HEAR Read online

  We trail Erika up the grand staircase to the left of the door. The club’s interior is as old-school elegant as I imagined: large portraits of former members line its oak-paneled walls, and the ceiling is decorated with ornate wood and plaster detail—a Fitzgerald novel come to life. We’re led into one of the libraries upstairs, all mahogany bookshelves, soft lamps, and leather couches. A few desks face large Palladian windows.

  But my eyes are drawn to the large round poker table placed in the center.

  Most of the guys—and the other players are all guys this evening—are already seated when we enter the room. They too are dressed super casually, as if a “high-stakes” game is in fact just the opposite to them: it’s something they play so regularly, it’s of no consequence whatsoever. They glance up at Erika.

  She clears her throat. “Everyone, this is . . . Sorry, what’s your name again?”

  “Pankaj.”

  “This is Pun . . . Wait, say it again.”

  “ You can call me Punk.”

  Erika smiles. “I think I can handle that. Punk, this is Connor, Quartie, Veck, Heath, Trip, and Andre.” Alex and I are not introduced, but I’m just as happy to remain anonymous in the background. “Do you guys want a drink before we start?”

  “No, thanks,” I reply.

  Pankaj shakes his head. That’s all I need, a fuzzy head on top of all the rest, he communicates silently.

  My head jerks as I hear his unspoken words in my mind as clearly as if he’d whispered them in my ear. Luckily nobody is looking in my direction. All eyes are on Pankaj.

  How are we doing this? I ask.

  He gives me a subtle smile. Not a clue.

  “I’d love a drink, thanks!” Alex says, a little too eagerly.

  “Hard alcohol’s in the bar at the back, or the taproom is on the ground floor, to the right of the stairs,” Erika replies. Her tone is brusque.

  Alex’s smile falters. “Oh, okay. Maybe I’ll get one later.”

  Pankaj takes his seat at the table.

  “Let’s start,” Connor says. He’s skinnier than the others, and his large white short-sleeved Izod polo shirt looks borrowed from his father’s closet. “We’re playing no-limit Texas Hold’em. Trip’s button.”

  Trip, ginger haired, nods and shuffles the cards. He’s spent a lot of time in the sun, perhaps rowing with the Henley crew team; his face and neck are tan, and he’s sprayed with freckles across his cheeks and nose. Veck, on his left, wears classic Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses and a sleeveless green Patagonia fleece. He puts in a stack of five $100 chips. The player to his left, Heath—the largest guy at the table (the one who looks like he might feel quite at home in Roman gladiator garb)—puts in two stacks of five $100 chips.

  I know from my dad’s weekly poker games that these are the “forced” bets, the small blind and big blind respectively. They encourage you to stay in the game rather than fold right away if you draw bad cards. The logic is that if you’ve already put down a substantial amount of money, you may as well just play out the hand. Of course, $1,000 seems like a lot of money to put down right off the bat, but that’s why we’re here. Big money.

  Still, something about this evening has already begun to bother me. Maybe it’s the conspicuous privilege. Maybe what I’m feeling is simple fear. Maybe it’s concern for Pankaj and his level of comfort. His face, however, remains neutral. Score one for Pankaj.

  Gladiator Heath turns over his cards to reveal a queen of spades and jack of spades.

  Pankaj smiles. He’s holding a pair of sevens, with a third seven showing in the center of the table, and three of a kind is good enough for the win.

  “Well done, new guy,” Erika cheers from the sidelines. “And gentlemen, I’d encourage you to keep your timepieces away from our man Punk.”

  Alex laughs, but Erika ignores him, her eyes on the game. He scowls, and his eyes dart furtively toward the stairwell. Cards soon start flying around the table again, and when I look at skinny Connor, I get a feeling he’s got the hand to beat.

  Pankaj looks around the table and also seems to zero in on Connor. After glancing back down at his own cards, he folds. Moments later, Connor scoops up the pot.

  I focus my thoughts, concentrating on Pankaj.

  Well, well, well, the boy might have some sense in him after all.

