The Assault: The Revealing, Infestation, Infiltration, The Fog Page 14

  “How?” I asked.

  “He put the ButtOut app on my phone. It tracks how much money I’m savin’ by not buying cigarettes, how much tar isn’t goin’ into my lungs, and how many extra days I get to live. I guess that’s what you call positive—um, positive—”

  “Positive reinforcement.”

  When I supplied the missing word, McKinney patted my shoulder. “See? Your mind is fine; you’re as sharp as ever. I’m sure you were only suffering some kind of hangover from residual . . . you know.”

  I closed my eyes. Oh, yeah, we were fine. We knew about two deaths that hadn’t been made public, and we’d seen things that would strike fear into the hardest cop on the local force. No wonder I was having trouble clearing my head.

  My eyes opened automatically when I heard the click of a doorknob. Looking up, I saw casual slip-on shoes, khakis, a short-sleeved knit shirt, and the most gorgeous face I had ever seen on a man—cleft chin, sparkling blue eyes, longish black hair, and a toothpaste-commercial smile. For a moment my mind went completely blank, then I heard him speak: “Andrea Goldstein?”

  Brenda elbowed me. “If you want, I could take your place in there.”

  “I’m okay,” I whispered, rising on wobbly knees and following the man into his office.

  I don’t know what I expected to find in Dr. Drummond’s office—a couch, maybe? But all I saw was a desk, a couple of leather wingback chairs, and a laptop computer on a wooden stand—a classy version of those rolling bedside tables they used in hospitals.

  But before I even moved toward the chairs, Dr. Drummond looked at me, smiled, and held out his hand. “Hamish Drummond,” he said in his lilting accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I swallowed hard and shook his hand, taking care to make sure my grip was firm and polite. I didn’t know how a shrink might evaluate an introductory handshake, but I wanted him to see that I was a normal young adult, not a hysteric.

  Dr. Drummond gestured to a wingback chair. I thanked him and sat, then he took the chair near the computer stand. “So,” he said, crossing one knee and looking at me with an open, pleasant expression. “What brings you to my office today?”

  That voice! The professor had said he was from Britain, but this wasn’t a London accent—it was Irish, or perhaps Scottish. One of those lovely speech patterns that made everything sound musical. I contemplated asking where he was from, but didn’t want him to think I was changing the subject.

  “What do you already know?” I asked. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

  He opened his hands and grinned. “Can you believe it? I know nothing. So why don’t you tell me what you think I ought to know.”

  “I don’t want to keep you here all day.”

  “I have as long as it takes—almost.” A dimple in his cheek winked at me as he smiled. “Tell me the important things; then tell me about the thing that brought you here.”

  I drew a deep breath, then exhaled in a rush. “My name is Andi Goldstein. I was studying humanities in college when I met Professor James McKinney, who’s now my employer. I actually grew up in this area, and graduated from Ponce de Leon High School. I guess this is what you’d call my hometown.”

  He propped his elbow on the chair and rested his chin on his hand. “Don’t you enjoy coming home?”

  “Sure. I get to see Sabba and Safta, of course, and Abby, my dog. I didn’t take her after graduation because I travel a lot, and she’s getting old. But she is always happy to see me.”

  On and on I talked. I told him about being a geek in high school. I told him about my gift of seeing patterns everywhere, in numbers, fabrics, and events. I told him I’d been adopted by my grandparents, that they were devout Jews who raised me with a bat mitzvah and everything, and that I still considered myself religious . . . to a point. “I believe in God,” I said, “but I don’t talk about Him much because it’s a personal thing. But . . . lately I’ve begun to wonder about all the things I believed growing up. I’ve realized that evil exists, and that sometimes it exists just for evil’s sake.”

  Dr. Drummond’s brows lowered. “I’m not sure I get your meaning.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “when you read about a serial killer, you usually learn that he came from an abusive family, or that he never bonded to his mother as a baby, or he was mentally deficient or something. You rarely hear about criminals who are bad because they enjoy hurting others. I didn’t believe that was possible until lately, but now I have to wonder.”

