Face Blind Page 8

  She wished he could see her smile in the dark. “Don’t mind me at all. I was just thinking that it was darker than midnight under a skillet and colder than a pocket full of penguin poop.”

  Now it was Cable’s turn to laugh. He actually slapped his knee.

  A white dome appeared.

  Donner slowed the vehicle as the structure broke away from the gloom and gleamed to life in the headlights. He stopped a few feet away, the light reflecting off the smooth, rounded walls.

  “Who’s that?” Luke asked, all thoughts of cows and penguins forgotten.

  Rolling toward them, defying the stirred-up dust, was a man who was half machine.

  So quietly that Mira barely heard him, Cable said, “My brother.”

  * * *

  Gabe hit the brakes.

  The truck fishtailed. He released some of the pressure, let the rear end catch up with the front, and then eased down again on the pedal. He turned hard to the right, and Cyclops whipped to a full and dust-strewn stop.

  Vicente, head resting against the seat, said nothing.

  As the dust settled around them, so too did the silence. They’d driven for an hour, going nowhere and everywhere, anywhere so long as it was away from the town called Mentiras.

  Gabe stumbled out of the truck. He slammed the door, snuffing out the dome light and leaving himself in the middle of the universe: The ocean of the night sky teemed with stars, but no light of civilization marked the way home.

  Vicente climbed out and pushed his door softly shut. A few moments later, Gabe heard his voice. “Who was that man?”

  They hadn’t spoken during their flight through the desert. Gabe had his theories about the man in the well, the man with the arm, but each was more fantastical than the last. He wanted to hear his friend’s opinion, hoping it would be solid enough that he could grasp it with both hands and say Yes, this makes sense.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Vicente asked, a hint of belligerence between his words.

  “I hear you. I just don’t have an answer.”

  “You didn’t happen to bring the satellite phone?”

  “And explain to Rubat why I needed it?”

  Vicente rested his elbows on the truck. “What have you gotten me into, Gabriel?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You knew something was out there. That’s why you wanted to go.”

  “And you volunteered to come along. Nobody drafted you.”

  Vicente laughed humorlessly.

  Gabe knelt and pinched some dust between his fingers. His pulse had finally settled, though it didn’t seem to do him any good. In the absence of adrenaline, weariness laid siege to him. How long had it been since he’d slept? Thirty-six hours? Forty? “Assuming we can find our way back, we’ll just … forget about all of it.”

  “That easy, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about the police?”

  “And make myself even more of a suspect than I already am? Give Rubat the excuse he needs to cut me from the program? I don’t think so.”

  “You’re saying we should just let the son of a bitch get away with it?”

  “Get away with what?”

  “Don’t play estupido with me.” His voice carried across the vastness. “You saw what I saw. He was holding … He had something in his hand. And we can identify him.”

  Gabe said nothing.

  “Yo, asshole. We need to tell the cops about him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “The hell you can’t!”

  Gabe stood up. “I can’t identify him, okay? I don’t know what he looks like.”

  “You saw him as well as I did. Narrow face, eyes kind of sagging like a wino’s—”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Fine. Then take my word that I’m calling the carabineros as soon as we get to a landline. I’ll shake those Ninja Turtles out of bed and give them some goddamn police work to do. Now get back in the truck.”

  Gabe felt it all tumbling out of his grasp. In an effort to avenge the Midnight Messenger, he’d tracked the man’s assassin but was unable to do more than run away. A hero would’ve tackled the bastard. And now, because he’d retreated, Fontecilla and the investigative police would have no choice but to take him in for questioning, and then, upon hearing of the figure at the well, they’d launch a manhunt that might spell the end of Gabe’s job here in Chile. Rubat was already under too much pressure from the men with the purse strings. He’d opt to cut his losses, forcing Gabe to reboot his doctoral research elsewhere. If anyone would have him.

