Anodyne Eyes Read online

  “I don’t really know. See, I kinda woke up about four years ago. I’ve been living in a cardboard slum in the city. Dallas. It took me the better part of a year to remember my name. I think I was in the Army.”

  She surveyed his uniform. “Ya think? Or maybe you stole that camouflage and boots.”

  She took a step, then started on another but stopped short and studied the ground. He sensed something wrong. Her eyes were an unusual green. Her gaze was calm. She pushed the barrel of the gun toward him. “Drop the gun.”

  “Okay.” He decided to take another chance on her. “But it’s not even loaded. I only wear it to scare off people.”

  “This is Texas. You wear a gun it better be loaded. Just the same, drop the gun. And that stick.”

  He started to reach for the gun.

  “Nah,” she said. “Undo the strap and let the rifle fall to the ground. But first slip that stick through the netting.”

  When the hickory left his hands and the gun hit the ground, a part of him wanted to kiss her. He hadn’t felt this good in . . . not since he could remember. He smiled at her.

  “What are you grinning at? You got another piece somewhere?”

  “No. I’m glad to get rid of them. My headache even feels better.”

  She lowered her gun and squinted at him. He hadn’t noticed before, but loose coils of thick string or cording lay on the ground by her feet. She bent and grabbed the string and pulled it taut. It stretched back through the door she’d come out. She yanked it hard. The netting dropped from above, thudding on the ground in a circle of rope around his feet. She motioned with the rifle barrel for him to step over the netting and walk toward her.

  “Get inside.”

  Inside. Visions of hungry, insane eyes and dirty bared teeth, knives flashing. Maybe she was the temptress. If he could stay out here with the headache nearly gone, his body floating, floating like a dream without the gun and club. Strange. But it would do. Do just fine.

  “Please. Forget the other stuff. Water’s all I need. A quart and I’ll be gone. Headache’s going away already. I’ll deal with the infection. You can keep the gun and club. I’ll move on.”

  “Shut it. Move.” She pointed the gun at his chest.

  To fight and die from a gunshot to the chest might be better than what was inside. He closed his eyes and did not move. Execution would not be so bad.

  She touched him on the shoulder from behind. How did she get there?

  He opened his eyes. The glaring light inside now seemed inviting and warm. It was a weird feeling, like a total calm came over him.

  She touched him on the shoulder again, gentle. Her voice was soft. “Go on. It’s okay.”

  He walked inside, glancing back, now feeling more afraid that something outside might get them both before they got in. She dipped and grabbed his gun from the ground, then was at his back, poking him with the rifle. He moved even faster, down a hallway past bathrooms, a black stick man on the right door, a similar stick woman on the left door. The door behind them crashed shut, ending with a clanging sound, metal on metal.

  In less time than he could turn his head she stood between him and the front of the station. How the hell did she get there? Had he blacked out? Blackouts had plagued him the first year. But they hadn’t happened for a long time. He squeezed his eyes tight and opened them to see her green eyes staring into his. They flickered like aspen leaves in the spring sun. There it was again. Something he remembered. Aspen leaves beside a walking path near a high mountain lake.

  She held his gaze for longer than he thought necessary. Funny thing, though. It was relaxing.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Jeff.”

  She watched him longer still, as if trying to discern more meaning out of the one word. “I’m Alexis. You’re lucky you came along when you did. That infected wrist would probably kill you without my medicines.”

  Oh great, he thought. Some backwoods, holistic, herbal witch doctor.

  She grabbed his right hand in hers and led him down the hallway. Her gun was gone.

  “What medicines?”

  “There’s lots of stuff. But first thing you need is some antibiotics.” Her voice had soft edges and power. Then she twisted her head and he saw her smile. “I don’t have any bullets in my gun either.”

  He sighed. She had fooled him. What else lay ahead?

  “I don’t need bullets, though,” she added. “You do.”

  Was she nuts? Out here alone, a woman, well maybe only barely that. She looked to be maybe sixteen. Maybe. Her blond hair fell in waves onto her back. But she had a strong grip and a force that made him want to follow her. A force? Yeah, right.