  “What are you wondering?”

  I blew out a breath and glanced at the clock. “My goodness! I’ve been talking for a solid hour. And I haven’t even gotten to the stuff about why I’m here.”

  The doctor checked his watch, then smiled. “Can you give me an abridged version?”

  “Sure.” I leaned forward. “Those people out in the waiting room—they’re friends, and we’ve been investigating unusual situations. Ever since I joined up with them, we’ve all seen things I can’t explain.” Because I felt completely comfortable, I told him about Sridhar and the Institute, about the disappearing House and what the professor called posthumous manifestations. I told him about the bird and fish die-offs, about the odd girl who managed to contact us through another universe, and our mad romp through Europe and a half-dozen multiverses. Finally, I told him about the green fungi, the flying orbs, and how I almost died.

  “The fungus is no longer in my body,” I said, “but yesterday I thought I heard the voices again . . . and they were loud enough to drown out everything else. I don’t know what’s happening, but at times I’m scared spitless. Being out of control—having intruders in my brain—was the most frightening experience of my life. That’s what happened yesterday, and I was so frightened that I fainted. That’s why I’m here.”

  I sat perfectly still and waited for Dr. Drummond to slap his head in disbelief or something, but he simply smoothed a wrinkle out of his pant leg and leaned toward me. “Andrea,” he asked, his blue eyes darkening with concern, “in this moment, right now, what do you want more than anything else in the world?”

  I blinked. “I want to get out of here.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. What will you want when you’re in the car and on your way home?”

  I thought a moment. “I want . . . to feel like myself again. I want to feel bubbly and optimistic and bright . . .” I looked down and laughed. “Sounds like a line from ‘I Feel Pretty,’ doesn’t it?”

  “Pretty and witty and bright,” Dr. Drummond joked, and when I glanced at him, his eyes danced with a conspiratorial gleam.

  My heart did a flip-flop. He knew West Side Story?

  “I have a favor to ask,” he said, standing and moving behind his desk. He opened a drawer, then pulled out a slender blue notebook, the kind we had used in college for essay tests. “I’m going to give you a blank journal, and I want you to fill three pages in it every day, without fail. Write about what you’re thinking and feeling, what you’re doing, that sort of thing. Don’t worry about spelling or grammar; this isn’t for publication. It’s just for you.”

  He thumbed through the blank book as if checking to be sure the pages were clean, then came around the desk and handed it to me. “And I’d like to see you again in a few days. We’ll talk some more, and maybe you’ll discover that you’ve written something important in your wee book. If that’s so, you can tell me about it. Here’s my card. Call me if you have a problem.”

  I put the card in my pocket, then clutched the blank journal. “My wee book.” I smiled at it, clean and compact, waiting for my words. “All right, I’ll see you soon.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  The next morning, the professor received three boxes from a FedEx truck, then dragged all of them into the living room. A UPS truck pulled up five minutes later, and handed over a package addressed to Brenda.

  “What’s all that?” Brenda asked, looking at the boxes as if they were bombs that might go off at any moment.<
br />
  The professor closed the door and looked at our suddenly crowded living room. “The large boxes are from a clipping service,” he said. “This one is for you, Barnick, from a Mrs. Irene Brown.”

  “Auntie Rene!” Brenda practically vaulted over the coffee table to reach the professor, then snatched the box.

  I stared in shock—Brenda never showed that much enthusiasm—while the professor gave her a disapproving frown. “Have you been sharing our address?”

  “Only with Auntie Rene.” Brenda lowered her brow. “You got a problem with that?”

  “We must think of our personal security. No matter who we’re communicating with, e-mail accounts can be hacked, cell phone calls can be recorded—”

  “Auntie Rene would never hurt me,” Brenda said, tearing into the package. “The woman worries about me every time I go out of town. She’s a little overprotective, but still—” Brenda held up what looked like a seriously deformed orange hammer. Instead of a head and a prong, the top of this hammer featured two formidable steel knobs.