  Vicente got behind the wheel, started the engine, and hung his arm from the open window. “We’ve got less than a quarter tank left, so you better hope we don’t get stranded out here. Might as well sign our death warrants, ’cause it sure the hell ain’t going to rain, and I’m already halfway out of water.”

  Gabe gazed up, getting his bearings the way men had been doing since they realized, thousands of years ago, that the heavens were a map of mortal paths. Though he couldn’t pinpoint his location without the proper tools, at least he knew which way was north.

  “Meter’s running,” Vicente said.

  Gabe climbed into the truck. “Do you have any idea where you’re going?”

  “We’re lost. What’s your best guess?”

  Gabe suggested southwest, hoping they’d eventually encounter the road used by the service trucks for the rare delivery. The scattering of encampments out here—those of soil scientists, geologists, racing teams, and a few radical stargazers—required occasional supplies. That road was the only true link to civilization, the only passage from the wastes.

  Vicente drove.

  Gabe lost track of time. He wasn’t wearing his watch. This thought reminded him of the watch he’d discovered on the Messenger’s wrist, an expensive chronograph out of place with the man’s environment. That kind of hardware didn’t sync with the surroundings. Then again, neither did his military-style boots.

  Gabe drifted. It must have been nearly two days since he’d slept. How had the Messenger come into contact with the boy? What was their connection? If Gabe could just get his fingers around that, if he could just come to know its shape …

  He awoke when Cyclops slid to a stop. He sat up quickly, disoriented, and blinked against the sudden lights. There were dozens of them, mounted on poles and fixed to racks along the ground. In between were what seemed to be igloos.

  He rubbed his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “No idea. I just saw the light and drove to it. We’re out of gas, by the way.”

  Faces appeared, faces without form …

  “Gabe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “They have guns.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mira stepped instinctively in front of her brother when the truck appeared.

  She’d only just met the man in the wheelchair, Jonah Cable, when someone shouted a warning. She’d gotten no further than “Pleased to meet—” before a single headlight appeared, and seconds later, a pickup slid to a ragged stop in a fallout of dust.

  The man in the wheelchair released her hand. “Eduardo!”

  One of the other scientists—Cable had said there were only three men stationed here—swung a rifle off his back and braced it inexpertly against his shoulder.

  “Donner!”

  “I’ve got it!” From a nylon satchel, Donner produced a handgun of some kind.

  Cable stepped away from this sudden weaponry, backing into his brother’s chair. “What the hell’s going on, Jonah?”

  “We heard there’d been trouble, that’s all I know.” His voice was harder than Cable’s, just as the years weighed more heavily on his face. “We got a call about one of the area’s astronomical sites.”

  The truck’s passenger-side door opened.

  With the guns tracking him, the man got out, hands held away from his body. The profusion of lights fully revealed him: Caucasian, a bit di
sheveled, hair touching the collar of his denim jacket, and at least a day’s worth of stubble on his well-defined cheeks.

  “What kind of trouble?” Cable asked.

  “Unknown. We were told only that the police were involved and that certain criminal elements might still be at large. Hence the hardware.”

  Mira could do little more than watch and wait. One moment she’d been intent on making a good impression on Jonah, and the next she was waving back the dust from a vehicle that might contain criminal elements.

  “Don’t shoot!” The man waved his hands and squinted against the light. “I work at Quest-South, the observatory.”

  At the touch of a toggle, Jonah’s chair rolled forward six inches, its wheels coated in desert powder. “Your name, sir?”

  “Traylin. Gabe Traylin.”

  Jonah checked a paper in his lap. From the style of its header, Mira recognized it as an e-mail printout. Apparently satisfied, Jonah said, “He’s on the list.”

  Donner and Eduardo, visibly relieved, lowered their weapons.

  Then, before Mira could stop him, Luke marched toward the pickup.

  Mira called after him, but Luke paid no heed. He stopped in front of Traylin and boldly presented his hand. “My name’s Luke. Welcome to Mars.”

