To Louise: You doing alright?
I skim through the latest edition of Experimental Neurology, adding the contents to my index and adding cross-references. As I expected, nothing in the current research looks even a little bit applicable to finding a fix for my broken mind. Louise is usually quick to respond on our mind-to-mind message link. I didn’t listen in on her talk with Evan, but she skipped lunch and cut herself again twice since they talked. She still hasn’t left her room.
To Louise: Come on sister, what can I do to help?
From Louise: I’m fine.
To Louise: You’re definitely not fine.
From Louise: I know. But I don’t want to talk about it now.
I finish reading through the latest reports from the SynTech dev team. The automine support code they were working on is coming along on schedule. At least that’s still going right.
From Louise: I just feel like such an idiot. Evan was right. He came and apologized, but he was right.
To Louise: Right or wrong, you know he still loves you, right?
She doesn’t respond. My dozen eyes watching through her window see her crying.
To Louise: I love you too, Louise.
She doesn’t answer for several minutes. I pull up the current issue of The Journal of Neuroscience and start processing that.
From Louise: Thanks, Noah. I needed that.
Alan rushes into my office.
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“Sir! We found Smith!” he exclaims.
To Louise: Hold on a sec.
That’s the first good news I’ve heard in a while. We’ve been looking for him since we got back from China, but he had used the extensive connections and small fortune he’d amassed working for Father to completely disappear.
Scanning back through my logs, something about his situation never quite added up for me. He’d been furious when I’d thrown him out, and I’m sure he wasn’t happy with us getting him disbarred and suing him. So I get that he wanted revenge, even without knowing that we killed his partner in crime, Dorothy. But the guy is brilliant, even if he lacks any integrity. He probably could have fought the lawsuit and gone on to practice law in some other state.
Instead, he pulled a Houdini. He didn’t show up for his court dates when we sued him. We got a fat default judgment against him. Of course, when we went to collect, his accounts were as empty as the house he had left behind with no notice. Months of searching for him have been as fruitless as the search for Jeff. We actually have a betting pool for his whereabouts. I put my five dollars on a shallow unmarked grave, though a private island somewhere in the Caribbean was the more popular bet.
“Good work, Alan. Where is he?”
“You were there yesterday, sir. Denver.”
A horrifying thought hits me.
“In Denver?” I ask. “Would it happen to be near Highland Estates? Where you settled my grandparents?”
“Yes,” he replies, “same zip code. Just a few blocks away, in an apartment that overlooks the community.”
“On the west side?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yes! How did you know?”
“Let me guess one more,” I venture. “He’s dead, no obvious wounds.”
“Sir, did you get the report before me?”
“No, I just have a good idea of what happened. I want any surveillance footage that exists from everywhere within a dozen miles of there, gas stations, doorbell cams, grocery stores, anything. And start calling in any favors we have with the Feds or the cops. Spend whatever you have to, but get it done. Ask Cindy to prep the jet for another flight. We’ll want to land nearby, but not anywhere inside Denver this time. I think Boulder or Colorado Springs would work, but if you can find a smaller or private one that’s closer that we can use, that would be even better. See if they can avoid filing a flight plan. Don’t tell anyone about this that doesn’t absolutely need to know.”
Alan nods and hurries off to start making arrangements.
To Louise: Sorry about that, just got some news. I think I was wrong. Jeff might not have an implant, but we’ll need to check to be sure. I need your help. Are you up for a field trip?