  She turned and spun him halfway around and pushed him in the chest. He fell into a chair, startled. No, not really. It was as if he knew he was going to sit there. The chair was soft, cozy. His eyes drooped and he relaxed into the chair, head falling back against a molded rest. How long had it been since he had rested like this, unafraid, relaxed?

  His eyes snapped open. What the hell? Was she hypnotizing him?

  She peered at him, a curious gaze, but sad. She held out a hand with two, oblong horse-pills in her open palm. “Take these. It’s Keflex. It’ll kill about anything in that dog bite.”

  Without hesitation he grabbed the tablets, and then the water. He kept the pills in his hand but drank the water. Oh my God was that good.

  She gave him another glass full. “Take the pills. Please.”

  Why should he trust her? His eyelids drooped again. He swallowed the pills, two more glasses of water, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 3

  Later that afternoon, in the suburbs north of Denver, Dan Trotter’s grandson, Adam, ran through the snow in the backyard, oblivious to anything but fun. It was the usual white cold stuff, layered in four inches last night, but the air was warmer; one of the late spring snows on the Front Range had given way to sunny, warm weather. In his snowsuit the toddler could roll in the snow and still stay warm. How fun was that? Adam jumped into a drift by the fence, giggling like a fiend. Apparently a lot.

  It had taken Dan a year and some change to come out of his depression after losing his son, Jeff, in the Oil War, deep in the bayous of Louisiana. One of the main reasons he’d recovered was Adam, Jeff’s son. Dan and his wife Marci had to raise him. No other choice. Krista gave birth to Adam in her house. The war left her without any gas for her car, or anyone else’s for that matter. There were no emergency vehicles, so she couldn’t get to the hospital. Luckily a paramedic lived next door. He was a nice guy, or seemed so. They hit it off. That was okay. Jeff was gone and she needed someone. Late one night, he got the call and delivered Adam. Krista hemorrhaged. And hemorrhaged. Krista wasn’t the lucky one. She died. Adam lived. The paramedic chickened out. He moved. Dan and Marci were the lucky ones.

  Marci had taken the “Little Man,” as they called him, in a heartbeat. She’d only been nursing Dan, her stupid, murdering husband, back from depression, so why not. Nothing better to do, as far as he was concerned.

  Murder? Marci knew nothing about what Dan did to their son. Dan had to stop calling it that. It was war, and Jeff was a casualty. Not your fault. Stop it!

  Besides, he did have a daughter, Katie. Though, she’d been unable to handle Jeff’s death and Dan’s depression. She lived somewhere in Canada. Marci kept in touch, but Dan . . . Every time he thought of Katie, the black moths of depression started flying. And Marci knew it, so she avoided talking about Katie. That left Adam.

  Dan ran out the open sliding door and jumped into the drift with Adam. No coat. Who the hell cares? He wallowed around in his shirt sleeves, getting colder and wetter. And forgetting. Adam jumped on him and they both laughed.

  “What are you doing, Dan?” Marci called out the door, a note of worry in her voice.

  “Having fun with my grandson.” He grabbed Adam under his armpits and tossed him in the air, catching him like an egg, a very precious egg.


  “Again, Pawpas. Again.” Adam’s eyes opened wide and he grinned his funny, buck-toothed smile.

  Sitting in a pile of snow, the cold and wet seeped in Dan’s pants. He stood and tossed and caught Adam again, then let him down.

  “Again, pease. Up, Pawpas.”

  The warm sun had disappeared behind a gray, lenticular cloud. Dan knew clouds; he’d studied them after the weird snow-thunder at the end. The end. When Jeff had died. Dan squeezed his fists and his eyes shut, hard. He couldn’t go back there. He thought of 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17. Seven primes, the first seven, swam in his brain in a soup of pastels—lavender, pink, sky-blue, and his favorite: green.

  He opened his eyes, studied the white disc behind lens-shaped gray clouds, trying to remember the velocity of winds that shaped them so he could forget the other. He brushed off the snow and shivered. Was it from the cold or the memories? “Let me get a coat, Adam. You make an angel. Remember how?”

  Adam nodded and flopped on his back swiping his arms up and down.

  “Good. I’ll be back.”

  “Pawpas, a gook chees toddle me.”

