Painter had read Larson’s report, too. It had been put together quickly, but it had been thorough. He had run a small battery of psychological tests, including a genetic study for some of the typical markers for autism. The last was still pending.
He’d also included fact sheets on the subject of autistic savants, those rare individuals who—though compromised by their disorder—have amazing islands of talent. A skill that is deep and narrow. Painter remembered the character played by Dustin Hoffman in the movie Rain Man. His ability was to do lightning calculations. But this was only one of the savant talents on Larson’s list. Others included calendar calculations, memorization skills, musical talent, mechanical and spatial skills, exquisite discrimination of smell, taste, or hearing, and also art.
Painter pictured the drawing of the Taj Mahal. It had been sketched in minutes, handsomely drawn to scale, with perfectly balanced perspective. The girl was certainly talented.
But was it more than that?
The last on Larson’s list of savant talents was a rare and controversial report of some autistic savants who displayed extrasensory skills.
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 connection with a deep-black government project involved in remote viewing.
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 disconnect between his lack of memory and his knowledge of the world. Then again, they were being hunted. They had to move quietly, sound carried far in the mountains. Through whispers and hand signals, they communicated.
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—