  Pankaj casts a sidelong glance at me. And the girl might have noticed that sooner if she hadn’t been so focused on my butt. Which, I’ll grant you, is awesome.

  I stifle a smile. You think Mara and Dan are okay?

  He puffs out his cheeks as new cards are dealt; he’s worried about them too. I don’t want to be a distraction, but with this new channel of communication, it’s impossible to keep my feelings to myself. Even partial access to each other’s thoughts seems as useful as it is awkward, if not horrifying. Previously, I only ever had to worry about blurting out something I’d regret before I could think twice. It’s possible that Pankaj will now know what I’m thinking as my thoughts are still forming.

  From what I can tell, though, he isn’t experiencing the same fears. He’s not even focused on me. He’s in the game, “all in,” just as he said.

  The longer I watch him the more impressed I become; he’s cool under pressure, and as I know very well, when you’re playing for someone else, that’s not only important; it’s difficult. His pile of money—our pile of money—continues to grow.

  I’m fairly certain that he’s not counting cards. Of course, he probably is using his psychic abilities to intuit what the other players have in their hands. So depending on your definition of “cheating,” you could make the argument that he’s not playing a completely clean game. But those are details. His opponents wouldn’t believe the psychic stuff anyway. Besides, this is all for Uncle Brian, for preserving the research that might one day allow Pankaj to use his talents for something more constructive than a poker win.

  Alex, on the other hand, seems nervous. His eyes keep flitting around the room, and he looks between Erika and the table several times a minute. I can’t read what he’s thinking. If there really is an open channel of communication between those of us with extrasensory abilities, Alex doesn’t seem to be on our party line.

  Hey, how much do you have at this point? I ask Pankaj silently.

  He pretends to study his hand as if unaware of my question, but his thoughts boom back at me. Kass, you don’t count your money when you’re sitting at the table. Damn, girl, there’s even a country music song about that.

  “Punk?” Erika says, tilting her chin up at him. “ Your bet?”

  “Sorry!” He tosses a few chips in the pot.

  I’ve distracted him, and I know this for certain when he loses the hand.

  That one was my fault, I think at him. I apologize.

  It’s okay. It is your money, after all.

  Veck gathers his winnings, smirking behind his sunglasses. “Finally!”

  A few other people have come upstairs and are now standing around the table, watching the action. Since they all look entirely at ease, I’m guessing they belong here.

  “Who wants whiskey?” a guy calls out from behind a small bar near the fireplace.

  I almost laugh when I recognize him: it’s Flip-Flops, the guy who passed out in front of the library. He’s more fresh-faced tonight (maybe because he hasn’t started drinking?), and clean-shaven. His eyes meet mine briefly, but he doesn’t appear to remember me at all.

  Veck spins his forefinger in the air counterclockwise. “Shots all around.”

  Flip-Flops nods. He reaches down and places seven shot glasses on the top of the bar, then carefully pours out the brown liquor. He brings the shots over to the table, two by two, and the squish-thwack sound of his footgear seems to echo in my brain, making me feel vaguely ill.

  When he sets a shot glass in front of Pankaj, the pain hits
.

  It’s like a corkscrew stabbing through the side of my head. It literally feels as if metal has twisted into my skull. I wince and almost lose my balance. I sense people are starting to watch me, and in a panic I start coughing. Loudly.

  “Kass, are you okay?” Alex asks.

  I shake my head.

  Pankaj stands and hurries over to my side. “Kass?”

  As he pats my back, I whisper, “Don’t drink it.” I let the cough dissipate.

  What’s going on? he asks silently.

  We need to get out of here.

  “Do you need some water?” Erika asks. She turns to Flip-Flops. “See if we have some water back there.”

  “Sure thing.” He jogs back to the little bar and ducks underneath the counter. His head emerges a few moments later. He’s holding a cup full of dark-red liquid. “No water, just cranberry juice. Sorry about that. Here ya go.”

  Another flash of pain. No way will I drink this.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, smiling weakly and hacking some more. “Allergic to cranberries. I’ll just get some water from the bathroom.”

