Free A Vision of Fire by Gillian Anderson Page A

“Nothing like this has ever happened in our family.”
    â€œI was about to ask, Mrs. Pawar—were there ever rumors or whispers, about an aunt, a grandparent, a cousin?”
    â€œWhispers?”
    â€œTheir mind, their behavior, habits—anything. I understand there would have been a reticence to discuss it.”
    The woman shook her head and looked down. “We do not speak of such things, but one knows. There was nothing.”
    Caitlin believed her.
    â€œMrs. Pawar, I understand that you must keep this matter quiet. But if your daughter continues to have episodes you’re going to have to get her to a clinic for tests. She might have hit her head during the assassination attempt—”
    â€œThe school nurse checked her, said there was nothing.”
    â€œThere are conditions an MRI or CT scan can explore that a doctor cannot. I already mentioned this to Dr. Deshpande, and you may need to be a little more aggressive . . .”
    â€œI see,” the woman said helplessly.
    â€œSurely your husband won’t object if it’s necessary.”
    Mrs. Pawar regarded her. It was a look that told Caitlin: Yes. At this moment, given the Kashmir situation, he might resist .
    Jack London, released from his crate by the housekeeper, made the rounds, sniffing at their feet.
    â€œShe seems so vulnerable, so fragile,” said Mrs. Pawar, “so unlike herself.”
    â€œShe’s stronger than you think, and she’s not alone in this,” Caitlin said. “Whatever’s going on, if she shows any unusual signs of unrest, remember what to do: you touch her ear . . .”
    The woman nodded, more to reassure herself than anything, but Caitlin left the Pawars’ apartment with a knot in her stomach.
    During the cab ride back, she called her office to tell her receptionist that she would keep her eleven thirty. Then she texted Ben: Some progress today, I’ll call u tonight. Send me ur most secure email address.
    There was no immediate response, but she wasn’t expecting one. He would be at the talks. She watched the news crawl on the TV monitor in the backseat of the cab. The tensions between India and Pakistan were being described as “volatile,” with more troops being moved to the borders. The United States ambassador’s proposal for a demilitarized zone between the nations had been met with derision in India, whose pundits pointed out that Pakistan could not even establish a de-terrorized zone within its own borders. Meanwhile the local news reported that in Queens, fistfights were erupting among Indian and Pakistani neighbors. Police presence in the subways had tripled, and the emergency management department had been quietly checking on the state of the city’s old fallout shelters as potential neighborhood command centers. Nor was New York alone in its anxiety; across the nation survivalist and prepper groups had replenished their stocks of ammunition, causing a shortage, and disappeared off the grid. An Internet questionnaire called “If This Is the End, I Will . . .” had gone viral.
    Caitlin turned the screen off and spent the rest of the cab ride in uncomfortable silence. It seemed that war fears rode the air with their own wireless source: people. Maanik and her mother had given them a personal face for Caitlin.
    It was with a great sense of relief that Caitlin walked into her top-floor office on West Fifty-Eighth Street. She experienced such a sudden feeling of comfort that there was almost an audible click. After going through her routine—coffee on the thumbprint coaster Jacob made when he was five, purse in the lowest desk drawer, phone in the top drawer and muted, coat on the hanger behind the door—Caitlin reviewed her schedule, but her mind kept shifting back to Maanik.
    A diagnosis of schizophrenia was premature and sketchy, sinceschizophrenics understood that there was a “them” and a