Identity (Eyes Wide Open) Read online

  She took one last deep breath and scooted forward slowly.

  Head to foot, she was just over five feet tall, but with her arm extended she was over six, and she reached the far end with her feet still dangling out next to the crate. The plywood board refused to budge when she pushed with stretched fingers. But she couldn’t get enough leverage to apply any real force.

  She glanced back, saw nothing had changed, then scooted in farther, so that her head was up next to the board. A harsh shove still produced no movement.

  Maybe if she called out, someone on the far side would hear and come to her rescue.

  “Hey!”

  Her cry filled the small space and sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Anyone there? Hey!”

  She listened for the slightest sound but could hear only her own pulse. She was alone. Buried under tons of concrete. She had to get out! Back out where she could at least breathe.

  In that last moment before retreating to the larger room, Christy gave the wood plank in front of her one last, grunting shove, using all the leverage she could muster, with more frustration than hope it would pop open.

  She wasn’t aware of her feet moving as her body clawed for the leverage.

  Didn’t mean to place the sole of her right foot against the crate that supported the plank behind her.

  She didn’t know she was in danger until the heavy board struck her shoe as the crate slid free.

  Christy did what her body told her to do: she jerked her foot out from under the crushing weight. The board dropped to the concrete with a solid thump that echoed through the narrow passage.

  She froze. What had just happened?

  But she knew very well what had just happened, and she clawed around to get that board back up, bumping the back of her head as she twisted in the tight space.

  The next thirty seconds produced a flurry of frantic activity. She tried to dig her fingers under the board, and when her attempt with one hand failed, she dropped the phone and tried with both. Fingernails, fingers, palms, it didn’t matter. No effort managed to budge the plank. And none would without much more leverage.

  She was sealed inside.

  Christy slammed the board with her fists, screaming out for help. But the sound of her voice was trapped in that crushing space with her and only pushed her terror deeper.

  She stopped screaming and lay sweating, trying to still herself. She had the light, she had the light…

  And then she didn’t, because the light on her phone went out, leaving her in utter darkness.

  Christy rolled to her back, breathing hard, stabbing the main button with her thumb to get the phone back up. She had to call Austin. She had to. If she couldn’t make the call…

  The menu came up in dimmed color. Battery-save mode. Thank you, thank you…

  She had difficulty navigating to the call log because her fingers were shaking, but she managed. Austin Hartt, 4:35 pm yesterday. It was now 10:36 am. She tapped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

  Ring… Come on, please… Just ring.

  It rang.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up…

  “You’ve reached me. Do what you do.” Click.

  Voice mail. Oh please…

  “Austin…” Her voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I’m trapped in your…”

  The tone that cut her off might have been a sharp stake that did not stop at her ear. She knew it too well: the descending tone announcing that her phone was now dying.

  And then dead.

  She dropped her arm to the ground and stared up into pitch darkness, aware of the concrete only inches from her forehead.

  No one knew where she was.

  No one could hear her.

  She was in her grave.

  Christy was familiar with panic attacks, but she had never faced the kind of fear that now settled over her like death itself.

  She was going to die.

  SPIKES OF morning light nailed Austin Hartt’s eyes shut. His hand fumbled for the stack of books he’d sneaked out of the old hospital the night before. His fingers bumped against his sunglasses. Grabbed them. He slipped them on, swung his legs over the edge of his mattress, and pushed unsteadily to his feet.

  The glasses mercifully dimmed the world and he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The digital alarm clock’s scream echoed from the countertop across the living room, placed there so he would have to get out of bed to shut it off.

  He crossed the floor and slapped the alarm button. Ten twenty-six. He’d slept through the alarm and would now be late for ten o’clock class.

  Just what he needed.

  It hadn’t always been this way. Until recently, he’d never set an alarm, never even owned one. He’d simply lie in bed, eyes shut, and repeat seven times what time he wanted to awaken as if programming his mind. Without fail, his eyes would snap open precisely when he’d decided. Or at least close enough.

  That was before the headaches began. The pain meds he now needed to sleep dulled his mind, which he despised. His mind was everything. In every other way he was quite average: average height, average weight, average athleticism.

  But his mind set him apart.

  I think, therefore I am. The mantra cycled through his thoughts. It was a mental anchor for him, a beam of light that burned through the fog. With each syllable, he rhythmically touched his right thumb to each of the fingertips on his right hand. It was a compulsion, he knew, but it somehow grounded him.

  He drew a deep breath, fingers moving. I think, therefore I am.

  He stood at the window of his fourth-floor apartment and squinted at the thick bruise of clouds festering over Boston. The dull throb thumped at his temples, keeping time with his pulse.

  He crossed the living room, sidestepping the twin mattress in the middle of the floor. The pillow lay askew and the blanket was shoved to the foot in a bunched heap. Other than the forty-two-inch flat-panel TV hanging on the wall and a black leather chair he’d bought online, the makeshift bed was the only furniture in the place.

  Christy thought it strange that he slept in his living room, but it suited him. When he wasn’t in a library or attending a class, he was here in his sanctum, devouring books and thinking. Always thinking.

