As we coasted to a stop, I braced myself. Colors and sounds flickered past. A man's face twisted in anger. Ripples of simmering frustration. A pang of envy. A woman's taunting laugh. A newspaper clipping. More clippings, like a scrapbook. A grainy photo of a sprawled body. An announcer's voice with feigned gravitas, words cutting in and out. "Deaths." "Wounded." "Notorious." "Manhunt." A wave of excitement. Then harsh words raining down like hail. "Stupid." "Ugly." "Useless." "Wasted space."
The images flipped faster, out of focus, like a movie reel hitting the end. Then nothing. I waited, straining for voices, but nothing came. After about ten minutes of this, Trsiel pulled me out. When I opened my eyes, I saw Sullivan on the cot, sleeping soundly.
"So that's it?" I said. "She's gone?"
"It seems so. Her old partners aren't connected to her all the time."
"We can't sit around here, popping in and out of this woman's brain, hoping she links up with this new partner again."
"And what would you suggest? Unless you noticed more than I did, there wasn't anything to go on. Only a few news articles with no solid connection to the partner herself."
"No? What are they, then? Random images?"
Trsiel shook his head. "The Nix is plucking them out of her memory, showing them to her, hoping to incite a reaction."
I slumped against the wall. "So we have nothing, then."
"Be patient. More will come."
We spent the rest of that night in Sullivan's cell, with Trsiel logging in to her brain every five minutes, checking for fresh data. At about four, he suggested I go hunt down the little boy, George, see how he was doing. Very considerate...though I suspect he was just tired of watching me pace.
Morning came, and a guard roused the women for breakfast. Sullivan stayed in bed. The other women were released from the cells, but no one even stopped at Sullivan's door. Maybe she wasn't a breakfast person.
After every other woman had filed out, Sullivan rose, groggy and sulky, and yanked on her clothing. A few minutes later, a guard brought her a food tray.
"It's cold," Sullivan whined, without even taking a bite. "It's always cold."
"That so?" the guard said, hands on her broad hips. "Well, Miss Sullen, we could always let you go down and eat with the rest of them again. Would you like that?"
As Sullivan turned away, her hair tumbled off her shoulder, revealing a slice across her neck that had yet to scab over.
"Didn't think so," the guard said. "Be thankful for the room service."
The guard strode away.
"Fat cow," Sullivan muttered.
She scooped a spoonful of oatmeal, then stopped, spoon partway to her mouth. Carefully, she lowered the spoon, head moving from side to side with the wariness of one who's learned she has reason to be wary.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
When no one answered, she rose, noiselessly laying the tray aside, and glided to the cell door. A long, careful look each way, head tilted to listen. The cell block was empty.
"I can hear you," she said. "I hear you singing. Who is it?"
I looked at Trsiel. The same thought passed between us. If Sullivan was hearing voices in an empty cell block, they could only come from one place. Trsiel reached for my hand and transported me back into her mind.
I came to a stop in a pit of darkness. Sure enough, after only a moment, I picked up the whisper of a voice. Someone humming off-tune. Then words. I'm usually damned good with songs, but it took me a moment to place this one, probably because the singer kept mangling the lyrics.
"Invisible" by...someone. Didn't matter. The voice only sung a few lines from the refrain, and when she hit the end of those lines, she started over again. Something about being treated like you were invisible.
I vaguely remember the song, probably because it had always triggered a childhood memory of the neighborhood grocer. I'd stood head and shoulders above all my friends, but the grocer always served all of them first, then served every other customer in the store, only taki
ng my money when I tossed it onto the counter and walked away with my candy bar. I figure now it was anti-Semitism--East Falls being the kind of small town where even Catholics are eyed with suspicion. My mother never talked to me about stuff like that; she preferred to pretend it didn't exist. When I told her about the grocer, she'd said I was imagining things. I knew I wasn't, and being unable to put a label to his dislike, I had assumed it was my fault. Like my teacher, Mrs. Appleton, he saw something bad in me, something no one else noticed.
"Invisible," the woman crooned. "Oh, yeah, I'm invisible." A sudden shriek of laughter sent me jumping like a scorched cat.
"That's me," the woman chortled, voice shrill with manic glee. "Miss Invisible. They treat me like I'm not even there. And they sure as hell don't care. Dah-dahdah-dah. Miss Invisible."