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Painter could not dismiss that the girl's drawings had led the Gypsies unerringly to their safe house. He recalled the earlier discussion with
Elizabeth, about her father's work on intuition and instinct, about his co
Lisa continued, We think the device is meant to stimulate that area of the brain where the savant talent lies. It's known that most savant talent arises from the right side of the brain, the same side where the device is attached on both the skull and the girl. Even using today's technology, it would not take much effort to localize the region regulating this talent. And once found, the magnetic stimulation could both amplify that area and control it.
Painter stood with dawning horror. If Lisa and Malcolm were correct, someone was harnessing this child's abilities. He crossed toward the window.
Who did this to the girl?
Kat had joined Painter and pointed through the window. She's awake.
And she was drawing again.
The girl had found a notepad and black felt pen on the bedside table. She scratched across it, not quite as frantically as before, but she was still bent with concentration over the page.
Kat headed to the door. Painter followed.
The girl did not acknowledge them, but as they stepped through, both pad and pen dropped to her bedsheet. She went back to rocking.
Kat stared down at the artwork, then fell back a step with a small gasp. Painter understood her reaction. There was no mistaking what was drawn in ink and paper, a portrait.
It was her husband, Monk.
11:04 A. M.
Southern Ural Mountains Russian Federation
Monk helped Pyotr along a fallen log that forded a deep stream, churning over jumbled rocks. Moss grew heavy on the log, along with a few fat white mushrooms.
The entire place smelled damp.
Kiska was already on the other side, standing with Marta, holding the old chimpanzee's paw. Monk wanted to be across the next rise and into the neighboring valley. Hopping off the log, he stared behind him. They were crossing a dense birch forest, whose white-barked trunks looked like dried bone.
The green foliage was already flamed in patches.
Monk picked one of the red leaves, rubbing it between his fingers. Still soft, not dried out. Early fall. But the changing leaves promised a cold night among the low mountains here. But at least there should be no snow. He dropped the crushed leaf.
How did he know all this?
He shook his head. Such answers would have to wait. Still, he found it disturbing how quickly he was growing accustomed to the disco
Monk searched the far side of the stream. They had been on the run for the past three hours. He had set a hard pace, trying to put as much distance between them and where they'd exited the subterranean world. He didn't know how long it would take for the hunters to realize the escapees had abandoned the cavern and to pick up their trail out here.
Monk waited at the stream's edge.
Where was Konstantin?
As if beckoned by his thought, the taller boy came dancing down the far slope, as lithe and firm footed as a young buck. His face, though, was a mask of fear as he ambled, arms out, across the slippery log.
I did it! he said. Wheezing heavily, he jumped and landed next to Monk. I took your hospital nightshirt and dragged it to the stream in the other valley.
And you threw it in the water?
Past that beaver dam. Like you said.
Monk nodded. His hospital nightshirt had been soiled with blood and sweat. One of the kids had stolen it from his room after he'd changed. It was smart thinking. If they'd left the shirt, his captors would have known he'd changed.
It also came in handy in laying a false trail. He had further soiled the shirt by wiping sweat from his brow and underarms. He had done the same with the kids and the chimpanzee, too. The riper garment should leave a stronger trail, a false trail. Hopefully the scent would send the hunters searching in the wrong direction.
Help me with this, Monk said to Konstantin and leaned down to the log they'd used to cross.
Together, the two got the log rocking, but they still couldn't dislodge it. Monk then felt a huff at his cheek. He turned to see Marta shouldering into the log.
With a single heave, the chimpanzee rolled the fallen log into the stream. She was strong. The log fell with a heavy splash, then bobbed and teetered down the waterway. Monk watched it float away. The more ways they could break their trail, all the better.
Satisfied, Monk headed out.
Konstantin kept up, but Kiska and Pyotr struggled. The way was steep. Monk and
Marta both helped the smaller children, hauling them up the harder patches.
Finally, they reached the top of the rise. Ahead, more hills spread in all directions, mostly wooded with a few open meadows. Off to the left, not too far away, a wide patch of silver marked a large lake.
Monk stepped in that direction. With a lake like that, there should be people, someone who could help them.
Konstantin grabbed his elbow. We can't go that way. Only death lies that way.
His other hand squeezed the badge affixed to his belt, a radiation monitor.
In such verdant surroundings, Monk had forgotten about that danger. He flipped his badge up. Its surface was white, but as the radiation levels rose, it would begin to turn pink, then red, then dark crimson, then black. Sort of like a drugstore pregnancy test
Photo-flashes of memory cracked across his vision.
a laughing blue eye, tiny fingernails
Then nothing again.
His head throbbed. He fingered the tender suture line through his wool cap.
Konstantin looked at him with narrow, concerned eyes.
Kiska, who Monk had learned was Konstantin's sister, hugged her arms around her belly. I'm hungry, she whispered, as if fearful of both being heard and of showing weakness.
Konstantin frowned in his sister's direction, but Monk knew they all should eat to keep their strength up. After their panicked flight, they needed a moment to regroup, to plan some strategy beyond ru
Only death lies that way.
He needed to better understand their situation.
We'll find a place to shelter and eat quickly, Monk said.
He crossed down into the next valley. A series of small ponds cascaded through a set of terraced ledges. The place sparkled with a dozen waterfalls and cataracts. The air smelled loamy and damp. Halfway down, a fern-strewn cliff side had been eroded into a pocket with an overhang. He led the children to it.
They hunkered down and opened packs. Protein bars and bottled water were passed around.
Monk searched his pack. No weapons, but he did find a topographic map. He unfolded it on the ground. The header was in Cyrillic. Konstantin joined him, chewing on a peanut-butter-flavored bar. Monk noted the mountainous landscape was marked with scores of tiny Xs.
Mines, Konstantin said. Uranium mines. He ran a finger along the Cyrillic header, then waved an arm to encompass the area. The Southern Ural Mountains.
Chelyabinsk district. Center of old weapons factories. Very dangerous.
The boy tapped all around the map where radiological hazard symbols dotted the terrain. Many open mines, old radiochemical and plutonium plants. Nuclear waste facilities. All shut down, except for one or two. He waved to indicate a far distance away.
Monk mumbled with a shake of his head, staring down at all the hazard symbols.
And all I wanted to know was where we were.