  A second passed.

  Traylin shook heartily. “Damn glad to be here.”

  * * *

  Gabe accepted the water bottle and spent the next few moments doing nothing but rehydrating. Vicente sat beside him on a crate made of high-impact aluminum, beneath a half-tent full of what looked to be provisions for a lengthy stay. Drinking bought Gabe a bit of time, which he used in observation. He had no idea where he was or who these people might be. But as long as they weren’t carrying human body parts or toting sniper rifles, he considered them allies.

  “You’re American?”

  Gabe wiped his mouth. The man who addressed him was black; that much he could tell by his skin. There were other telltales about his age. Gabe had automatically conducted recon of the man’s hands and placed him between thirty and fifty-five. It might not be an accurate estimate, but in the absence of tea leaves, guessing was the best he could ever do.

  “Sounds like you are, too,” Gabe said.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Flagstaff.”

  “Newport Beach.”

  “California? I got my bachelor’s at Stanford.”

  “Small world. I’m Ben Cable. My brother, Jonah”—he tipped his head toward the larger of the white domes—“is lead engineer here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “The Auqakuh Carnegie Edaphology Field, or ACEF, courtesy of a joint effort between NASA and Carnegie Mellon University. Jonah’s associates there are Donner and Eduardo. And these are my guests, Luke and Mira Westbrook.”

  Gabe hated meeting people. No matter how many times he suffered through the introductions, they never got easier. That was the hardest thing for those unfamiliar with prosopagnosia to fathom: Everyone looked exactly the same.

  Still, he went through the motions. He said hi to the man called Luke, the one who’d first welcomed him to the camp or compound or whatever it was. Luke sounded young and full of spirit. His wife was a bit more reserved.

  “… how you got yourselves lost?” Cable asked.

  Gabe had been drifting, still shaken from their flight across the sand. He tethered himself to the ground and said, “I guess you could say we were putting our noses where they don’t belong.” He looked back at the building. Where was that guy who’d gone to fetch the phone? Cell phones were no good out here. If you didn’t let the satellites play intermediary, you might as well have been in the Stone Age.

  “We came for Mars,” Luke said.

  “Yeah? So you guys are … planetary scientists?”

  “I’m not a scientist.”

  “That would be my dear elder sibling,” Cable explained. “He oversees various soil experiments. Edaphology is the study of—”

  “How soil types affect other living organisms,” Gabe finished.

  “Actually, yes. I’m impressed.”

  “What can I say? I know my ologies.”

  Careful, your geek is hanging out.

  “Is somebody bringing that phone?” He didn’t want to tip his nervous hand, but he knew it was evident that he was anxious. Anxious, though, didn’t quite do justice to the bullet hole in the Isuzu’s window. “It’s imperative that I get in touch with the observatory.”

  “Did you see any Martians out there?” Luke asked.

  Gabe traded glances with Vicente. “Maybe so.”

  “What color?”

  “It was too dark to tell.”

  “Did they have ray guns?”

  “In a matter of speaking.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Luke.” His wife intervened with that single word.

  “It’s all right,” Gabe assured her, though personally he’d never felt less assured. “We’re sorry for barging in on you like this. I’m sure it’s not how you planned on spending your night.”

  “Not at all,” Cable said. “As it happens, we’ve experienced sort of a strange day ourselves. Isn’t that right, Luke?”

  “And how!”

  Cable took it upon himself to explain more about the ACEF project, but Gabe didn’t catch most of it. Supposedly Auqakuh was the word for Mars in the old Quechuan tongue of the Incas. After that, nothing interested him. The Midnight Messenger had died without a name or history, without a story, without seeing the face of anyone he loved. The last living person he saw was a boy who’d been pruned of his limbs. What had they talked about during their humpback trip across the sand? What promises had they made?

  Eventually the man in the chair returned. Gabe had already forgotten his name, but he accepted the phone gladly, excused himself, and left the perimeter of lights so as not to alarm the others with what he was about to say.

