The Experiment of Dreams Read online

  He placed the duffel bag on the ground and unzipped it, removing a shower cap for his head and two smaller ones for his shoes, stretching the elastic band over his ankles. He went to work picking the lock, and in just a matter of seconds, the handle turned freely. Iain removed his silenced Beretta M9 from the duffel bag and gently pulled back the slide to make sure a round was chambered. The fact that Ben was delusional—perhaps insane—made him dangerous, and Iain hoped he wouldn’t have to use the pistol. If he had to, he wanted to make sure the bullet was lethal enough to do the job in one shot, maybe two. So he’d packed the M9 instead of the Sig Sauer. Using a gun would present a whole new set of problems. Disposing a body and erasing a crime scene in the middle of the city would not be an easy task.

  Iain clutched the duffel bag and slid into the room, closing the door behind him and relocking it.

  Outside, Michael watched for movement in the apartment windows and listened for footsteps nearby, but the area was calm, and nothing stirred behind the dark windows. He hoped that he would not see a flash coming from Ben’s window, because that could only mean one thing—a gunshot. It was bad enough they had to exterminate the man, but if forced, he wanted it to be quick and painless. Iain was to slip in, find him sleeping, and inject him with the same narcotics they used with Ethan. No mistakes, no unnecessary fear, and hopefully, no struggle.

  Michael sighed.

  He did not want to be up there. Being directly involved with the murder was not something he wanted. He was glad Iain ordered him to stay outside. The seconds ticking away on his watch felt like hours, and his legs became restless. He was a soldier, a professional. He’d killed dozens of men in numerous wars and operations. He’d killed men who never saw him coming, with his own bare hands. But this was different. This was not war in any conventional sense; this was corporate war. Consumerism and money were the end-results, not freedom, or necessity. This was murder, plain and simple. There was no way around it. He wanted no part of it.

  If he could, if there was any way he could stop this, he would. But he wasn’t in charge. He was getting old, grey, and unfit; he shouldn’t be involved with such messes any more. Mr. Kalispell had hired Michael to do recon under Iain—his superior officer in Iraq and Afghanistan. His job was to watch business rivals, people of interest, and gather information on them. Take pictures, break a law or two, but nothing as serious as murder. This whole Lucy business was going on for far too long now, and the toll it was taking was beyond appalling. This would be it, the end of the line. He would present his resignation once Lucy went public and disappear to someplace far away.

  He had to be careful though, because Mr. Kalispell was not a man to be taken lightly. Michael couldn’t be sure how much the man knew about his and Dr. Wulfric’s past. That would present an entirely new set of problems.

  But he couldn’t think about those things now. He had to finish this operation, this last operation.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  It was hard being the lookout. Not knowing what was going on was maddening. He should have heard something by now.

  Two clicks came over the radio, which meant Iain was coming out. A sense of dread washed over Michael. Ben was dead. It was over.

  He liked Ben. He was a sad man, a man battling demons, which was something Michael could relate to—something many Special Forces guys could relate to. Ben’s demons were different from his own, but all the same, demons come from one place and one place alone—hell.

  In the hallway, Iain removed his plastic foot slippers and shower cap, removed the electrical tape from the peepholes, and walked down the stairs and out the front door. He saw Michael across the street and walked around the block to their car. Michael followed. They got in the car, and Iain drove away.

  Michael sighed, “Is it over?”

  “No, Michael, it’s not fucking over. Ben wasn’t there. The apartment’s empty.”

  “What?” Michael straightened in his seat. “Where did he go?”

  “How the hell should I know? He left his goddamn keys on the counter.” Michael saw the veins in Iain’s neck grow large, like they had during combat. “I put a camera in his smoke alarm. If he comes back, we’ll know. Call the team; get their asses back here. Those fucking morons missed something, and we need to know what.”

  Michael took out his phone and dialed the comms team.

  “Have them watch the front fucking door this time.” