Afraid of the Dark Read Online Free Page A

Chuck pushed the intercom button and announced their arrival. The receptionist’s voice crackled over the speaker, a buzzer sounded, and Chuck opened the door. Vince stopped him before entering.
    “Hey, I want to thank you,” said Vince.
    “No need, dude.”
    “Just . . . really. Thank you.”
    “I haven’t done anything yet.”
    Nothing could have been further from the truth. The only man who had lost more than Vince in that explosion had been Chuck. McKenna’s body had been consumed in the blaze. Two months later Chuck’s wife was gone. Police had found Shada’s overturned kayak floating in a section of the Florida Everglades that was crawling with pythons and alligators. An empty bottle of Valium and a suicide note were in her car. Her body was never recovered. Not once had Chuck even hinted that Vince had dropped the ball while he was out of the country, that Vince could have done anything to prevent the tragedy. Indeed, watching Chuck rebound through his work had been a real source of inspiration for Vince. Eleven months after McKenna’s death, the fledgling data-mining company that had been sucking cash out of the Mays family was turning a profit. Six months ago, Chuck sold out to a media conglomerate for eight figures and formed a new venture—MLFC Inc.—which to most folks was an acronym for Mays Laser Fast Computers. It was over beers that Chuck and Vince had come up with the name My Last Fucking Company.
    “You’re a good friend,” said Vince. “I mean that.”
    Chuck sniffed the air like a golden retriever, then did his baritone Sam-the-dog voice. “Hmm, the shit’s really gettin’ deep here. Can I go inside and wipe my paws?”
    The receptionist greeted them in the lobby and took them to the computer lab. It was a room like any other to Vince. He heard the hum of fluorescent lighting overhead. He felt the cool draft from an AC duct on the wall. It was actually too cool—a sign of how many computers they were trying to keep from overheating—yet Vince was perspiring with anticipation. Finally, Dr. Adam Feldman joined them. Feldman had a PhD in neuroscience, hours of experience with a device called Brainport, and the good sense to cut the small talk short. He quickly launched into business.
    “The basic premise here,” said Feldman, “is that you see with your brain, not with your eyes.”
    “Which means I’ve seen a lot of the inside of my skull over the past three years,” said Vince.
    “I meant that all sighted species see with their brains,” said Feldman. “All the brain needs is the input. In your case, the eyes can no longer transmit. That’s where Brainport comes in. Could you remove your sunglasses, please?”
    Vince always wore them. To the office, at the beach, inside the house. He even wore them on his rock-climbing vacation last August. He heard a panting noise as he tucked the sunglasses into his coat pocket.
    “Is that Sam or me?” asked Vince.
    Dr. Feldman chuckled. Vince figured he wasn’t the first blind man to get a little giddy over this device.
    Feldman described what he was doing each step of the way, partly to educate Vince, partly to help him relax.
    “These special eyeglasses I’m putting on you have a small video camera mounted on the nose bridge. The camera acts as the eyes to gather visual information. The images are transmitted wirelessly in black, gray, and white to this handheld computer,” he said as he slid the device into Vince’s hand.
    It felt slightly larger than an iPod. “Okay. But I’m not seeing anything.”
    “Hold your horses there, cowboy,” said Feldman. “The computer will translate the visual information into electrical signals. Let’s turn it on.”
    Feldman guided Vince’s thumb to the switch. Vince pressed it and waited. “I’m still not seeing anything.”
    “Vince,” said Chuck, “One step at a time, all right?”
    The anticipation was even beyond his first step onto a battleground as a marine, at least a million