  Tank gaped at it. “What in the—”

  “The Life Hammer,” Brenda said, reading from a card. “Dear Brenda—I looked on a map and saw where you is and then I saw that long bridge over the ocean. Cars fall into the water every day, and I don’t want you drownin’, so I got this for you. Keep it in your purse and if your car falls in, just smack the window.

  “I’ve also enclosed a can of shark repellant, in case you go swimmin’ at the beach, and some mosquito wipes. They’re not for wiping mosquitoes, they’re for keeping them away because they carry that nasty West Nile virus. Don’t want you gettin’ sick. Love you, Auntie Rene.”

  I laughed, Tank guffawed, and even Daniel smiled. “Hoo boy,” Brenda said, chuckling to herself, “when was the last time a car went into the water around here?”

  “About the same time somebody got the West Nile virus,” the professor said. “Or was attacked by a shark.”

  I shook my head. “You guys shouldn’t laugh about things like that. I don’t think any cars have gone over the bridge lately, but about thirty years ago, a bunch of cars and a bus went into the bay. A ship hit the bridge, so it was a pretty big deal.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Brenda said, “but it was nice of Auntie Rene to think about me.”

  She set the orange hammer, shark repellent, and mosquito wipes on the coffee table, but Daniel picked them up and handed them back to her. “Keep,” he said, his eyes serious.

  She looked at him, then sighed. “Little man, what am I gonna do with you?” Still she dropped all of her aunt’s gifts into her purse. “Better?”

  Daniel nodded and went back to playing a game on his new phone.

  “Now,” the professor said, pulling one of the large boxes over to his chair. “Let’s get to work.”

  “What’s a clipping service?” Tank asked.

  The professor ripped the tape from his box, then opened it and pulled out a stack of printed pages. “Several times now we’ve had people mention an organization called The Gate, so I thought we should investigate them. Right after the event at the school I subscribed to a media monitoring service and asked for printed copies of articles that mention the group.” He smiled with satisfaction as he lifted out a second stack. “And here they are . . . three boxes filled with clippings.”

  Brenda groaned. “You expect us to read through all that?”

  “Time to change our tactics,” the professor said. “Ever since we got together we’ve been reactive, simply responding to the odd things we encountered. We were being played, rattled, used, and for what? Nothing. We have nothing to show for our efforts.”

  “We’re alive,” I pointed out. “That’s something.”

  The professor waved a hand in my direction, but charged ahead. “We are not merely reacting any longer,” he said, his voice booming in the small house. “We are going to be proactive. We are going to learn everything we can about this group. We’re going to figure out who or what The Gate is, and then we’re going to rattle their cage for a while.”

  He pulled another stack of printed clippings and set it in front of Tank.

  Tank grinned. “You mean we’re gonna turn the tables on ’em?”

  “Exactly.” The professor set another stack in front of Brenda. “Here’s the plan. Andi and I will work on the orb while Tank and Brenda skim these clippings. You’ll find the pertinent parts highlighted, see? If the information is useful, circle the important sections and set the clipping aside. If the article isn’t helpful, toss it into an empty box.”

  Brenda lifted a stack of pages onto her lap, then scowled at McKinney. “You do know that you could do the same thing with Google, right? For free? And without killing a bunch of trees?”

  He shook his head. “I want information that would never find its way to the World Wide Web. I want facts that precede the Internet. Humor me, please, and start reading.”

  Tank took a stack of documents and went to sit by the window; Brenda stretched out on the couch. Daniel sat on the floor, tapping his phone, but his gaze kept darting around the room, leaving me to wonder what he was seeing. . . .

  “Andi?” The professor went into the dining room and pulled out a chair. Sighing, I joined him.

  From a cardboard box, the professor lifted a scale, a drill, and a tape measure. I reached for my tablet computer, then opened a scratch pad.

  “You know the routine,” McKinney said. “Weigh, measure, record. Experiment. Then let’s see what this little odd ball is made of.”