  He punched in the number of Rubat’s office—

  Wait.

  He paused with one digit unpressed. The conversation would be brutal, like the local street-side chefs chopping the heads from fish. Rubat would hear about the stranger with the rifle and then start hacking away, lopping off a few more pieces of Gabe’s future as an astronomer. Some of Rubat’s superiors back in Europe were already talking about putting the operation on hiatus; Rubat would not want them to see a reckless doctoral student as one more reason to shut it all down. Maybe it would be best to bypass the observatory’s chief altogether.

  He raked Fontecilla’s card from his jeans.

  Though it was well after midnight, the detective picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s me, Gabe Traylin, from the—”

  “Observatory. One moment, please.”

  Gabe waited. Maybe Fontecilla was putting on his glasses or slipping out of his room so as not to wake his lover. No, on second thought, Fontecilla wasn’t a mistress kind of guy. He’d either been married for a hundred years or was an eternal bachelor.

  “Señor Traylin, are you still there?”

  “You bet.”

  “What is the matter?”

  Gabe turned a complete circle. He ran his hand through his hair. Now that he finally had one of the good guys on the line, he didn’t know what to tell him. Hey, Font, old buddy, I hope you don’t mind, but a friend and I pretty much took the law into our own hands and went out on the trail of a dead man, and guess what? Yep, we ran face-first into a freakshow climbing up from a well, and get this: The bastard owes us a new windshield.

  “Traylin? Can you hear me?”

  So if you thought I was crying wolf the first time, just wait till you take a posse out to Mentiras and find not a single quantum particle of evidence.

  Would it go down like that? Would the police arrive to find that the man from the well had erased all signs of his existence and fled into the Atacama’s endless corridors? Gabe would then be considered not only a potential suspect in the case of
the dead boy but a nuisance, an official antagonizer of the Policía de Investigaciones.

  “Traylin? Have I lost you?”

  Gabe terminated the call.

  Now what? While he stood here tapping the sat phone’s antenna against his chin, the shooter from Mentiras was … what? Breaking camp? Tossing his butcher knives into the back of an RV? Gabe wanted to laugh at the image that came to him, an old Winnebago with a Parrothead license plate, but he found no humor in it. He kept thinking about that damned pinwheel and the boy.

  He went to the truck, grabbed the map off the seat, and returned to the tent, where the man in the wheelchair was promising to give everyone the full ACEF tour at daybreak.

  Vicente seemed far more interested in the phone. “Did you get ahold of Rubat? What did he say?”

  Gabe ignored him. “Can anyone show me where we are on this map?”

  “Are we driving back tonight? We’ll need some fuel. Cyclops is down to a drizzle.”

  “We’re driving,” Gabe said, “but not to the observatory.”

  “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

  “And I’m not asking you to come along.”

  Cable touched a point on the map. “I think we’re somewhere around here. That about right, Joe?” He handed the map to his brother.

  “You can’t go back there,” Vicente said. By his posture, Gabe could tell Vicente was glaring at him. For once he was thankful he couldn’t see anything more distinct. “There’s no way you’re going to confront that guy by yourself.”

  “Confront whom?” Mira asked.

  “Martians?” Luke wondered.

  The wheelchair shifted a bit closer. “I’ll mark our position in pen, if I may, though I must say that this map of yours looks like it hails from the Truman era.”

  “Pen’s fine,” Gabe told him. He turned to Mira. She had blond hair and, he had to admit, a body that knew how to wear a pair of khakis. “And I don’t know who, exactly. Somebody who may have done some bad things, I guess.”

  “What kind of bad things?”

  Silence followed her words. The others looked up from the map. Gabe felt their eyes on him as certainly as if he could see their faces.

  They waited.

  “I won’t know for sure until I get to Mentiras,” he said. “But first I’m going to need to buy some gas.”