Linwood Barclay - Trust Your Eyes

Thomas closed his eyes. “Near Beach Street? That’s nice along there. Is she in that building with the real estate office on the first floor? All the sidewalks there are made of red brick. They look really nice.” He opened his eyes.

Howard appeared slightly unnerved. He looked my way and I said, “He’s never been to Boston.”

“Okay, I got one,” Lewis said. “The twenty-seven-hundred block of California Street in Denver. Between Twenty-seventh and Twenty-eighth.” He said to Howard, “I grew up there.”

Thomas closed his eyes again. “Was it in one of the one-story blue houses, or the six-story apartment building across the street with the walls that are kind of white, then go to brick color, then back to white, and-”

“Jesus Christ,” Lewis said. “It’s like he’s got a fucking computer in his head.”

Howard said, “Which was it, Lewis? One of the little blue houses, or the apartment?”

“The apartment,” he said quietly.

Howard took a very long breath, laced his fingers together, and rested his forearms on his thighs. “How many cities are you memorizing, Thomas?”

“All of them,” he said.

Howard’s head retreated a little in surprise. “All of them in the United States?”

“In the world,” Thomas said. “I’m not done. The world’s very big. If you asked me about, say, Gomez Palacio, in Mexico, I haven’t gotten there yet. There’s probably more places I haven’t gotten to than I have gotten to, like smaller cities and towns, because I’m trying to finish the big cities first.”

“Okay,” Howard said, glancing over at Nicole, who hadn’t moved a muscle since he’d last spoken to her. “So, Thomas, let’s say we’ve established that you really do have some kind of gift. I have to admit, I am impressed.”

“Thank you,” Thomas said. Despite our current situation, the praise pleased him.

“So this is what you do, you memorize these streets,” Howard said, a statement, not a question. “And what are all those e-mails about?”

“Updates,” Thomas said, with a tone that suggested that was a pretty dumb question. Like, What the hell else would they be?

“Updates on?”

“On how the project is going. When I memorize new cities, or parts of them, I let the president know.”

“And what’s this other thing you mentioned, about all the online maps disappearing?”

Thomas gave Howard a wary look. “I bet you know all about that.”

“Well, if I do, then it won’t hurt if you tell me.”

“There’s going to be some kind of catastrophic event that destroys all the online maps. A virus or something. Maybe caused by some enemy of the United States. This will happen after everyone’s gotten rid of their paper maps, because we all rely on the computer now. It’s kind of like photos. Everyone used to have their pictures developed on paper, but now they post them online. When everything crashes, everyone will lose all their photos. It’ll be like that with maps.”

Now Howard looked at me. “Is he for real?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Does this freakish ability of his have something to do with why you showed up at Allison Fitch’s apartment on Orchard Street?”

I nodded. “Thomas was memorizing that street, and he saw the woman in the window. With the bag over her head.” My mouth was dry, and I licked my lips. “He wanted me to check it out.”

“How did he know to look for it?”

“He didn’t. He just found it.”

“No,” Howard said. “I don’t believe that. The odds of that, they’re a billion to one.”

“No,” Thomas said. “The odds are that eventually I will see everything.”

Howard turned to Lewis. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know. Seems kind of unlikely to me. Maybe someone asked him to look for it.”

“Is that what happened, Thomas? Someone asked you to look for it?”

“No,” he said. “Nobody did.”

“Not even Bill Clinton?” Howard followed the question with a nervous laugh.

“No, I just send him the progress reports. He’s my liaison with the agency.”

“But he never e-mails you back. There aren’t any e-mails in your in-box, or in the trash.”

“He communicates with me, but not through e-mail.”

“Communicates how?”

“He talks to me. Lately, he’s been using the phone.”

“What, his voice just comes to you?”

Thomas nodded.

I’d been so preoccupied with everything that had happened to Thomas and me the last few hours, I hadn’t had much time to think about that phone call. I still had no idea what it meant, and was wondering whether I had to understand it to somehow use it to my advantage. This bunch was clearly in the dark as much as I was.

Howard gave his head a shake and said to Lewis, “There’s no goddamn way this freak has chats with a former president.”

“I agree,” Lewis said. “Can’t be.”

“Thomas,” Howard continued, “do you see a doctor? A psychiatrist?”

“Yes. Dr. Grigorin.”

“And does he have you on medication?”

“It’s a she,” Thomas said. “Yes. It makes the voices go away. For the most part. But I can still hear the president sometimes.”

“With a phone, and without a phone,” Howard said.

“The phone’s clearer,” Thomas said.

“No way,” Howard said again. “There’s just no way.”

“You’re right,” I said tentatively, making Howard turn and look at me. “It makes no sense that a former president of the United States would be phoning someone like Thomas and using him for the CIA. It’s ridiculous. You’re absolutely right.”

Howard could tell I was going someplace with this, so he waited.

“I mean, you’ve seen what Thomas can do. He has an extraordinary talent. But at the same time, his view of reality is sometimes at odds with what the rest of us believe. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia when he was much younger.”

Thomas gave me a disdainful look that said, That doesn’t mean I’m not right.

I continued, “I mean, this whole thing about all the maps disappearing, and black ops. It’s kind of over the top. But let’s say you have someone with a tremendous gift, but who also tends to believe in grandiose conspiracies, who believes that very powerful people are interested in what he has to offer. Do you call him up and say, ‘Hi, this is Joe Blow. I wonder if you could do a little snooping around for me?’ Or do you call him up and say, ‘Hi, I used to be president of the United States, and I need your help.’”

Howard studied me for several seconds. “What are you saying?”

“Okay, I’m gonna come clean here. I’m saying that my brother’s not doing work for the CIA, or the FBI, or Bill Clinton, or Franklin Delano Roosevelt. But he is, unknowingly,” and at this point I looked apologetically at Thomas, “helping Carlo Vachon.”

“Who?” Thomas asked.

“Vachon?” Lewis said. “The mob guy?”

Even Nicole, who had been doing her best to look disinterested in the proceedings, perked up at that.

“A mob guy?” Thomas said.

“And,” I continued, “they value Thomas so much, and keep such close tabs on him, there’s a very good chance his people are watching this place right now.”

“Preposterous,” Howard said. “That’s simply preposterous.”

“Hang on, hang on, hang on,” Lewis said, shaking his hand at Howard. “When I was checking this guy out”-and he nodded at me-“I came across one of his drawings, his illustrations, you call them. Of Carlo Vachon.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I did it for a magazine, and he liked it so much, he wanted to buy it.”

“It wasn’t a flattering portrait,” Lewis said. “You had him sticking up the Statue of Liberty.”