BLIND TRIAL, Brian Deer [top 10 motivational books .txt] 📗

free gifts, and wine glasses were stacked in cartons and crates.

Ben sat on the floor where the desk ought to go, making no sound louder than cotton on cardboard. With his back against the video wall (now scrolling “No Signal”), his shoulders clamped between cartons of iPads and umbrellas, and his feet pulled so close he could smell shoe polish, he wondered how he’d ever stand up.

Was anyone out there? He couldn’t be sure. Soft shoes on a hard floor might be silent. Twelve minutes had passed since the fire alarm died. Then two males approached, found the call point that triggered it, grunted “Fucking doctors,” and “Typical.” Since then, he’d kissed his knees among the cartons and panels without even a bossa nova to break the hush.

But now… a sound. A soft intake of air… A sniff. Somebody was out there.

The brush of a shoe… Another sniff… So close… Definitely this side of the trestle table.

He tensed. Fight or flee? Most likely, he’d flee. He’d rise, stretch his legs, walk swiftly, but with dignity, to the stairs and up to the lobby.

Another sniff and shoe. Then a hollow boom-moom: a hand on the module. So close. Whoever they were, they were only feet away. They’d touched the unit’s fiberboard skin. They must be at the entrance to the fake doctor’s office.

Ready now: up and outta here.

A shadow dulled the sheen of a lifeless LED panel, and loose strands of hair—translucent under a spotlight—shimmered in the draft from a fan. Then an auburn pixie cut, and a familiar face: a fellow scholar, Sarah-Jane Blitzer. She’d stepped through the arch and paused as if to listen.

Hoffman must have sent her to search.

Sarah-Jane’s head turned like a U-boat periscope. Her view: two feet above the cartons. Ben clenched his teeth as her eyeballs—in plain sight—scanned the video wall and a wireless hub, then swiveled downward and flickered across the cardboard that bookended either side of his hideout.

Shit.

He felt the heat of her gaze, blazing into his own. He felt his cheeks color. He grinned.

But he knew he didn’t fool her: his grin was phony, a grin that says guilty as charged. It was a Tom and Jerry grin, an Itchy and Scratchy grin. She was the cat. He was the mouse. She’d caught him.

Breath upon breath: Sarah-Jane’s eyes gripped him. He felt as if his belly touched his spine. But he couldn’t break away. And he couldn’t get up. Her look pinned him helpless in submission.

Then Sarah-Jane blinked, her gaze dissolved, and her head turned a little… a little more… a little more… Her eyeballs rose and refocused on the video wall… Then, as softly as she’d come, she was gone.

A hand on fiberboard… A shoe brushing floor… A sniff. Then silence.

He was safe.

THREE FORTY-ONE and a crescendo of murmurs: a crowd coming down from the lobby. It appeared that the event was about to resume. People were passing the module. Most didn’t speak as they filed into the ballroom. But some were speaking—and loud.

“This’ll be good.”

“Can’t wait.”

“That’s your anti-vax cranks.”

“Who is he?”

Ben covered his eyes and pressed his nose between his knees. He felt what? He felt fear… and something else. It was fear with guilt in some composite emotion: two shades of paint in one can. It felt so familiar, like that highwire feeling. This color was a primary in his life. His shoulders rubbed the cartons, his palms warmed his eyes, his brain pumped the rhythm of his heart.

He was hiding in his bedroom while a storm raged below. Voices. Angry voices. And whispers. It was something he’d done. It was sure to be his fault. He was definitely the cause of the commotion.

All his life he’d been plagued by feelings like these. Like that rumbling as the car passed the house. He’d tried to escape them. He’d tried to embrace them. He’d tried to be good and be bad. But he couldn’t commit to one or the other till he knew what those voices said.

Then his ears popped clear, like an aircraft landing. A hand thumped the module. And whispers. “For all that, Marcia, we gotta go ahead. Anything else, and we must have known.”

“But that’s ridiculous. How on earth can we go ahead now?”

“Look, (a) we’re shocked. Okay? (b) these claims are outrageous. And (c) that kid’s a nut. And that’s it.”

The hand banged the fiberboard like the tree at Cleveland Avenue. “Blink now and they’ve got intent. You got that? Intent. We all go to federal prison. Accessories after the fact, obstruction of justice, conspiracy. This is some serious shit, Marcia. And not just for that motherfuckin’ dickhead out there. This is serious shit for you, me, every one of us. We don’t know nothing. We’re still in the dark here. Still duped. You follow me now?”

“But what about that lot in there? What do you think they’re thinking? What are they thinking now? Really?”

“Doesn’t matter a damn what they’re thinking. We got no choice now. It’s (a) shocked.” Bang. “It’s (b) outrageous.” Bang. “And it’s (c) he’s a nut. That’s it.”

The whispers moved away—“We turned down C-SPAN”—and merged into the noise of the ballroom.

A tap on a microphone, then Gelding’s British accent. “Ladies, gentlemen, doctors, if you please.” Instantly, the room snapped silent. “Thank you. This is all a shock, as you’ll imagine, and frankly we’re outraged. We are. We’re absolutely scandalously outraged. We’ve identified the culprit for this prank, and he’ll be dealt with very severely. But right now, we must get on with this afternoon’s business.”

“Marcia.” Hoffman’s voice.

“Yes. Our general counsel, Theodore Hoffman. Please do come up to the microphone.”

A delay, then he spoke so matter-of-fact you’d think he was asking for a car to be moved. “We been watching this kid for a while, I can tell you. Long time. Never figured he’d go this far. For that, I’ve gotta apologize.”

“Who is it?” a woman called.

“One of those anti-vaccine fanatics. Well, you know how they get. Other companies get worse, and