  Haven’t a clue what you’re saying, Little Man. “Right. You tell Grandma. I’m cold. I’ll get my coat on and be back.”

  Marci eyed him as he stomped his feet on the outside porch before coming in. “Are you okay?” She always worried he might slip back into his depression—the black hole of emotion he had been in for a year. He used to like black holes, really: Cool, absence of matter, sucked in entire solar systems. Or at least that’s what astrologists said. That one had sucked him in so far he’d almost stayed on the other side. Done with that, though. Finished.

  “Yeah. Had a bad thought. All better, now. You watch him. I’ll be back.”

  His pants were sopping. He had to change. On his way through the kitchen he noticed the envelope on the counter. It was from St. Louis and had the Ambrosia seal on the return address, a golden ear of corn. Since Dan had saved most of U.S. oil, the word had gotten out: Dan Trotter was a computer genius. Of course! Where had everyone been?

  Ambrosia had sought his help with a special project. He’d written a program that allowed nanotechnology to help GMO plants grown by Ambrosia survive weed killers and ward off vermin. After Dan had proved he could precisely control nano-controlled bacteria and oil destruction with a company called Xoflex, Ambrosia offered him a pretty penny to help them. He’d done it, and got his first check last week. Problem was: He still worked for the CIA. Or did he?

  He walked upstairs, shucked his clothes and toweled off. A hot shower would be great, but Adam wouldn’t wait that long. The space heater and blow dryer would have to do. While he warmed and dried he thought about the nightmare he’d been through 4.3260274 years ago, losing his best and really only friend, Fred, to money-hungry oil barrens in Venezuela. Fred still came to him in green hues, his smiling face comforting and sad at the same time. Lisette, a hottie Marine, flashed in his mind. Marci knew nothing about the affair on Pensacola Beach or the events with Jeff in the Louisiana bayous during the Oil War. That was Christmas four years ago, but the memory of Lisette and her sexy Cajun lilt was as fresh as yesterday.

  The blow dryer’s hot wind somehow found his stiff pecker. He turned off the dryer and got dressed in jeans, a forest-green fleece top and put back on his waterproof hiking boots. Marci would be wondering where he was. Having a wet day dream, Hon.

  He laughed. Crying was out. He laughed some more. One messed up nerdhead. Marci had saved him. Lisette was—

  The phone rang. Caller I.D. said “Sam.” What was he calling about? Surely the CIA didn’t need him. They thought he was FUBAR, at least in the head. He probably was.

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “Danny boy. How’s it hangin’? You doing okay?”

  “I guess.” He waited. Sam had called and visited frequently the first year, but no word for months. He was normally very chipper, but there was strain in his voice.

  “Okaaaay. Guess you’re wondering why I called. We need you back. I need you back. Had a spot of bad luck recently.”

  “What for? I’m not interested in any field work again. Done with that.”

  “Nope. It’s right up your alley. Computer gig. Some company named La Riva. They need help with a program to change nano-DNA mutation clusters, or something like that.”

  “You don’t even know what it is? Look, I’m still pretty screwed up and my grandson—”

  “The oil’s coming back thanks to you, Danny Boy. You can help with this, too, and you’ll be a hero again. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t need you.”

  Below Dan’s bedroom window, Adam jumped in the snow bank again and laughed, throwing the snow up in small geysers. Marci watched from the porch, clapping.

  “When?” Did he say that? “No, I mean, I need to stick around here.”

  “Answer to the first question is: as soon as you can. I’m in Denver and can swing by tonight or any time and fill you in.”

  “Tonight? Are you crazy?”

  “Yes, and yes. I believe you know that. But this is not about me. It’s about trying to save the good old USA again. We did it once. Remember?”

  Dan did indeed know Sam had a screw loose. But it was that missing screw that made him extremely effective as a field agent. He could gut a man one minute and eat cake the next. The memory of a rainy night in the bayous of Louisiana surfaced, open dead eyes of soldiers catching drops of rain. Dan felt nauseous. He also saw prime numbers float through his mind . . . no, his brain was raining prime numbers, so many he sat down, dizzy.

