The Eyes of Darkness

Zachariah faced him. “You know I’m not talking about the morality of it.”

“But I am.”

“I’m talking about clinical standards.”

“I really don’t think I want to hear your opinions on either subject,” Dombey said. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“I’m just trying to be conscientious,” Zachariah said, almost pouting. “You can’t blame me because the work is dirty. I don’t have much to say about research policy around here.”

“You don’t have anything to say about it,” Dombey told him bluntly. “And neither do I. We’re low men on the totem pole. That’s why we’re stuck with night-shift, baby-sitting duty like this.”

“Even if I were in charge of making policy,” Zachariah said, “I’d take the same course Dr. Tamaguchi has. Hell, he had to pursue this research. He didn’t have any choice but to commit the installation to it once we found out the damn Chinese were deeply into it. And the Russians giving them a hand to earn some foreign currency. Our new friends the Russians. What a joke. Welcome to the new Cold War. It’s China’s nasty little project, remember. All we’re doing is just playing catch-up. If you have to blame someone because you’re feeling guilty about what we’re doing here, then blame the Chinese, not me.”

“I know. I know,” Dombey said wearily, pushing one hand through his bush of curly hair. Zachariah would report their conversation in detail, and Dombey needed to assume a more balanced position for the record. “They scare me sure enough. If there’s any government on earth capable of using a weapon like this, it’s them — or the North Koreans or the Iraqis. Never a shortage of lunatic regimes. We don’t have any choice but to maintain a strong defense. I really believe that. But sometimes… I wonder. While we’re working so hard to keep ahead of our enemies, aren’t we perhaps becoming more like them? Aren’t we becoming a totalitarian state, the very thing we say we despise?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Dombey said, though he was sure of it.

“What choice do I have?”

“None, I guess.”

“Look,” Zachariah said.

“What?”

“The window’s clearing up. It must be getting warm in there already.”

The two scientists turned to the glass again and peered into the isolation chamber.

The emaciated boy stirred. He turned his head toward them and stared at them through the railed sides of the hospital bed in which he lay.

Zachariah said, “Those damn eyes.”

“Penetrating, aren’t they?”

“The way he stares… he gives me the creeps sometimes. There’s something haunting about his eyes.”

“You’re just feeling guilty,” Dombey said.

“No. It’s more than that. His eyes are strange. They aren’t the same as they were when he first came in here a year ago.”

“There’s pain in them now,” Dombey said sadly. “A lot of pain and loneliness.”

“More than that,” Zachariah said. “There’s something in those eyes… something there isn’t any word for.”

Zachariah walked away from the window. He went back to the computers, with which he felt comfortable and safe.

FRIDAY JANUARY 2

Chapter Twenty-Seven

For the most part, Reno’s streets were clean and dry in spite of a recent snowfall, though occasional patches of black ice waited for the unwary motorist. Elliot Stryker drove cautiously and kept his eyes on the road.

“We should almost be there,” Tina said.

They traveled an additional quarter of a mile before Luciano Bellicosti’s home and place of business came into sight on the left, beyond a black-bordered sign that grandiosely stated the nature of the service that he provided: FUNERAL DIRECTOR AND GRIEF COUNSELOR. It was an immense, pseudo-Colonial house, perched prominently on top of a hill, on a three- or four-acre property, and conveniently next door to a large, nondenominational cemetery. The long driveway curved up and to the right, like a width of black funeral bunting draped across the rising, snow-shrouded lawn. Stone posts and softly glowing electric lamps marked the way to the front door, and warm light radiated from several first-floor windows.

Elliot almost turned in at the entrance, but at the last moment he decided to drive by the place.

“Hey,” Tina said, “that was it.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you stop?”

“Storming right up to the front door, demanding answers from Bellicosti — that would be emotionally satisfying, brave, bold — and stupid.”

“They can’t be waiting for us, can they? They don’t know we’re in Reno.”

“Never underestimate your enemy. They underestimated me and you, which is why we’ve gotten this far. We’re not going to make the same mistake they did and wind up back in their hands.”

Beyond the cemetery, he turned left, into a residential street. He parked at the curb, switched off the headlights, and cut the engine.

“What now?” she asked.

“I’m going to walk back to the funeral home. I’ll go through the cemetery, circle around, and approach the place from the rear.”

“We will approach it from the rear,” she said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll wait here,” he insisted.

“No way.”

Pale light from a street lamp pierced the windshield, revealing a hard-edged determination in her face, steely resolution in her blue eyes.

Although he realized that he was going to lose the argument, Elliot said, “Be reasonable. If there’s any trouble, you might get in the way of it.”

“Now really, Elliot, talk sense. Am I the kind of woman who gets in the way?”

“There’s eight or ten inches of snow on the ground. You aren’t wearing boots.”

“Neither are you.”

“If they’ve anticipated us, set a trap at the funeral home—”

“Then you might need my help,” she said. “And if they haven’t set a trap, I’ve got to be there when you question Bellicosti.”

“Tina, we’re just wasting time sitting here—”

“Wasting time. Exactly. I’m glad you see it my way.” She opened her door and climbed out of the car.

He knew then, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he loved her.

Stuffing the silencer-equipped pistol into one of his deep coat pockets, he got out of the Chevy. He didn’t lock the doors, because it was possible that he and Tina would need to get into the car in a hurry when they returned.

In the graveyard, the snow came up to the middle of Elliot’s calves. It soaked his trousers, caked in his