“Which one do you want back?”
Only Lala would ask a question like that, I thought furiously as I accelerated through a stop sign. It was getting dark and I had drunk enough of her tequila to feel that the mundane issues like traffic signals were beneath me. Even so, my heart lurched when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an black and white police car, lights off but motor running, in a deserted parking lot.
“Calm,” I murmured, gently easing my foot off the pedal as I glided past him. It was dusk and the light was fading, but I could see his head swivel, eyes following the green Alfa, debating whether or not to pounce. If he turned on the siren, he’d have to climb out of his warm Crown Victoria into the frigid winter air. I willed myself into invisibility. He yawned and looked the other way. I drove on.
Which one do you want?
Invisibility is a neat trick if you can manage it. It’s about erasing yourself from the scene. All the great photojournalists know this instinctively. Capa or Eisenstadt could put a camera right in your face and snap the shutter, barely rippling the surface of your attention. And ninjas, of course--they’ve slit your throat before you’ve even noticed they’re in the room.
These days everyone wants the spotlight and there’s not much demand for invisibility. But it’s useful if you’re eluding a snappish, whippet-thin editor steaming towards you at a cocktail party when you’ve missed too many deadlines and have quite answering her e-mails. Clear your mind but stay alert. Move slowly. Fade into the background. It helps to wear black, especially in New York or Milan.
Which one?
The moon was rising through the trees as I turned onto Datura Way. The bare branches swayed in the wind, as if they were rattling the orb in a cage. I didn’t like going down there at night. There are no street lights, and the road curves sharply into the darkened woods. But I was buoyed by too much drink and a surge of determination. I’d been paralyzed for the last five days. Now I would act.
As soon as I pulled into Marco’s parking place and turned off the ignition, my resolve faded. It was the damn place. By day the Pallman Institute is exquisite, all soaring glass, weathered steel and rare woods, set in a clearing in the one of the few remaining patches of old growth forest. By night, though, it is unsettling. Softly illumined like a prismatic lantern, it becomes an eerie glass-walled display case and you're the specimen on view to anyone lurking in the darkness.
Which?
Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. Out of the car. Up the steps two at time. Swipe the card fast. Glass door swings opens. I’m inside. Door closes behind me with a soft click. Now for the stairs. The pale treads are lit in a way that they seem to float in the air. I ascend--there is no other word for it--past the panoramic black and white photo mural of the snowcapped Andes. I'm on the second floor, surrounded by an expanse of glass. “Roof of the world,” Max had crowed, his big hand resting on my shoulder. Was it really four years ago?
I practically ran across the bridge—more of Max’s quasi-wilderness—to the office wing. Somewhere there was a low electrical hum, but I couldn’t identify it. I flew down the darkened hall--and stopped short.
The door of Marco’s office was ajar. A sliver of light extended across the floor like a slim gold wand. My heart began to thud as I pushed the door open and—I shrieked before I could stop myself. There was that blasted head leering at me. But that wasn’t all—
“Claire,” said a familiar silken voice. "Come in."