Headcase, p.20
Headcase, page 20
This process somehow weakens the prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for high-level thinking. The part that tells you it’s better not to eat people. Maybe that’s why I just sat there for half an hour or so, the blood on my shirt slowly going crusty, the ringing in my ears fading to a distant whine.
When I came back to reality, Zara was talking.
‘… trying to save your life,’ she said. ‘Don’t you get that?’
‘I don’t want saving. I want food.’
‘They don’t serve the food you like in prison. If we’d stayed for three more seconds—’
‘I don’t care.’ I knew I sounded like a petulant teenager, but I couldn’t help it. That meat had been so fresh. Alive only seconds earlier.
Zara exhaled through her teeth. ‘I have to call Wilcox.’
While she dialled, I leaned forwards, pressing my face against the dashboard. Trying to think about something, anything, other than the hunger raging in my guts.
I found myself thinking about Cho’s keys.
The Chinese spies had had them. Therefore, they had killed Cho. But why, then, would they try to make it look like Cho had been the pilot of one of their own top-secret stealth jets?
‘I’d like to place an order for pick-up,’ Zara said into her phone. ‘Three burgers. No fries, maybe one soda.’
That meant three bodies, none were civilians, one possible witness. The code would have made sense a decade ago, but people these days mostly seemed to summon food via apps on their phones. I wondered if anyone still called in orders anymore, or if it was all just CIA agents requesting cover-ups.
‘Delivered to 580 Old Oaks Boulevard, Pearland,’ she continued. ‘As soon as it’s ready. What?’ She listened for a while. ‘What kind of worm?’
She listened a while longer, then ended the call without saying goodbye.
‘You know the malware we installed on Cuthbert’s computer?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, someone else beat us to it. There was already a worm inside the network.’
That was unexpected. My legs trembled, probably from the fading adrenaline. ‘Someone else was stealing data?’
‘No. The worm wasn’t copying, or transmitting. The analysts say it looked like it was designed to delete something, but they can’t figure out what. It was just sitting there, like a tripwire waiting to be crossed—are you sucking your shirt?’
I let the fabric fall out of my mouth. ‘Who made the worm?’
‘There were Russian words in the code, but SIGINT thinks they were planted to fool us. They think it’s the Chinese. Which makes sense, since the MSS just tried to kill us.’
But it didn’t make sense. The body was definitely Rob Cho’s—why would China be involved at all?
I closed my eyes, circling the problem, as though it was a couch and I was trying to work out how to lift it. Streetlights strobed across my eyelids.
‘We’re not going to Virginia anymore,’ Zara went on. ‘The op has been escalated. The Company is sending us some supplies, including a disguise kit. Remember, the FBI has a picture of a guy who looks a lot like you—’
I opened my eyes. ‘Rob Cho found the worm.’
‘He what?’
‘He was head of cybersecurity. He found malware on the network. But the MSS killed him before he could tell anybody.’
Zara considered this for a moment. ‘But if Beijing is responsible, why would they dress him in a Chinese spacesuit? Wouldn’t they want to point the finger at some other country?’
She was right. I chewed my lip for a minute, and said: ‘Your asset in Shanghai.’
‘What about them?’
‘After we found the body, you told them to look for evidence of a secret space launch in China.’
‘So?’
‘So, have you heard from them lately?’
There was a pause, and then Zara said, ‘Oh, fuck.’ She pulled over and got out her phone again.
The first call she made went unanswered. Her source might have already been in a Chinese prison with their feet in a tub of acid, telling the interrogators everything they’d ever told Zara.
It was a clever plan. The MSS hadn’t just killed Cho—they had used him to expose a CIA mole in the Chinese Communist Party. As soon as Zara’s source started asking around about a secret spacecraft, the MSS had identified the leak and plugged it.
Zara made a second call. This time, it sounded like she was organising a funeral. She described the kind of flowers she wanted, and the casket, and the order of ceremonies. I wasn’t familiar with any of this code, but I could guess that she was trying to get her source out of China before he got captured. Or, knowing Zara, to have him killed before he could reveal too much.
Soon she ended the call and swerved back onto the road, her jaw set, her knuckles white around the steering wheel. I sucked on my bloody shirt some more, looking out the window. We hadn’t discussed where we were going, but it looked like she was taking a roundabout way to the safe house.
‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ I said.
Zara gripped the wheel like she was trying to strangle it. ‘He wasn’t my friend.’
‘I’m sorry anyway.’
She grunted.
‘So we know how Cho was killed, and now we know why. We just don’t know who. But we can narrow it down to the people who were in the complex at the time of his murder. One of those people is working for the MSS.’ I licked the blood off my lips. ‘They took out your spy. How would you like to take out theirs?’
•
Back at the unfinished house, I showered, watching the blood splash around my feet and swirl down the drain. Zara said she was going out. She wouldn’t tell me where. Maybe she wanted to talk to Wilcox out of earshot. Or maybe she needed to blow off some steam after her near-death experience. I wondered how she did that. Laser tag?
