The Memory Painter

Five minutes later, he heard the men outside. They were both breathing heavily from the exertion.

One of them said, “Damn, that bastard’s fast. Did you see him turn?”

They passed the dumpster and continued down the street. The second man ordered, “Check across. I’ll meet you at the next block.”

Bryan continued to wait. After ten excruciating minutes, he lifted the lid of the dumpster as quietly as possible and jumped out.

Just then a cluster of teenagers walked by, heading to the T station at the corner. Bryan slipped into step with them, using the group as cover.

He had almost reached the stairs when the two men spotted him from across the street. Bryan flew down the stairs, leapt over the station gate, and rushed to catch a boarding train. He saw one of his pursuers run into the next car. Seconds before the doors shut, Bryan jumped off—an arm came from behind him, wrapping itself around his neck like a vise.

“Nice try.” The other man pressed a stun gun to Bryan’s side and delivered a swift, paralyzing jolt.

Right before Bryan lost consciousness, he looked down at his hand and realized that he had forgotten to put on his turquoise ring. Just like Pushkin.



THIRTY-THREE

Liquid from a timed burette dripped in slow rhythm into a Petri dish. Linz checked its progress and went back to review the three-dimensional molecular structure displayed on her laptop.

She had been working in Medicor’s biochemistry labs and had one or two more hours left before people would start to arrive. She knew her keycard would show she had been there, but by the time anyone got around to questioning why she had been working all night in another lab, it would be too late.