  What was wrong with him? He had responsibilities. Marci and Adam were here. Yet he was excited about going back into the field. And what? Fighting the bad guys? Helping his country? His dad had died doing it twenty-five years ago. Dan wasn’t an army pilot, but he helped his country by figuring out complicated problems of computer code and disguising field agents to do all of the above. He was a team player, wasn’t he?

  What about Adam? Shit! He was definitely Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition. Definitely.

  “Let me call you back. I need to think about this.”

  “You do that.” He paused. “Look, I’ve had a pretty rough last twenty-four hours. I really need your help.” There was that strain again, but even worse. Something wrong.

  Sam continued, his voice changed to a brighter tone. “But when you see that big wave coming, the best thing is to not think, but paddle fast and ride that mother. It might be the ride of the century.”

  Dan hung up. Surfing analogies never worked for him, even though Sam, the ultimate surfing expert, had tons of them. But Dan’s head swarmed with larger primes; his favorite dihedral kept bouncing at the bottom, turning and flipping around a mirror, but always the same: 18181. Above it, each prime became larger, growing the upside-down isosceles triangle with longer and larger prime numbers. Below it, smaller and shorter primes grew until the triangle turned on the point, the number 2, around and around glistening in iridescent colors. He closed his eyes. A calm washed over him as the kaleidoscope of colors and numbers filled his mind. Watching Adam play did this. Holding Marci, too. His odd condition made it hard for him most of his life to touch and hold those he loved. So he had a hard time with emotions. What was the big deal with emotions, anyhow? But when he thought of loved ones, prime numbers in pastel colors—green the best—always came to him. Now though, the big wave of numbers hit him in a different way, crashing his brain into a deeper feeling that hurt inside. Tears slid down his cheeks and dribbled onto his chin.

  He licked the tears and opened his eyes. Why was he crying? Adam ran around the backyard, laughing.

  How in the hell could he leave him, or Marci? He couldn’t. He would tell Sam and the CIA that he would have to be a desk jockey. Nothing else. The pressed-wood cubicle was safe, secure, and he could go home each night.

  The upside-down prime triangle crumbled and fell like an ancient monument during a Richter 9.0. The beautiful pastel colors faded to brown
and gray. And then his mind went blank.

  It would have to do. Marci would never let him—

  The doorbell rang.

  No way could he answer it with red eyes and tears staining his cheeks. He washed his face and heard Marci answer the door. “Hi, Sam. Who’s your friend?” Footsteps on the foyer and a muffled answer. “Hi, Rachel. Sam, are you okay?”

  Chapter 4

  The day before, before Jeff had even started his morning trek, in the wee hours of the morning, in a flooded and windswept Washington, D.C., deep underground, the power went out in a secret storage vault. Precise temperature control was needed for the vault to keep the occupant alive, but not active. It had taken hours for Rachel Anne Lane to get the call, too many hours. If she’d not been in the area, what the hell would have happened? Was it fate? She gunned the BMW’s powerful engine down K Street, dodging downed power lines and overturned vehicles. Not fate. She made it a habit to spend time close to this vault. This secret vault was her baby. And her nemesis. Fate was for others. She was about planning.

  She slammed on the brakes and skidded her apple-green Beemer to a stop in the NO PARKING zone on the street beside the vault. The first light of morning did not reveal the usual D.C., a metropolis whose morning meant people and more people beginning a new day. No one was visible. The streets were empty of moving vehicles, only crashed ones, along with sparking power lines, overturned trash bins, and other detritus. Off to the right, a small parking lot held an intact red truck, a copper SUV and a tan Sahara Jeep. The Jeep was parked cockeyed. Something familiar about that Jeep.

  Rain was pouring down. Though she couldn’t see any, she was sure the cops were busy with storm-related casualties. A damn May hurricane in D.C. Well, barely a hurricane—average sustained winds for seven hours at 66.37 knots. Gotta love digital exactitude. But this was much more than the previous earliest tropical storm, the Ground Hog Day storm of 1952. The weathermen loved it. Another freak. That’s what they called Hurricane Sandy of 2012, the tsunami that leveled beachside LA last February, and Hurricane Frederica that hit Tampa two years ago in December.