After my shower, I sat on the patio, thinking. Three thousand employees at Space City. Fewer than a hundred there on the night Cho was killed and dragged out into that field. I’d already ruled out several of those. The suspect pool was shrinking.
In my head, I watched the deleted video feeds, over and over. But soon it became hard to tell whether I was noticing new details or inventing them. The memory was like an old videotape, degrading slightly with each viewing.
Zara came back with a new air mattress, a bag of groceries and several documents. There was a list of people who were in the complex at the time of Cho’s death. A list of vehicles that had entered and left. A list of swipe cards that had been used to access various areas.
She and I read through these documents side by side on the mattress, like a couple who had been married for decades. Zara wore a black nightdress and frameless reading glasses. I kept sneaking glances across at her. She really was beautiful. But she was also manipulative. Competitive. Cruel.
Then again, I didn’t deserve kindness. I was a monster. Maybe we belonged together.
Zara’s phone beeped. She checked the screen, harrumphed, and tucked the phone back beneath her pillow.
I recognised that sound. ‘I was right about something,’ I said. ‘And you were wrong.’
She licked her finger, then used it to turn a page. Finally she said, ‘The video from the fishing trawler isn’t fake.’
‘But?’
‘But it was staged. The woman who recorded it has ties to China. It looks like the MSS took a Chengdu J-20S and dumped it in the ocean, right in the ship’s path. Then they put a spy on board and told her to record some video.’
I frowned. ‘So they killed Rob Cho, dressed him in a Chinese flight suit and dragged his body outside. Then, to make the ruse seem more authentic, they abandoned a perfectly good plane in the ocean and organised for us to see it?’
‘Seems so. And that’s a multi-million-dollar plane. They’re desperate to keep the identity of this spy under wraps.’ She pointed to an item on the list. ‘What about Hadrian Holm?’
‘The receptionist with all the piercings?’ I asked. I’d seen his name tag.
‘Right. According to his swipe card data, he was on the ground floor of the museum at the time of the murder.’
‘So were a lot of people,’ I said. ‘Anything else?’
‘He seemed like kind of a dick.’
If anything, that made him less likely to work for the MSS. Spies tend to be charming.
‘Let’s put him in the maybe category,’ I said, humouring Zara. ‘Who else was in the complex?’
‘Hey.’ She pointed again. ‘What about Hazel Cuthbert, the deputy cybersecurity chief?’
‘What about her?’
‘She was there. And she was also one of the first people to enter the museum the following day. Just after seven am.’
‘You think she snuck into the building early to clean the blood off the inside of the hypobaric chamber before anybody else saw it?’
‘Cho was the cybersecurity chief,’ Zara said. ‘Who do you think gets that job now that he’s dead?’
I nodded slowly. ‘His deputy.’
‘If I was in the MSS,’ Zara said, ‘and I had an asset placed inside the Johnson Space Center, and I needed her to rise through the ranks quickly …’
There was a knock on the door. I flinched.
‘It’s just a delivery,’ Zara said. ‘Relax.’
I didn’t relax. ‘Who delivers to a half-finished house?’
‘The Company. I requested some supplies. Bring them in, will you?’
It wasn’t a question. She didn’t look up from her list, fully expecting me to obey. Like I was her dog.
I got up and padded, barefoot, out into the living room. A flash of headlights crossed the window, and I heard an engine start. The house had no insulation, so I could still hear the vehicle as it made turn after turn, gradually fading into the distance. Then silence.
I opened the door. There was a small cardboard box on the doorstep. I was probably expected to drag it inside before opening it, for privacy.
But I didn’t. At the FBI, I’d studied letter bombs. I knew that if you had to open one, it was safest to do it outside.
Very carefully, I unfolded the flaps. Inside there was a satchel containing a wig and a false moustache, which were more convincing than you’d get at a Halloween store, but not by much. Underneath the satchel was a padded plastic bag, the kind they use to deliver refrigerated food. I listened for ticking and then unzipped it.
The bag was filled with human hands. Six of them, neatly severed at the wrists. All stacked on top of one another, like raw soft-shell crabs.
I stared at them.
‘I told my bosses we might need them,’ Zara said from behind me. ‘To plant fingerprints at other crime scenes. Make it seem like the MSS agents are still alive.’
I kept staring into the bag. Three left hands, three right. Thirty fingers in total. There wasn’t much meat on a hand, but I was salivating just the same.
‘We don’t actually need them for that,’ Zara added. ‘I got them as a present. For you.’
I turned to face Zara. She smoothed her nightdress, looking bashful. I couldn’t tell what was going on behind her gold-flecked brown eyes. Was this an apology? A bribe? A convoluted threat?
It didn’t matter. In that moment, I loved her.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
She leaned forward and kissed me. Her lips were soft and full. The smell of her skin, warm and clean, filled my nose. I wrapped my arm around her waist. Her tongue slipped into my mouth, and I realised just how much she trusted me.
CHAPTER 27
Now
What kind of eye can see, but is never seen?
‘How often do you see Zara?’ Diaz asks.
I look up. ‘Huh?’ For a minute I’d forgotten I was here, in her office. My body may be a mess, but my mind’s eye is pretty good. I can imagine myself into just about anywhere.
