Blind Eye (14 page)

Nuclear Fusion Test Facility

N
ot one pill had made it down her throat, but somehow the pain in the back of her skull was lessening.

Marion moved slowly, lethargically. Fear was somehow pushing off to a distant plane in her mind. She knew what she had to do but she suddenly felt no rush to get things done. There was tightness in her stomach and weakness in her limbs that she associated with hunger. Her body craved food and water. But those needs were not as distinct, either.

She didn't bother to find the penlight or open her cell phone for the illuminating glow. Marion left the door open and felt her way to where the shelves of the supply closet were. Different-shaped objects were stacked in front of her. She closed her eyes, trying to discern solely through her sense of touch what she was feeling.

She handled cardboard boxes and the soft packs of plastic-wrapped towels. She racked her memory for where in the closet she had seen unopened packs of batteries. She tried to remember the last time she'd been here and relive the cursory glance she'd given all the shelves looking for whatever it was she'd come looking for. Lightbulbs. That was it.

“Top shelf…next to the lightbulbs,” she whispered, remembering and reaching up. Her fingers barely brushed against the bottom of the shelf. She remembered using a three-step ladder to reach the bulbs. She felt to the left, where the ladder had been hanging.

It was there. She carefully opened it and climbed to the top step. She held one hand on the shelves to keep her balance as her fingers moved over the section of the top shelf. The lightbulbs…in a cardboard box with one side cut away. Beside it was another box, the front also cut away. Reaching in, she felt her hands sweep over a row of bulky items. Her fingers closed on a hard plastic handle.

“Flashlight,” she cried out exultantly, yanking it out of the box.

Marion's thumb immediately found the on/off button, and she turned it on. The flood of light felt as good as a breath of fresh air. She directed the beam around the closet, across the shelves, taking an inventory of what was there. Fearing that the light might fail, she looked around with an irrational sense of urgency. Like a blind woman given just a few moments of sight by the gods, she frantically tried to imprint everything she saw on her memory.

There were more flashlights in that box on the top shelf. Packs of batteries were on the shelf beneath them. That was a relief. Cases of bottled water, paper products, cleaning solutions. There was even a small, open box of granola bars. She thought of the hulking corpse of Arin Bose in the control room. Oats 'N Honey. She knew who had stashed the box of granola bars here.

Even as Marion took mental inventory, she greedily pulled a bottle of water free of the plastic wrap holding the case together. Tucking the light under her arm, she
struggled to twist off the top, but she finally managed. She drank down half of it without stopping. Her parched throat, dry as the high desert, couldn't open wide enough. She was on the second bottle when the cramping in her stomach told her to slow down. She took a large swig of water and held it in her mouth. Twisting the cap back on the bottle, she put it on a shelf.

She reached for one of the granola bars but didn't open it. She stood on that ladder for a full minute, not moving, feeling the water in her mouth, holding the flashlight in one hand and the power bar in the other. She could not remember having a better feeling than this for a long time.

Tearing open the green foil wrapper with her teeth, Marion took a bite of the granola bar. Dinner in the finest restaurant in L.A. would not have tasted better than that first bite.

She carefully leaned against the wall and looked again at the contents of the closet as she finished the bar and took another drink of water. She considered using this room as her base. It was a little surprising to think that she'd already accepted the terrifying fact that she might be stuck down here long-term.

Wanting to know how many lights were left in the box, she shone the flashlight back up at the top shelf. As she did, something on top of the box of lights caught her eye. Pushing the box, she felt it shift. Pulling it forward, the box angled slightly toward her and a half-dozen notebooks avalanched down on top of her.

Pushing the box back up onto the shelf, Marion directed the light down at the mess around the base of the ladder.

One of the notebooks lying open on top made her
heart jump, and she scrambled down the stepladder. Andrew Bonn must not have had all of them.

Snatching up the notebook, she read the words on the cover sheet out loud.

“Emergency Exits and Procedure.”

Rancho Bernardo, California

T
he clock alarm was buzzing. No, the phone was ringing.

Disoriented, Cynthia Adrian lifted her head off the pillow and stared around the darkened room. The curtains were drawn. The shades behind them were closed. She was home, in her own bed.

The phone stopped ringing. Cynthia's head dropped back onto the pillow. After a moment she stretched, feeling strangely well rested. She turned her head to the bedside clock—10:45 a.m. She panicked for a moment, trying to recall why she wasn't at work already. Appointments. She must have missed some appointment. It took her a long moment before she sorted out in her mind what day of the week it was. Sunday. She'd stayed up until dawn last night going through all the mail, answering the zillion e-mail messages that had piled up while she was gone, spending some quality time with her cat. She'd been too wound up to go to bed.

“Shadow,” she called softly, searching the bed for the black cat. She wasn't here. She saw the door to her bedroom was ajar. The cat had to be downstairs.

The phone started ringing again. Cynthia picked up
the handset and looked at the number on the display. Someone from New Mexico Power Company. Still somewhat groggy from sleep, she wondered why people at her father's company were working on a Sunday morning.

She answered the call.

“Did I wake you up, Cynthia?”

No introductions were necessary. She recognized the voice. Her father's administrative assistant.

“Nellie. What are you doing working on the weekend?”

“I only poked my head in for a couple of hours. To catch up and…well, clean up a few things.”

“Did you just try to call me a couple of minutes ago?”

There was a slight pause. “I did, but I didn't leave a message. I didn't want to play phone tag,” the other woman said in a sheepish tone.