  “Take a cup from here, and if you want ice, the kitchen’s down the stairs and back to the right,” Erika replies.

  “I’m going to sit this round out and go with her,” Pankaj says, nodding a thank you. “Apologies. I’ll be right back.” He starts to escort me toward the stairwell.

  “Alex,” I choke out. “Come with us?”

  Alex doesn’t respond. He’s concentrating on two men in dark suits sitting on one of the leather couches. I didn’t see them before, but it’s impossible not to notice them now: they’re at least twenty years older than anyone else present. These guys don’t look like professors; they’re too slick. Alumni? Parents? Or something else?

  “Back in a minute,” Pankaj adds, putting his hand on Alex’s arm. “Come on.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Sure.” He sounds like we’ve pulled him from a trance.

  The three of us are silent until we’re down the stairs and in the empty kitchen. Once I’m convinced we’re alone, I turn to them. “Something’s not right,” I advise.

  “I agree,” Alex replies.

  “I think they put something in your drink,” I tell Pankaj.

  “Who do you mean? Which they ?” he asks.

  I look at Alex, but he’s locked on Pankaj. “Have you felt or noticed anything strange?”

  “No, not really. I’ve been trying to stay focused on the table. Why? What are you thinking, man?”

  Alex shakes his head. “The whole night’s been weird in my opinion.” He leans against the counter. “Can’t tell what yet, but something’s off; that’s for sure.”

  “Kass, you think it was one of the other players who put the thing in my drink?” Pankaj asks me.

  “I don’t think so.” I try to lower my voice even more. “Who are those two old guys sitting on the couch?”

  “That’s what I was trying to figure out.” Alex lowers his voice too. “I’ve seen them on campus before. Listen, I know this will sound paranoid . . . but remember our very first experiment? I mentioned I thought we had a tail. I wasn’t kidding. I mean, I know I’m starting to sound like Dan with his conspiracy theories, but—”

  “So you’re sure it’s not just another one of the players trying to take me out, or something?” Pankaj interrupts. “Like, to protect his investment?”

  Alex makes a dismissive pffft sound. “Are they overprivileged assholes? Probably yes. But I don’t think it goes further than that.”

  “Maybe the old guys are just the club’s private security force,” I suggest. Some of my father’s wealthiest associates have private security teams. The best of them just blend into the background. But if you’re a middle-aged man in a suit, it’s a lot easier to blend into a crowd of middle-aged men in suits than a club full of preppy college kids. “Maybe parents want them around in the aftermath of the shooting?”

  Neither Alex nor Pankaj seems impressed with this theory.

  “So what’s our move?” Pankaj asks.

  “I say we get out of here. Just go. It feels too dangerous to stay.”

  Alex nods. “ Yeah, you guys should definitely take off.”

  “ You’re not coming with?” I ask, frowning. “I meant all of us.”

  “No, I’ll stick around . . . try to get a handle on things.” Alex swallows and glances toward the ceiling. “Plus . . . Erika.” His face flushes with an embarrassed-looking smile. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I am a teenage boy. My hormones rule my life. There. I said it.”

  “Okay, just promise us you won’t drink anything you don’t pour yourself,” Pankaj says. He turns back to me. “Come on, Legacy. Let’s roll.”

  “Wait!” Alex calls after us in a low voice as we head for the door. “What about your winnings? You have a lot of money still on the table.”

  Pankaj taps his pocket, which is bulging. Amazing: he somehow managed to swipe his cash before leaving the room. “I told you my mama was a grifter,” he says.

  “I thought you said your sister was the grifter,” I whisper.

  Pankaj’s hand is already on the doorknob. “Her too. Where do you think we learned our tricks?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “It’s not a lot,” I tell Uncle Brian as I spread the cash before him on the kitchen table. “But don’t worry. It’s just the beginning.”

  He gives me a quizzical look as I push the money closer to him.