‘Zara. How often do you see her?’
‘Not at all since I got here.’ I haven’t had a single visitor, which Diaz should know.
‘Have you heard her voice?’
Now I get it. ‘Zara’s not imaginary.’
Diaz speaks carefully. ‘There’s a myth that it’s masculine to be attracted to vulnerability. But it’s very common for men to fantasise about having a partner who’s sexually uninhibited, mysterious, even dangerous—’
‘My life is dangerous enough. I don’t need to fantasise about that.’
‘Is there someone else you fantasise about?’
I keep my mouth shut and try not to picture Thistle, as though the psychiatrist can read my mind.
‘Some people are aroused by thoughts of being punished by their partner.’ Diaz seems to think that this topic won’t seem personal if she says everything matter-of-factly. ‘It can be confusing, if you don’t think of yourself as the kind of person who—’
‘You think I imagined getting locked in that hypobaric chamber? You think that was a wet dream?’
Diaz rides the silence.
‘It wasn’t,’ I say. ‘Zara’s real.’
‘Okay.’ She nods understandingly. ‘What does she look like?’
‘Maybe thirty. Five foot six. A hundred and twenty pounds. Dark hair, dark eyes, slightly tan skin.’ I hoped all this detail would make Zara seem like a real person, but as the words come out, she sounds more imaginary than ever.
‘Does she look anything like your mother?’ Diaz asked.
‘Jesus.’ I rub my face. ‘I’m a fucking cannibal. Isn’t that enough? Do I have to have mommy issues as well?’
‘You mentioned that you worked on a case …’ Diaz flips backwards a few pages. ‘For the FBI. You investigated a boy who may have been molested by his mother. Cameron.’
I don’t remember bringing that up. Apparently I’ve been running my mouth. ‘That was a real case.’
‘Did Cameron remind you of yourself?’
I think of the handsome, well-liked teenager, and his luxurious house in the gated community. ‘Not even a little bit.’
Another silence. This time I refuse to break it, but I’m aware that I seem stubborn, secretive. I’ve been more honest with Diaz than with anyone else I’ve ever met, revealing everything to her, but she still thinks I’m lying.
‘I’d like to prescribe something that I think will help you,’ Diaz says finally.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s quite mild, and it often helps people in your situation.’
She hasn’t named the drug, or even categorised it. Does she think I need antidepressants? Stimulants? Antipsychotics?
Whatever it is, it’s bound to be wrong, because she still doesn’t get that all this is real.
‘I’d rather not,’ I say.
She looks like she expected this. ‘Can you tell me why?’
It’s because I’m not delusional. But if I tell her that, she’ll be even more determined to medicate me.
‘Because I feel like we’re getting somewhere with the talk therapy,’ I say.
She’s not fooled. ‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a replacement for our sessions. We’ll keep making progress in here—hopefully faster.’
If I keep pushing back, she’ll tell the nurses to force-feed me the pills, instead of just trusting me to take them.
‘Okay,’ I say.
Diaz checks her little gold watch. ‘That’s our time,’ she says.‘Thanks for coming in, Timothy. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
•
Visiting families never get to see the back door, so there’s no pretence here. It’s thick wood instead of glass and has two enormous locks. A camera stares at me from a small cage in the corner of the ceiling. I doubt anyone is watching the feed right now. Just the same, I won’t linger long. I try the handle, just in case someone left it unlocked. It doesn’t turn, same as yesterday, and the day before.
The door doesn’t have a steel core—I know that from rapping my knuckles on it the first day I was here. But I don’t have a hope in hell of kicking it down. It opens inwards, and the hinges are huge. I’d need a battering ram, the kind used by SWAT teams. Even if I had one, and two hands to hold it, the noise would alert everyone in the building. With the hospital security team after me, I wouldn’t make it halfway to the road.
‘How are we doing today, Timothy?’
I turn to see Kelly, the big nurse with the snake tattoo. ‘Hungry.’
‘We’ll get you to lunch in a minute,’ he says, and rattles a little plastic cup in one gloved hand. ‘Dr Diaz has prescribed something for you.’
I’ve only just finished my session. No way could Diaz have contacted Kelly so quickly. She must have talked to him beforehand. She’d decided to drug me before I even walked into her office.
Betrayal is a familiar emotion. I barely feel the sting of it.
‘She discussed that as a future possibility,’ I say. ‘But I got the impression we would keep going with the talk therapy for now?’
Kelly doesn’t buy it. He hands me the cup. ‘Show it to me on your tongue before you swallow.’
The plastic cup contains a little white pill, broken in half—or maybe halves of two separate pills. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Medication,’ he says.
‘What kind?’
‘Come on, Timothy. I don’t have all day.’
I tip the cup into my mouth, then show him the two pills on my tongue. I can feel them there, the broken edges powdery against my tastebuds.
‘Great. Down the hatch,’ he says.
I think about hiding the pills in my cheeks. But if Kelly notices, he’ll never trust me again. I’ve seen what happens to patients he doesn’t trust. Held down, tied up, force fed, injected, sedated.
