Face Blind Read online

  FACE BLIND

  A novel by

  LEN MELVIN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My unwavering thanks to Shelly England, Simon Marks, Donavee Berger, Caroline Miles, Elodie Pritchard, Leanda Livesey, Hailey Stabinsky, Sam Goodwin, Jackie Panda, and a Muchos Gracias to David Places Balsalobre for taking time from busy lives to read a fledgling manuscript and offer valuable insight and advice.

  Thanks to the biggest fan of the book, Anne Hannaford, for her unerring artistic eye, and the erstwhile, ever-present prods and forthright instruction on the most favorable path forward in putting forth this story.

  Thanks to Shanna Rambin Britt, artist extraordinaire, for the cover of this book.

  Thanks as always to Shawnassey Howell Brooks for her guidance and patience in helping make this book happen.

  A very big thanks to Aislynn Rappe who is special and helped provide much of the inspiration for this story.

  As always, thanks to Leslie and Steve Scott and Jimmye and Andy Sweat for their repeated and steadfast insistence on the merit and value of the story even as they, sometimes with eyes rolling, reluctantly agreed to again review another red-wine splotched manuscript.

  And thanks finally, to all of you.

  For Steve,

  the best Brother-in Law

  Most Gods throw dice but Fate plays chess, and you don’t find out till it’s too late that she’s been playing with two queens all along.—Terry Pratchett

  Dear Beaux

  I hope you are well. I’m sorry I can’t be there right now, but I thought I would just touch base with my favorite niece. As we share the gift, I’ve always felt closer to you than your mom and brothers. I’m in New York (or what used to be New York.) It looks more like a war zone than the city you’ve probably read about in books.

  The District is basically the same. I should have flown you and your brothers up here before it deteriorated so much. It used to be a beautiful city with lots to do and see but that time is gone. It’s gotten pretty dangerous, but luckily, I live inside the blast shields.

  I keep trying to somehow make it down there but protecting the Boss is a full-time job. Every time I think that I might be able to get down to see you there’s another crisis or uprising.

  Maybe, in this year, 2027, the tenth year of the Boss’s Presidency, there will be some sort of reckoning in the wars that seem to consume us at every moment.

  Anyway, I hope to see you soon. There’s talk that he wants to go to your little hometown to speak. If he goes, well, it’s pretty much assured I’ll be there too. He’s really superstitious and he sees me as a good luck charm especially as my gift has saved him in the past. That makes me necessary if he goes anywhere in public, though I doubt he would admit that.

  So, I do hope he decides to visit your area. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you, your mom and brothers. I hope you are well. Say a prayer for me. And you. And all of us.

  —Simon

  Chapter One

  Beaux had hot plates in her hands so she only slowed as she walked by the men with blue lines around them, but she stumbled and almost lost her balance, her attention diverted. And Beaux’s attention was never diverted. The men sat at a booth in the corner of the family-run restaurant, two on each side of the table and one in a chair at the end that had been pulled from another table. The blue lines shimmering around their bodies were mesmerizing, and only the heat of her cargo kept her moving.

  She placed the plates on the table of a couple who were so absorbed with each other that they asked for condiments without looking up. She pulled packets of barbecue sauce from her apron and placed them on the table as she stared at the blue-rimmed men. “Excuse me.” Beaux knelt beside the woman and whispered as she pointed at the men at the booth. “You notice anything unusual about those guys over there?”

  The woman followed the pointing finger. “No, why?”

  “You see any blue colors around them?”

  “Blue colors?” The woman looked at Beaux as if to see if she was serious. She glanced at the men again. “No,” she said softly.

  “Are you sure?”

  The woman returned her attention to the man seated in front of her before Beaux could finish her question.

  “Just wondered,” Beaux said more to herself. She went to another table, picked up some empty plates and walked back toward the kitchen. At the end of the bar, a man sat hunched over, his head poised in contemplation over a chess board. She nudged him with an elbow and motioned to the men. “Hey, Bobby, you see those guys sitting in the booth over there?”

  Bobby turned from the board. “Them in the corner?”

  “Yeah. You see anything unusual about them?”

  “Well, there’s four of them that are kind’a dressed alike. Is that what you mean?”

  “No.” She propped the tray of plates against her hip, her eyes narrowed on the men at the booth. “You don’t see anything else?”

  “No. Like what?”

  Beaux breathed out in exasperation. “How can you not see anything different about those guys?” she asked, her voice rising, her face an expression of incredulity.

  Bobby studied the men for as long as he could without being rude and then turned his attention back to the chess board. “I know what you're doing,” a small grin creased the edges of his mouth beneath the thin, graying mustache. “Trying to divert me from the chess game is so beneath you, Beaux.” A wavering hand plucked a Bishop from its position and moved it the length of the board. He held it over a square, surveying the board as a battlefield commander might pore over a map of competing armies, and finally satisfied, placed it firmly down on a square. His grin now extended the full length of his mouth so that several empty spaces were exposed in places teeth used to be.

  “Rook h6.” Beaux said without hesitation, then turned and headed to the kitchen. She placed the plates in a bus tray and headed back to the end of the bar.