  “It’s to save the lab,” I add, but his expression remains unchanged. “It’s only five thousand dollars, but consider it the first layaway payment.”

  The term “layaway” was Pankaj’s. So was the idea to turn over what little we’d made tonight in the first place. I admit I didn’t even know what the word “layaway” meant until Pankaj explained it to me on the walk home.

  “Layaway, my wealthy friend, is also known as payment on an installment plan. You put down a deposit on an item as a pledge that you intend to buy it. But since you don’t have all the cash up front, you pay the rest when you get the money together. For its part, the store takes the money and reserves the item for you. It shows good faith and trust on both ends. My mom signs those little IOUs like a movie star giving autographs at a film premiere. Your uncle will get it.”

  Now I’m not so sure. Brian not only seems not to get it; he seems disappointed and annoyed. I gamely plow forward in the silence nonetheless. “It occurred to me that we have some advantages working in our favor, so we might as well use them, right? Atlantic City isn’t all that far from here. I mean, if we spend a few days there, we should be able to win more than enough to make the hundred thousand you need.” My eyebrows rise in excitement as I nod along with my own great idea.

  Brian absently rubs his palm into his forehead in circles; it almost looks as if he’s extinguishing an invisible cigarette. “Kass, you’re suggesting that you and the other HEARs use your abilities to restore funding to my lab through gambling?” His voice is gravelly. He sighs, and his hand drops to his lap. “That is . . . very kind of you.”

  I shake my head. “It’s no big deal.”

  “I know.” He laughs cynically. “But what I don’t think you realize is that in order to be presented to the university, the money must come from a respectable source. The provenance of the currency is very important at a place like Henley. If cash were the sole issue, there are easier ways of acquiring it. I could have you pick stocks, for example.”

  He says this last part with purpose, and it hits me like a punch to the gut.

  Picking stocks is what my dad—my very, very successful dad—does for a living. Not only did he short the market during the financial crisis; he’s always one of the top hedge-fund managers on those “highest earning” year-end lists. Everything written about him mentions his “smarts,” his “nose for sniffing out valu
e,” and his “uncanny timing.” He always jokes that these are just sexier ways of saying he works all the time and gets lucky.

  I’m suddenly thrown, now quite certain my father has been beating the market not because of his intellect or intensity but because he shares my gift.

  Uncle Brian nods at me. “Some families have a genetic predisposition towards obesity; others, athleticism and certain types of cancers. Some family members get it; others do not. But this is our predisposition.”

  How did I never know this? Why didn’t my father tell me—about him or me?

  “So obviously you have it,” I say accusatorily, wondering what else my dad may be hiding. “Does my mom have it too?”

  Uncle Brian shakes his head. “No, your mother doesn’t have ESP,” he mutters. “And neither do I.”

  “Stop lying!” I yell, sick and tired of being shielded from the truth.

  “Kassandra, I am not lying. I do not have extrasensory perception. Not anymore.” He places his hands on the kitchen table and pushes himself up. “Come with me.”

  I follow him into the living room. He stops a foot away from the mantel, the altar on which stands the picture of him and Ellen Rios.

  “ You lost it because of her?” I ask, baffled.

  “I lost it when she was murdered.” He stares at the picture. “I never had the vision that you were born with. My innate ability was much weaker, not much greater than the average person’s. The difference was that I was aware of it. And unlike most people, I didn’t chalk it up to ‘good parking karma’ or believe my luck was made by some talisman like a rabbit’s foot. But when I was with Ellen, those largely latent talents became activated, practically supercharged. I did have a gift like yours. And when Ellen died, that part of me died with her.”

  I swallow, half tempted to reach out to him, to hug him. I don’t. “ You didn’t get any sort of warning about the bomb?” I whisper.

  His head droops. “ Yes,” he murmurs. “Though I completely misinterpreted the vision I received and pursued a lead that went nowhere. All the while, the attack was being planned for our home office. These false readings or misinterpretations of visions, these ‘failures of intelligence,’ as they’re known . . . they happen all the time. But I’ve never been able to forgive myself for it.”