Cynthia draped her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. “He ruined you, didn't he? You've become a workaholic.”

“No…maybe…” The young woman hesitated. “This place is going to be so different without him. I already miss him.”

Cynthia did, too. And
her
life was going to be different, as well. She had always considered herself an independent person. But taking care of just herself was no longer an option with Fred Adrian gone. Like it or not, her mother, Helen, and everything else her father had left behind would be her responsibility now.

“…hard to justify.” Nellie was talking, and Cynthia realized she hadn't been paying attention to her. “You know how this place operates. Without your father, New Mexico Power has no soul. They've already sent a
memo down from corporate saying they're naming the new vice president of R & D this week.”

“You're not worrying about your job, are you?”

“I don't honestly know. I don't think so. I imagine they must be promoting someone from inside. They haven't had time to do any interviewing.”

“Nellie, you do a great job and everyone knows it. I'm sure you'll be fine.”

“I'm hoping, but to tell the truth, I haven't had time to think about it too much,” the woman admitted. “Right now, I'm trying to tie up all the loose ends before the new person starts. Your father made life so easy. If the new vice president is only half as organized as he was, then there should be no problem.”

Cynthia appreciated the comment. Her mind had cleared enough, though, that she was wondering about the reason for the call. She'd seen Nellie at the funeral last week, but with all the people there, they hadn't said more than couple of words to each other. The two of them got along. Her father had always sung his assistant's praises, claiming that she was the real brain that held the office and projects together.

Early on, when Nellie first started working for her father, Helen was constantly on the phone to Cynthia, complaining bitterly that Fred was having an affair with his smart, attractive young assistant. Cynthia had never been much of an audience, though, when her mother climbed on that soapbox. Helen's legendary escapades while drinking had been a source of embarrassment to Cynthia since junior high. Eventually the complaining stopped. If Fred and Nellie ever had something between them or not, Cynthia just didn't want to know.

She got up from the bed and walked to the windows,
starting to open the shades. Another beautiful Southern California day was unfolding outside.

Shadow came through the bedroom door and raced across the room to Cynthia, weaving herself between her owner's legs. As the young woman leaned down to pet the cat, Shadow slithered through Cynthia's fingers and ran out again. She knew her cat enough to realize the animal had come in because she wanted something.

Standing up again, she suddenly remembered why Nellie would be calling her Sunday morning.

“So you got my e-mail,” Cynthia said.

“Yes, I did.”

“It was so late when I wrote it. I didn't know if I made any sense,” she said apologetically.

“In your e-mail, you mentioned that a package was waiting for you from Fred when you got home,” Nellie replied. “Some of it was personal, but that you also had copies of files from work. Is that right?”

“Right.”

“Do you know what the files pertain to? Have you gone through them?”

“No, I only glanced at the first page. They have something to do with test facilities.”

There was a long pause.

“I'm so relieved,” Nellie finally whispered.

“About what?”

“I've been turning your father's office upside down looking for the folder on a project we have coming up, but I couldn't find it,” she said hurriedly. “Fred was the last person who had the files out. He must have sent you the originals.”

“That's not a problem, is it.”

“No.” Another pause. “No, not now. I'm glad you let us know.”

“Me, too.” Cynthia shifted the phone to her other ear. “Why do you think he sent me that stuff?”

“Honestly, I can't even guess,” Nellie said vaguely. “But you know better than anyone how nervous he was about going under anesthesia.”

“Well, I'll get the files back to you.”

“Great! Are you going to be home today?”

Cynthia walked out of the bedroom, phone to her ear, looking for Shadow. “Yeah. I think so. Wait, I do have to go to the grocery store. Never mind milk and bread, I'm almost out of cat food.”

“Okay. I'll get a courier service to your house this afternoon,” Nellie told her.

“If you can wait one day, I can overnight it to you tomorrow,” she offered.

“It's no problem. The company can afford it. Cynthia…I'm sorry. Can you hold on a moment?”

“Sure.”

Nellie seemed to be checking on something at the other end. Cynthia spotted her cat, sitting on the small table by the window in the hall. The window overlooked the street and Shadow was focused on something outside. She approached the animal and reached out to gather it in her arms. The cat slipped through her fingers and moved to the other side of the table, still looking out the window.

Surprised, Cynthia looked carefully at the cat. The feline's ears were back, her eyes fixed on something on the street. She wondered if there was a new cat in the neighborhood.

She reached out to pet Shadow, but the cat made a sound somewhere between a cry and a meow. Cynthia moved around and tried to see what was bothering her pet.

There were no other animals that she could see. But
there was a dark sedan parked along the curb, partly blocking her driveway. She couldn't see the driver.

“Okay.” Nellie came back on the line. “Will you be home from the store by noon?”

“That's…so fast. Sure. I'll just go to the store after they pick up the package,” Cynthia told her. “I put it back in the same box it arrived in. Should I address it to you?”

“That would be great,” Nellie said. “I've given the courier company all the information, regarding address and charge-to accounts, so just give the package to the driver when he shows up at your door.”

“It's good to know that there are courier services that work this promptly, even on Sundays. What company did you use?”

“It's a private company here. I'll e-mail you the contacts, if you want to use them in the future.”

Nellie thanked her again for saving her and sending the documents back. Cynthia ended the call.

Shadow was still perched on the table, but turned and looked at her. She suddenly didn't seem as stressed. Cynthia looked at the street.

The car blocking her driveway was gone.