  She picked up a club soda and took a sip, leaning back against the bar. All around her, silverware clinked against plates as customers ate and talked among themselves. There were wooden tables and chairs that scraped with a rough, bumpy noise when moved across the uneven planks that made up the floor. Antique farm implements hung on the wall between mounted deer heads with thick, pointed antlers. Two angry fish, writhing, in fighting mode, hung above the doorway, each on a wooden plaque. Attached to the roof were two cords of assorted Christmas bulbs that ran diagonally the length of the restaurant and crossed in the middle of the room. A spectrum of discordant colors cast an eerie glow over the couples drinking wine as they ate the steaks and baked potatoes that were the restaurant special. Children, some in high-chairs, stuffed fries in their mouths. The bar was full, mostly of men watching a football game on a muted TV, while the occasional woman tapped her fingers on a smartphone. Lionel Richie’s voice wafted softly over the hum of conversation. A sign under the TV said ‘No Holos’ in big block letters.

  Bobby’s head was almost directly over the board as he held a trembling hand over his King. He picked it up, hesitated and then put it on a square, his hand still clutching the piece even after his move was completed.

  How can I be the only person that sees the blue men? She thought. How could that be? She peered at them over the edge of Bobby’s head, using him as a shield as she examined them. They sat huddled together, talking among themselves. All had swirling blue lines around them, but the blue around one of them was noticeably different. It was lighter and less full. He appeared younger and was dressed in a different style. The others were dressed in unfashionable shirts tucked tightly into khakis. They all were pale complected and had the same haircut with no facial hair. Beaux thought instantly of the men from the funeral home who came on Mondays for lunch. They would all have fi
t in well together.

  The younger one with the pale blue color wore a denim jacket that had holes in the elbows, a plain red t-shirt and jeans. He had dark, unkempt hair, parted loosely in the middle, that flowed almost to his shoulders. He looked to be close to thirty and, although the others appeared older, more mature and formal, he held himself as the leader of the group. The others wore dour looks on sallow faces while he was relaxed and smiling. He had a long, striking nose that bent almost imperceptibly a third of the way down. He was dark-skinned with a thin face so that high cheekbones pushed prominently out just below large, deep-set powder blue eyes that were so bright that Beaux could see them from across the room. The others leaned in and talked in hushed tones but he seemed distracted by his surroundings, as if he were absorbing in detail all that the little rustic restaurant offered, seemingly uninterested in his companions.

  He stood all of a sudden and walked across the restaurant to one of the deer heads. Moving from one side to the other, he examined it from different angles. He ran his hand over the base of the neck in a delicate manner as if his touch might somehow disturb the deer. Turning, he crossed through the room, the blue aura emanating from his body, slightly out of focus as he moved. He peered at items on the wall with a small flourish as if remarking to himself in wonder. He had the deliberate saunter of an athlete, moving with a surety and clarity, not a single wasted motion, as if every movement had purpose and intent.

  His trip around the restaurant completed he headed back to his table and then hesitated, as if he sensed someone looking at him. From the middle of the room he stopped, turned, head on a measured swivel, surveying the room until the light blue eyes met Beaux’s.

  “There.” Bobby said with conviction and released the King onto the square. “Beaux.” He tugged on the sleeve of her shirt. “Hey, Beaux.”

  “Sorry,” she said, her eyes flickering to the board and then back to the man. “Rook takes h3.”

  “Shit,” Bobby mumbled. He shifted forward in his chair and put his hands on either side of the board, as if that might right things.

  Beaux barely noticed. She pushed away from the bar and started toward the man with blue lines, weaving her way between tables, as she went. She stepped up to him and stopped. “You all need some menus?”

  “Just for me. They’ve already eaten.” His head tilted to the side and he studied her in much the same manner as he had the deer on the wall. “What’s your name?”

  “Beaux. And yours?”

  “B-E-A-U?” he asked, spelling the name.

  “Yeah, but with an ‘X’ on the end.”

  “That’s a cool name.”

  “Thanks. And yours?”

  “Malouf.” He stuck out a blue-rimmed hand.

  Beaux hesitated and then extended her hand.

  The blue eyes flashed a twinkle of bemusement. “You don’t want to shake hands, Beaux?”

  Beaux cleared her throat and took her hand back from his. “Well, it’s just that your hand has a blue aura around it.”

  Malouf’s brows lifted and he took a half-step back. He started to say something, hesitated, then pointed an uneven finger back at his table. “And them?”

  “Them too. But more so than you.”

  “You can see that?”

  Beaux nodded.

  “That is really unusual that someone can see that,” he continued. “And to be able to tell the difference in the shade of the color,” he said more to himself than to Beaux. He put a hand forward, placed his fingers on the either side of Beaux’s chin and angled her face toward his. “How old are you?”

  Beaux grabbed his hand and thrust it aside. “Don’t put your hands on me.”

  “Sorry.” He held the palms of his hands up apologetically. “Sorry.”

  “I’m eighteen,” she snapped.

  Malouf motioned toward the pistol attached to Beaux’s hip. “Aren’t you a little young to be carrying a weapon?”

  “You must not be from here. You can get your learner’s permit at fifteen and do full carry at sixteen.”

