Lewis Perdue - Perfect killer

"No kidding." She paused for effect. "Which means what you say carries water."

"Meaning we have to connect with Shanker, stat."

"Lashonna-" Jasmine's voice cracked. "Lashonna met with him yesterday."

"She write anything down?"

"I don't know. I hadn't really talked with her since getting back from L.A. We planned to do that after her smoke break. In fact, I had promised to go outside with her, but the wind was swirling from every direction and I couldn't find any place to stand without breathing in the smoke. I'd gone inside a few seconds before the shooting."

"Which means you were a target too."

"Yeah."

"Okay," I said. "Where do we go? There's obviously Shanker. And John Myers. Two solid places to start." I turned my head to follow the source of a siren and watched an ambulance wail by out on Park Avenue. Distant lightning flashes illuminated vast cliffs of approaching thunderheads.

"Do the court records have anything helpful?" I said as the siren faded. "You know, autopsy report, interviews, etc.?"

"Sealed," Jasmine said. "Homeland defense. National security."

My cell phone filled the cab with Robert Johnson.

" Crossroad Blues," Jasmine smiled. "Sweet."

I checked the incoming number and recognized Flowers's cell.

"Hey, Jeff," I said.

"Brad, it's bad. Horrible," Flowers said. "All of Camilla's scans and the other exams are fully consistent with locked-in syndrome; there's absolutely no doubt about it. Her fPETs indicate a virtual typhoon of metabolic activity in the areas we associate with consciousness."

An fPET-functional positron-emission tomography-a new method I had helped pioneer-was a method for real-time observation of the brain's metabolic activity.

Jasmine gave me a concerned look of curiosity as I spoke with Flowers. "You're sure there's a total disconnect? Not a finger or an eyelid, no connection to the outside world."

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," Flowers replied. "I've sent the latest scans up for you, but I think it's pretty clear that Camilla's regained consciousness but she's totally locked in… her mind is in hell, Brad. She's in hell."

"She's in hell."

Flowers's words hit me like a chain-mail fist.

"Oh, man." I rested my forehead on the steering wheel.

"I've never seen anything like it," Flowers said.

I sat up and shouldered my way through the darkness. "We have to do something." "I recommend anesthesia," Flowers said. "A Hameroff thing."

"Makes sense." Anesthesiologist Stuart Hameroff and cosmologist Roger Penrose theorized that consciousness arose from the quantum mechanisms of microtubules inside the brain's neurons. Other research showed anesthesia terminates consciousness by binding to specific proteins on those microtubules. Did this mean consciousness really terminates under anesthesia, or do our brains just fail to record the memories? If we die under anesthesia, does consciousness rekindle itself?

"It's a delicate balance," I said finally. "Enough to suppress consciousness without affecting vital functions."

"I've thought about that."

An off tone laced Flowers's words, and I wondered if he planned "accidentally" to take her over the edge with the anesthesia. I thought to tell him to be careful, not to take her over the edge.

The cell connection crackled and faded beneath my silence.

"Go ahead," I said, and tried not to feel the guilt and relief cutting at me.

"You're dropping out."

"I'm going to call my attorney to determine if we can legally terminate life support."

The connection crackled. I think Flowers understood me because his voice came through strong and clear when he said, "I can't understand a word you're saying."

Then he hung up.

I thought about this for a moment, then pressed the "end" button.

"Camilla," I said. "She's regained consciousness deep in the recesses of her brain." As I explained locked-in-syndrome to her, Jasmine's face passed through confusion, understanding, horror, and finally sorrow.

"She can't communicate," I reiterated. "Not a finger, not an eyelid. If she's uncomfortable or in pain or afraid, we have no way of knowing. There's no indication anything we say or do can get to her either."

"That's… like a recurring nightmare I've had all my life," Jasmine said. "I'm walking along and everything is fine, then suddenly I'm flying through a black void where I can't see anything and I can't smell or touch. The void's filled with an evil laughter I don't really hear but feel in my mind, and there's a horrible"-she struggled for a word- "horrible groping. Like an unseen hand reaching inside my body which's no longer there, but the hand rips everything out and squeezes me, hurts my soul." A small shiver animated her shoulders. "It takes the most effort I can muster, but eventually I wake myself up."

She looked at me and eventually the sorrow settled in her eyes. "Camilla can't wake up, can she?" The terrible realization blossomed in Jasmine's eyes. "Or finally go to sleep."

"Not without our help."

"A fate worse than death."

"There is something I can do." I flipped open my cell phone, hit the speed dial far my attorney. "We've got to get the court to approve ending life support." The receptionist recognized my voice when she answered and connected me immediately.

"Jesus, Brad! Where the hell are you?"

"I'm pleased to talk to you too."

"What have you gotten yourself into? I've got enough subpoenas and search warrants to wallpaper my office. LAPD's got people sifting through your house and your office and your lab. And I just met with a real prick, a tight-asked colonel who tried to muscle me around. And he's in addition to the Feds."

"Oh, man."

"Don't freaking 'oh man' me, Brad. What the hell is up? They all want to know where you are and so do I."

I thought of the police, the military, the Patriot Act, and wiretaps, which is when I ended the call.

"We've gotta move," I said as I released the parking brake and put the truck in reverse.

"What now?"

I concentrated on backing the truck out into the narrow space. "If they're searching my home and office, and they have all these subpoenas and warrants, then it's only a matter of not much time before it leads here. I'm in a box and it looks like the only way out is through Talmadge"

"What are you going to do?"

"Get my stuff out of the hotel and disappear. I used credit cards for the truck and room. They don't have to look far for me. I know enough about police and military to give us a fighting chance," I paused to think. "Do you have a gun?"

Jasmine gave me a condescending glare as she pulled a snub-nosed revolver out of her handbag. She unsnapped the hammer strap of a black nylon clip-on holster and produced a Ruger Speed Six. 357 magnum revolver with the short, 2?" barrel.

"That's a serious piece."

"Look, I'm a black civil-"

"— rights lawyer in Mississippi," I finished her sentence for her, and we laughed. Then she surprised me by pulling out two speed loaders filled with six rounds each. I whistled softly as I backed the truck out of the stall and made a right-hand turn onto Park. From the corner of my eye, I saw her slide the revolver back into the clip holster, snap the strap, and put it back in her purse.

"I don't suppose you have another one of those?" I asked as we slowed for the light at Grand Avenue.

"Lashonna has one exactly like this." Her voice caught for a beat. "I bought it for her; it should be in her purse at the office."

"Mind if we go get it?"

"Sure." The light changed and I turned right on Grand, a lush boulevard lined with large expensive mansions elegantly lighted to show off their pricey landscaping and architecture. This was still an all-white part of town.