  He’d chosen the two-bedroom loft for its proximity to Harvard, but its open floor plan was the clincher. It was a practical consideration, because he needed every inch of the twelve hundred square feet.

  The living room was a yawning space with painted concrete floors and stark white walls, almost monastic in its plainness. Two thick beams rose from the floor and seemed to prop up the entire building. Near the front door, an L-shaped granite countertop hemmed in the small kitchen of stainless-steel appliances that he rarely used, except for the refrigerator, which was stocked mostly with flats of coconut water and Red Bull.

  Except for a six-foot wide passage that connected the rooms, nearly every inch of floor space was occupied by neatly stacked columns of books—thousands of them arranged meticulously by subject. He had read every one, many of them multiple times, from philosophy to religion to advanced scientific theory. The apartment was one part library, one part temple. If he had a religion, it was Knowledge.

  The landlord had first refused to rent the space to him. Being only seventeen, Austin couldn’t legally sign a contract, she said. His offer to pay the first year’s rent up front in cash, however, changed her opinion.

  He scanned the room as he moved through it, looking for the prescription bottle.

  Where are those pills?

  Kitchen.

  He plucked a gray T-shirt from a laundry basket on the floor and pulled it on. Rounded the kitchen counter and picked up one of the dozen amber medicine bottles lined up next to the sink. Three left. He emptied the tiny pills into his hand and tossed them back, swallowing them dry.

  The headaches had started a month ago. They always began as a niggling pinprick at the front of his skull, like an insect burrowing deep
into his brain. Lately, the pain was only bearable with a steady dose of Imitrex. He was supposed to take only one at a time, but two barely made a dent.

  Two MRIs, two CT scans, and three doctors later, the headaches hadn’t improved. Austin hoped Dr. Bishop would have some answers today.

  Why hasn’t he called yet?

  It had been four days, one day longer than promised. He checked his cell phone. Nothing. Pocketed it. All he could do was wait. Wait and hope his brain wasn’t rotting from the inside out.

  Austin snatched a Red Bull from the fridge and shrugged into his backpack. Campus was within walking distance, and he could still make the last half of the lecture if he hurried.

  With a last look behind him, he pulled the door closed and joined the land of the living with his mantra pushing him forward.

  I think, therefore I am.

  —

  A LIGHT rain fell as Austin pushed through the twin doors of Abraham Hall and found lecture room A13. The newest addition to the campus was named for the distinguished alumnus who’d recently been considered for a Nobel Peace Prize.

  Austin paused at the door, heard the muffled drone of a professor’s voice beyond it. He would slip into the room and find a seat in the back, hopefully unnoticed.

  He leaned into the door, opening it just enough to pass through the narrow gap, then eased it shut as he entered.

  Four tiers of seating, occupied by thirteen students, arced around the room and converged on a small platform at the front.

  Dr. Thomas Riley paced slowly at the front, obviously making a point to the class. He glanced up and his eyes met Austin’s briefly before the professor continued his talk.

  Austin descended the steps to an empty seat two rows from the back, feeling more conspicuous than he liked on his first day in a graduate class, never mind that he was only auditing it.

  He’d just slumped into the seat when a loud marimba ringtone cut through the quiet. His phone. He’d forgotten to silence it. The doctor?

  Dr. Riley stopped pacing. Several heads turned in his direction.

  Austin fished the phone from his pocket, muttering apologies. “Sorry. Sorry.”

  He looked down at the screen as he thumbed the button to silence the ringer. CHRISTY.

  He pressed the button a second time, sending her call to voice mail, and then shoved the phone back in his pocket.

  When he faced the platform, all eyes were on him. “Sorry.”

  A young woman with fat blond curls that fell to her shoulders smiled. He averted his eyes. His face felt hot with embarrassment.

  Without missing a beat, Dr. Riley drew the class’s attention back to himself.

  “As we survey the observable world of phenomena, what is it that truly sets Homo sapiens apart from the rest of the animal and plant kingdoms? This is a cornerstone issue, the answer from which rise our personal and communal ethics, our perceptions of life’s value, and our own sense of meaning. What is it, then, that comprises our deepest selves and gives us worth?”

  He leaned on his podium and waited.

  A male student with close-cut dark hair spoke up. “Your question presupposes a position that neither science nor philosophy can afford if it hopes to be objective.”

  “Which is?”

  “That humankind is unique and that such a thing as intrinsic worth exists in any absolute sense. Centuries of scientific inquiry have proven that humans are genetically no different from the rest of the animal kingdom. We may be more developed, yes, but that’s thanks to billions of years of evolutionary mistakes that, thankfully, worked in our species’ favor.”

  Dr. Riley paced to his right. “Then the universe is a lottery and we’ve just happened to hit the jackpot.”

  “If it’s helpful to think in those terms, yes,” the student said. “The universe is a harsh place and we just happen to be at the top of the food chain. For now.”

  An agitated young woman in the third row lifted her hand. “I couldn’t disagree more. It’s precisely that line of thinking that has been used to justify mass genocide and a whole host of other atrocities throughout human history. What makes us human isn’t simply a matter of genetic coding or our dominion over lesser forms of life.”

