"Really? How come I've never heard of that?" Wendy felt like she was listening to a fairy tale—she couldn't believe that someone had actually been brought back to life.
"Because although the resuscitation was successful, the person suffered severe brain damage and became a vegetable. That's why the government ultimately decided to shut down the project."
Leo turned to Harry and said, "Harry, you know this—once the ring's timer hits zero, the implanted chip behind our ear releases toxins into the bloodstream. Breathing and pulse stop first; that's generally what we consider death."
"But true brain death takes additional time. The commonly accepted window is five to seven hours, which is why bodies are held at the police station for a full day before being sent for cremation."
"Leo, I think I understand what you're getting at. So you want to use that machine to bring this person back to life?"
"Exactly, and we need to move fast. His brain is absorbing toxins with every passing minute. Language centers and critical memories could be destroyed at any moment."
"No time to report to the captain either, right?"
"No time. By the time we get approval from above, this brain will already be useless. We don't even know if it's still functional, but we have to take the gamble, right?" Leo knew Harry would agree. People like them—grassroots officers with no connections or networking—had to take risks if they ever wanted to climb higher. An opportunity like this might come only once in a lifetime.
"You've been talking forever, but where's this machine?" Wendy, listening from the sidelines, was growing impatient. It seemed like they still hadn't resolved some of the most critical questions.
"Several hospitals in the city had them. Later, when they were never used again, some were sent to research institutions, others were put into storage. There's one in our station's storage room. I inventoried it once and read the manual—it's not hard to operate."
Leo checked his watch: 7:21 PM. Nearly two hours since the victim's death. He hoped it wasn't too late.
"But don't forget—even if we do what we're planning, it'll only give him one more second of life. What can anyone do in one second? He'd wake up, gasp, and then die all over again." Harry had finally raised the most crucial question of all.
"You still have that girlfriend who studies hypnosis, don't you? Let her try. A dying brain can still receive external stimuli. If she guides him properly and finds what we need, one second is enough to say a criminal's name."
Only when Leo mentioned Amy did Harry finally realize that his partner had been sitting on a fully formed plan all along.
Of course, if everything went smoothly, it would be a good thing. Even if it failed, they could just process it as a standard natural death—there didn't seem to be any real downside. The small risk involved was nothing compared to the enormous temptation of cracking the first major time-theft case.
"Leo, let's hurry and drive back to the station. I'll call Amy—she's closer to the station than we are. She might even get there first."
10
"Now, imagine that you're floating in a warm current of water. Relax. You'll drift slowly with the current, and then you'll feel a force gathering inside your body, concentrating in your mind. You're becoming clearer and clearer..."
It was strange. Trevor Cruz couldn't figure out where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. At first he could hear muffled sounds, then his vision gradually returned, and physical sensations began flooding back.
But he still didn't know what he should be doing. He wished for more guidance. The voice told him to go back to the moment he was attacked. He tried hard to remember, feeling a throbbing pain at the back of his skull.
"You're driving a black Sally car. Then you pull over to the side of the road, and you see someone. You know this person stole your time, and he also attacked you, correct?"
Attacked? That seemed to ring a bell. But stole his time? What did that even mean? If anyone had stolen his time, it should be that woman named Lily, or perhaps the government?
Damn it, that voice was talking again. It wanted him to look clearly at the person who'd attacked him. It said he would recognize the man. Nonsense! This was the first time Trevor Cruz had seen that man today. A complete stranger—he didn't know him at all.
"All right, you've remembered everything now. His name, his identity, anything connected to him. When I count down to one, you'll wake up and tell me who he is."
Wait—I don't know him! I don't know his name either. Trevor felt a surge of urgent anxiety. He desperately wanted to follow the voice's instructions, but he had nothing.
"Three."
Wait! Let me think! Maybe because of the pressure, the images before his eyes began to warp and distort. The license plate? Blocked by the man—he couldn't see it at all. Oh, there was a woman in the car too, but her face was equally unfamiliar, completely unhelpful.
He refocused on the man's face, trying to pick out any distinguishing features. A thick beard, fleshy lips, and his eyes.
"Two."
His eyes! The memories overlapped—those same eyes appearing in another memory. He finally remembered. He had seen this man once before today. Earlier, he hadn't had that bushy beard, but his eyes were very distinctive. Where had he seen him the first time? Right—at the bank. On his way out, they'd even bumped into each other.
Was that why the man had attacked him? Before the thought could drift further, Trevor pulled himself back to the task, straining to recall that first encounter.
The man had been wearing a work uniform, so he worked at the bank? He'd been holding something, but the image was too blurry. Ah, his name—where was the name tag? There was no name tag on his clothing, and he couldn't find any other identifying detail. A nameless sense of failure washed over Trevor. He still hadn't found the answer.
"One."
The countdown was finally in his ear, and everything before his eyes began to brighten. Just before surfacing, Trevor Cruz noticed something written across the man's chest.
It was embroidered in light blue thread on a dark blue work uniform, which was why he hadn't noticed it at first. But what did it say? Whatever it was, this was the only clue he'd managed to find before the countdown ended.
Thus, at 8:11 PM on that endlessly long day, in the empty, quiet storage room of the police station, a miracle of resurrection was unfolding.
The deceased Trevor Cruz, after being dead for two hours and thirty-three minutes, awoke once more. Using his hard-won final second, he shouted four numbers.
"0871!"