right now—in my current condition—would be a very bad idea,” she said. “But if we’re very, very careful, I’m willing to bet we can still find a way to get closer. To relieve some of the stress we’ve been under.” She raised her eyebrows. “Ever been intimate with a Neanderthal before?”

Hall laughed. “My memory may be gone,” he said, a look of infatuation on his face, “but I think I can say with great confidence that you’d be the first.”

26

Hall gazed happily at Megan as she lay naked on her back next to him, the Glandons’ satin sheets covering her body and her eyes closed. She wasn’t sleeping, but no face had ever looked more relaxed, peaceful, or satisfied.

The
satisfied
part of that equation had been a challenge for both of them given her condition, but in the end they had managed to relieve tension in a way that was surprisingly tender and romantic, without worsening her injury.

Hall glanced at the clock on the end table. It was already past noon. It seemed impossible. He knew they should have spent the past several hours planning their next move, but sometimes the body and heart had a mind of their own.

Hall studied the contours of her face. She was cute enough, but she had suddenly become irresistibly appealing to him out of all proportion to her physical attractiveness. He was convinced his emerging feelings for her were all about her energy and personality, rather than simply her looks. He had a funny feeling that this was a rarity for him. Nick Hall decided then and there that the universe must have a way of evening things out. He was possibly the unluckiest man in the world—and the luckiest—both at the same time.

Megan’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled when she saw him watching her. She had a serene expression on her face and Hall kissed her gently on the cheek. She almost purred she seemed so content.

“For some reason I’m a little hungry,” she said softly.

“For food?” said Hall with a salacious grin.

“Among other things,” she replied, returning his smile. “How about if I make us some sandwiches?”

Hall shook his head. “Don’t move. I’ve got this,” he said, leaving the bed before she could protest.

He entered the Glandons’ walk-in closet and threw Carl’s blue robe around himself. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”

“Surprise me.”

“You got it,” he said.

Hall glided into the kitchen and decided what he really wanted to do was kill the Glandons so he and Megan could live here forever, although this hardly seemed fair to the poor Glandon family, who had so far been very generous.

He opened the refrigerator to take inventory of just what he had to work with when a glowing box, filled with words, popped up in the corner of his internal field of vision and hovered there. It was a standard IM text box, with a box underneath for a reply, and a small
send
icon underneath.

And it had appeared there all on its own.

Hall closed the refrigerator, fell into a kitchen chair absently, and turned his full attention to the words in the box.

To the man able to surf the Internet with his mind. Hello. I’m sending you an Instant Message through a backdoor in your system. Please confirm you’re alive and well by thinking a short message into the reply box and hitting send.

Hall’s heart leaped to his throat. This was an earth-shattering development, which could be very, very good, or very, very bad. He considered sending a reply but decided against it.

He didn’t know anything about the sender, but he did know this: they wouldn’t give up just because he failed to respond to their first volley. He just hoped they couldn’t use this backdoor into his personal Internet to track his location. But even as he thought this he realized that if this had been possible, he’d already be dead.

A minute later another message came in.
I understand why you might be reluctant to reply. But trust me, I have no way to track you by your reply
.

Apparently his reaction had been on the predictable side. Hall thought about it for just a moment before deciding to continue to play possum and see what happened next. He tried to do additional research on the web, but he couldn’t focus. Finally, almost five minutes later, a new IM came in. A longer one. He was both desperate to read it, and terrified of reading it, at the same time.

Hall took a mental breath, centered the text box in his mind’s eye, and began to read.

Okay. I don’t blame you. It’s my understanding that you’ve lost your memory and lots of people have been trying to kill you. But I want to help. I know that we have to establish some trust, so I’ll go first. I’ll keep this brief, but if we have a conversation, I can give you far more details.

Your name is Nick Hall. You were a marine biologist at the Woods Hole Institute of Oceanography in Massachusetts.

Hall stopped reading and searched his mind. Sure enough, he knew the Woods Hole facility like the back of his hand. He still couldn’t remember his past, but he had little doubt the person behind the message was telling the truth. Not only about Woods Hole, but about his name, which the sender of the message didn’t realize he already knew.

Hall continued reading.

You were a visiting scientist on board the Scripps Explorer
along with twenty-six other people, scientists and crew, most of them from the Scripps Institute of Oceanography in La Jolla. Seven months ago, a team of mercenaries led by a man named John Delamater kidnapped all twenty-seven of you and brought you to a warehouse outside of Fresno, California, where you were held as prisoners. The rest of the world believed that the ship had gone down and all were lost—and not a soul was looking for any of you in California.

Nick, by now I’m sure you’ll have guessed what you were doing there. A man named Kelvin Gray, who Delamater was working with, was using all of you as guinea pigs to perfect brain implants that would allow you to do what you’re doing this second—accessing the web with your thoughts.
I’ll give you a few seconds to call up Gray’s image.

Hall found Kelvin Gray almost immediately
.
He stared at the man’s photo on the website of a company named Theia. The man looked to be in his late forties, but Hall suspected he was even older than this and was just naturally youthful in appearance. Somehow, along with Gray’s general handsomeness, the photo managed to convey competence, self-assurance, and intelligence. The face was eerily familiar. Like someone you were sure you knew, but couldn’t quite place.

A new box filled with text appeared in Hall’s vision.

As you’ve no doubt discovered, Gray is listed as CEO of a company called Theia Labs in Fresno. My name is Alex Altschuler, and I worked for Gray. But I knew nothing about this kidnapping or experimentation. You can find my bio on the Theia Labs management page.

Hall was soon staring at a photo of Alex Altschuler, an unimpressive specimen of a man wearing glasses, which had become something of a rarity. But his background, as outlined in his brief bio, was spectacular, and his academic achievements attested to an extraordinary intellect.

The message box returned.

I was Gray’s second-in-command and helped lay much of the groundwork for the technology that you’re making use of now. But there was much I didn’t know. I only learned about the Scripps Explorer and his experimentation last night—and I can prove this to you beyond a shadow of a doubt.

Early this morning, I also just discovered that Gray contracted out much of the work that led to the miracle technology behind your implants, to teams of scientists and engineers who only knew very specific pieces of the puzzle. Gray used his seven months of experimentation on twenty-seven people to guide his teams, and he alone integrated all of the pieces. I had no knowledge of any of this, and neither did Theia’s biggest investor, Cameron Fyfe.

It was Fyfe who uncovered what Gray was doing in the first place, and we arranged a sting operation to get the evidence we needed to send this guy to the chair. Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned, and Kelvin Gray ended up dead.

The text ended. Perhaps because Altschuler was pausing as he dictated to his PDA, or perhaps because he wanted to give Hall time to ponder what he had already disclosed.

Several seconds later a new box appeared.

I’m afraid it gets worse. Much worse. Gray was interested in speed and results in his experimentation, and considered his prisoners expendable. Twenty-six of the twenty-seven died during the experimentation.

You were the twenty-seventh.

Hall’s mouth fell open. Twenty-six people killed! It was unthinkable.

“Nick, are you still out there?”
came Megan Emerson’s telepathic thought.
“You sure aren’t the world’s fastest sandwich maker
.
You sure you’ve got this?”

“Sorry,”
he shot back quickly.
“Got distracted. Be with you in a few minutes.”

He turned his attention once more to his internal text box and continued reading.