  “Then what does?” the professor asked.

  “Our ability to love. Compassion. Our yearning to feel, to inspire and be inspired, to admire beauty and creativity—those make us human. We are the only species with a soul, and the only one that seeks transcendent meaning.”

  “Those are all evolutionary developments that we’ve used to our advantage,” the male student said. “Religious myths, creativity, beauty—all of those exist only because they serve our long-term survival. The truth is, we’re little more than carbon and water, no more valuable to the universe than a clod of dirt. We think we’re important because we want to be.”

  “Said the Ivy League grad student,” she replied. “I wonder how valuable you’d think life is if someone had a gun to your head.”

  Austin scooted forward in his seat.

  Irritated, the man began to speak but Dr. Riley cut him off. “Interesting points, and passionate. I like that.” The professor shifted his eyes and looked at Austin. “Mr. Hartt? What would you say?”

  Austin felt his palms go clammy. He swallowed.

  “What makes us human?”

  “Yes. Speak up, please.”

  Austin cleared his throat. Given the choice between being with books or people, he’d always choose books. You could always tell what a book thought without needing to have a confrontation. People, on the other hand, defensively clung to their need to be right no matter how flawed their thinking.

  “Consciousness enabled by our particularly well-developed brains is what sets us apart,” he managed. He continued with a little more confidence. “Homo sapiens have a uniquely evolved neocortex, prefrontal cortex, and temporal lobes that make us capable of abstract thought, language, problem solving, and introspection.”

  “Our awareness makes us human then?”

  “No. It’s not simply a matter of passive awareness. Even slugs and plants have a level of sentience. It’s our ability to harness the power of our minds to gather knowledge, organize it into something relevant, and advance to a more evolved state. Our thoughts are the gateway. We think, therefore, we are.”

  “And how can we trust our thoughts?”

  “It’s a matter of intelligence and careful observation. You said yourself that ours is a universe of observable phenomena. The only barrier to apprehending the truth is our own unwillingness to see the world as it is instead of how we prefer it to be.”

  The professor’s lips nudged into a smile. “Perhaps. Well said, Mr. Hartt.” He turned toward the class. “Our time’s up today. For next class, please read chapters twenty through forty-five. And”—he glanced up at Austin—“be sure to arrive on time for the discussion.”

  Austin nodded as he stood.

  “Mr. Hartt, a word with you please?” Dr. Riley said, stuffing his papers into a leather briefcase as the class filed out of the room.

  Austin approached the platform. “I’m sorry about the phone.”

  The professor waved off his apology. “No need. I’m just pleased you’re attending my class.” He stared at Austin’s sunglasses. “Are you feeling all right? It’s a cloudy day, you know.”

  “Yes sir. I know. Migraines.”

  “I see. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

  “Heard about me, sir?”

  “A colleague of mine, Dr. John Ferriss spoke highly of you.”

  “I sat in his quantum theory class at MIT last semester.”

  “You made quite the impression. He said you’re the most gifted mind he’s seen in a long time.”

  “He’s the one who suggested your class.”

  The professor smiled. “I had to see for myself. So tell me, what kind of young man with a GED and perfect SAT scores audits quantum theory at MIT and graduate-level philosophy at Harvard?”
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  “A curious one, I guess.”

  “Young man, you have the kind of gift this world needs. I’d like to help you develop that gift. Assuming you’re interested.”

  “Help me how?”

  “Attend Harvard as a full-time student. I can see to it that finances aren’t an issue. I’ll make sure a course of study is designed for you that will unlock your full potential. You can’t waste this gift, Austin. Minds like yours come along but once in a generation.”

  “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Start by saying yes, or at least think about it. You don’t have to decide today.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” he said, feeling self-conscious for the awkward way the words came out. “Thank you.”

  The professor handed a business card to Austin. “Call my office and we’ll schedule a time to meet. All right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good.” He pointed to Austin’s pocket. “You should get back to whoever was calling you.”

  “Right. Thank you, sir.” He shouldered his backpack as he walked up the stairs.

  Attending Harvard officially? He smiled at the thought and pulled out his phone.

  Austin pushed the voice mail button then pressed it to his ear.

  “Austin… I’m trapped in your…”

  The frantic sound of Christy’s voice was cut short. Was that the whole message? Two seconds? Strange. He listened a second time. Her voice seemed distant, hollow, like she was in a bathroom. Or a tunnel.

  Christy was always the emotional type, but she’d never left such an urgent message.

  He quickly pressed the call-back button and waited for her to pick up, but her phone went straight to voice mail.

  Something was wrong.

  Trapped in your… His what?

  His phone suddenly vibrated and he glanced at the screen, thinking it was her.

  Dr. Bishop.

  A prick of dread needled the back of his mind.

  He took a short breath and answered. “Hello?”

  “Austin Hartt?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Melinda at Dr. Bishop’s office. I’m calling because your MRI test results came back.” A beat. “The doctor would like to meet with you as soon as possible to review them.”