  “Really?”

  “Plus, you get a tax credit. It’s kind of a way for the police to outsource protecting the populace. You don’t carry a gun?”

  “No.”

  Beaux motioned to the blue men at the table. “Them neither?”

  “No.”

  “Well, good luck with that around here.” Malouf didn’t reply. “So why do you all have blue all around you?”

  He started to say something, stopped and then began again. “It’s like a science experiment. We all volunteered to be guinea pigs in a new cancer treatment. The medication makes you have a blue hue.”

  “Why are they more blue than you?” Beaux pointed her chin up at him.

  “Well,” he said, and glanced at the ceiling and then back at Beaux, “they’ve taken more medicine and more recent.”

  Beaux folded her arms over her chest. “I don’t believe you.”

  Malouf tilted his head and his eyes squinted as they met hers. “Why?”

  “Because I can see it and no one else can.” Beaux jabbed a finger in his chest. “Tell me how some kinda medicine can do that,” she said with a smirk.

  “Now, who’s touching whom?” he said.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Hey, Beaux.” Beaux turned. At the bar, Bobby pointed to the chess board.

  “Beaux!” A woman with strands of blonde hair protruding from under a white chef’s hat stood in the door of the kitchen motioning for her with an outstretched hand.

  “Here.” Beaux handed Malouf a menu. “I’ll come get your order in a minute. My mom needs me.” Beaux turned and her mother disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Beaux.” Bobby pointed a finger to his latest move. Beaux paused as she passed, studied the board for a second, then continued toward the kitchen. “Queen g3. Checkmate,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried away.

  Behind her, Bobby cursed under his breath.

  ◆◆◆

  Malouf waited until Beaux disappeared into the kitchen, then went to where Bobby sat. “Is she good?”

  Bobby spared him only a brief glance before he returned his attention to the board. “I’ve never beat her,” he mumbled.

  “Never beat her?” Malouf asked, a tone of wonder in his voice.

  “No,” Bobby shook his head. “She’s always attacking. And she’s damn good at it.”

  “And you? How good are you?”

  Bobby moved a rook the length of the board and then back. He chewed on a finger as he moved another piece across the table and then sighed and returned it to its place of origin. One hand covered his mouth as he muttered to himself and moved his head back and forth. Finally he sat back and knocked his King over with a thump from his middle finger. He shook his head, crossed his arms, and looked up at Malouf over the rim of his glasses. “I’ve won tournaments.”

  Malouf nodded, then slipped away and returned to his companions. They waited, their expressions ranging from curious to bland. He threw the menu on the table. “She sees the blue lines,” he said.

  “Who?” asked one of the men.

  “The tall, pretty girl with the curly blonde hair. The one I was talking to.”

  “I thought they said that only one in ten million might be able to see that,” another one said.

  Malouf ran a hand through his hair. Across the room Beaux exited the kitchen with plates in her hands.

  “I guess we got unlucky.”

  Chapter Two

  Simon Sorenson ran a hand around the perimeter of the empty glass of scotch and yawned. He had hardly slept in the past month. Between the responsibilities of protecting the Boss, drinking, and sleeping, well, there just weren’t enough hours. He caught Christina’s eye and held up his empty glass.

  Around the room young people sat at tables consumed with their holos. Their heads were covered by the velvet hoods that shielded their worlds from this one. Bodies contort
ed occasionally and some cried out at intervals depending on the closeted action.

  Simon couldn’t blame them. The real world was becoming worse each day.

  The older ones took part in their own diversions. Men sat at the bar watching a football game, their heads going alternately from the TV to the screens of their smart phone, a small cheer or a brief curse reflecting their team sympathies. A collective murmur of emotion erupted from the crowd. On the television a contingent from one team pushed players from the other team, pointing and screaming as a lone player lay on the field in apparent anguish. Smart phones were laid on the bar as replays reflected the cause of the momentary dust-up. Claims of ‘Well, that’s football,’ to other assertions of ‘Targeting’ rang out in the suddenly involved room. Simon returned his attention to his scotch. Large men concussing themselves year round had grown old quickly. The Boss had encouraged the move to an all-year football season, probably to deflect attention from all of the other things that were happening, and the people had embraced it.

  Well, it was better than looking at the Boss all the time.

  Though the glass was empty, he reached for it with his left hand which was stiffened like a claw, the skin mottled from his hand to his shoulder. He sipped the residue and placed it back on the bar as he waited for Christina.

  “Hey, Bart down there told me you was some kind of hero.” Behind him a hulking man dropped a heavy hand on Simon’s bad shoulder in some sort of sense of bar camaraderie and the other on the bar beside Simon.

  “Bart’s a liar.” He grimaced as a brief flash of pain shot through his shoulder then shifted away from the man’s grasp.

  “So, what’d ja do? I heard you saved the President’s life.”

  Simon held his glass up for Christina and glared down the bar at Bart. Bart leaned forward and smiled at Simon’s discomfort. “Fucker,” Simon said under his breath.

  Christina approached, a bottle of scotch in one hand and the other waving furiously at the man standing behind him. “Hey, get away from him.”