Seizure(41)

Jason waited at the courtyard wall, a too-large bundle locked between his straining arms. Knowing he’d never make it, he wore a goofy grin.

“After you,” he panted.

SNUP.

Blood rushed to my head, nearly causing me to faint. My legs wobbled, but held. The world crashed back to its normal sensory backdrop. I instantly felt weakened. Diminished.

I pretended to struggle under the weight of my load, determined not to spoil a rare moment of triumph. Jason noticed my discomfort. “You okay? I can carry that pile next.”

“Fine. I just haven’t eaten in a while.”

“I’ll fix that.” Big smile. “Count on it.”

The Tripod didn’t bother with good-byes. Banking as one, they headed toward the chapel.

“Good-bye ladies!” I couldn’t help myself. “See you soon!”





BEN DIDN’T ANSWER my call.

I left a message, uneasy, feeling genuinely sorry. Ben could nurse a grudge. I knew my doghouse stay might be an extended one.

I’d texted him before leaving Saint Michael’s. Unfortunately, Ben had been halfway across the harbor, already on his way to pick me up. When informed that Jason would drive me home, he’d stopped responding.

Not good. Ben was clearly taking this personally.

What is it with those two?

Jason had insisted we eat at The Wreck of the Richard and Charlene, a ramshackle seafood joint overlooking Shem Creek. Mount Pleasant was the wrong direction from Morris Island, but Jason had been adamant.

And he’d been right. The restaurant was shabby-quaint, the food delicious. We’d gorged on fried shrimp and scallops. Two hours later, Jason finally dropped me at my townhouse.

With no afternoon plans, I decided to do some research. My newfound olfactory perception had somewhat unnerved me.

Could I really smell emotions? Motivations? I thought so, but wasn’t sure. Was such a thing possible, or was it the first sign of a brain tumor? Or dementia?

Google wasn’t immediately helpful. Dozens of articles linked smell and emotion, but none described anything similar to my experience.

Frustrated, I sought backup. With Ben pissed off, that left Hi and Shelton.

Hi arrived with his laptop in minutes.

I told him what happened at the church. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, about the yacht club episode a few days before.

“Stop it with the public flaring!” he snapped. “You’re gambling with all our lives. I’m not spending my teenage years on a hamster wheel, dancing for the Dharma Initiative.”

“They weren’t intentional. Lately my flares come too easily, out of nowhere.”

“You can’t let that happen,” Hi said. “Someone spots your eyes, just once, and you’re toast. We don’t know enough about the virus to take those kinds of risks.”

“Then help me get answers!”

His eyes narrowed. “The pawnshop. You were sniffing out Bates, weren’t you? Or was that flare an ‘accident’—” air quotes, “—too?”

“Well … no. I told you, we needed an edge.”

Dramatic sigh. “This is how it ends.”

I ignored him. “Let’s start with this emotional sensory thingy. It’s creeping me out, big time.”

Search after search led nowhere. Switching to more complicated strings, we added new terms and finally got some hits.

“Here.” I tapped the monitor. “A Rice University study found that certain couples can correctly identify their partner’s emotions by smell.”

“Gross.” Hi was sprawled on my bed. Naturally.

He tapped his laptop’s screen. “Some Ph.D. in San Diego claims that body odors can convey emotional states. Even to strangers.”

“So maybe I’m not crazy.”

“The guy works at Sea World.”

“Oh.”

Thirty minutes later, still nothing.

“I’m adding ‘canine’ to my searches,” I said. “And ‘instinct.’”

“Whatever. I’m adding ‘lunatic.’”

Suddenly, I hit pay dirt. An Alaskan study. On point.

“Here we go. Hi, check this out!”

He rolled from my bed and dropped into the chair beside me.

“This guy claims that Arctic wolves can detect changes in human emotion, using only their sense of smell.” Excitement rode my voice. “That must be it!”

“How can he prove that? Wolves can’t exactly fill out questionnaires.”

I shrugged. “This journal calls the evidence ‘compelling.’”

“He sounds like a crank,” Hi said.

Coop nosed into my room, yapped, and sat.

“Quiet, dog breath.” I scanned the article. “Olfactory receptors—that means your nose—connect to the limbic system, the primordial core of the human brain. That’s where emotions originate.”

Hi chortled. “So funky stank hits your primitive mind first?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Smells only get to the cerebral cortex—the cognitive center—after touring the deeper parts of the brain.”

Coop whined, danced a circle. I ignored him.

“By the time you can name a scent,” I said, “that odor has already activated the limbic system and triggered your deep-seated instincts.”