  The orb, I discovered, weighed four pounds, ten ounces—in the hour I measured it, at least. The circumference was fourteen inches exactly, and when I held it twelve inches from the floor and released it, it fell to the linoleum with a thud. “Definitely not weightless,” I typed on my tablet. “Incapable of flight, as far as I can tell.”

  The professor plugged in the electric drill, which he fitted with the smallest drill bit. He took eye protectors from his bag, which we both put on. Then, beneath that awful chandelier, the professor held the orb between his hands while I attempted to drill into it. I was unsuccessful when I held the drill at a ninety degree angle to the surface, but when I tilted the drill slightly, the bit did leave a thin scratch along the surface.

  “Not impermeable, then,” the professor said, lifting his protective eyewear to study the scratch. “A laser could make quick work of it.”

  I smiled. “Got one of those in your box?”

  “If only.”

  We left the orb. I went to the kitchen for a soft drink while the professor stood to stretch.

  “I don’t get it,” Tank called, looking up. “Most of the articles say The Gate doesn’t exist. That it’s a bogeyman invented to scare people.”

  “Scare them with what?” the professor asked. “Nuclear war? Disease?”

  “Nothing is ever spelled out,” Brenda said, “at least not in what I’m reading. People talk about the group, but no personal names are ever mentioned.”

  “But what if The Gate was hiding in plain sight?” I said. “Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”

  “Hard to know truth from rumor.” Brenda handed a document to Daniel, who dropped it in the “not useful” box. “I mean, some of the articles claim The Gate goes all the way back to medieval times; others say the old Gate is gone and new people have revived the organization.”

  “Wait a minute.” Obeying a hunch, I grabbed my laptop. I booted it, then used my cell phone to create a hot spot. Two minutes later, I was on the Internet. I typed a name, hit enter, and landed on a webpage.

  “Take a look,” I said, turning the computer so Tank and Brenda could see. “The Gate has a webpage and a Twitter account.”

  “Get out!” Brenda came over to read the text at the top of the screen. “‘Wake up, weary traveler! This war-infested, polluted world is nearly at its end. Join us as we prepare for a new society, an age of personal power and enlightenment. Join those of us who have realized secrets
the ancients possessed, secrets for which others have died in order to safeguard the future.’”

  “Gobbledygook,” the professor mumbled. “If the secrets are so great, why not employ them now?”

  “No names or photos on that site,” Tank observed, studying the page. “If this organization is so cool, why won’t anyone admit being a part of it?”

  “Let me see that.” The professor stepped out of the dining room and stood between Tank and Brenda, all of them studying the website. “Hmm. Maybe I should have Googled them.”

  “According to this site, the cloud of secrecy is about to evaporate.” Brenda pointed to a textbox in the lower corner and read aloud: “‘The Gate is a powerful collective of leaders entrusted with protecting the billions of human beings on the planet. Our plan for humankind has spanned several eras and prevented humanity from engaging in acts that would have destroyed all human life. The scale of our operation requires stealth, leaving no overt proof of our work. But the time for covert operations and anonymity is nearing an end.”

  “Typical end of the world stuff.” The professor shook his head. “Fodder for the apocalypse survivalists.”

  “What are they gonna do?” Tank looked at me, eyes wide. “Don’t they realize God wins in the end?”

  “Maybe they don’t believe in God.” Brenda pulled her cigarette from her back pocket, stuck it in her mouth, and squinted at the screen. “Looks like they believe in themselves more than anything else.”

  “They believe in knowledge.” The answer came easily because I’d heard the words in my head only a few days before. “They believe the key to a better life is enlightenment.”

  Tank laughed. “That’s what the devil promised Eve in the garden, you know. She ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and when she’d finished, she had new knowledge, all right. She’d been living in a perfect and good world, but that forbidden fruit gave her firsthand knowledge of evil and sin. Knowledge isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be.”

  “I don’t think we can be so simplistic,” the professor said, frowning. “There are levels to man’s knowledge, and men have always wanted to better themselves, to rise above their beginnings—”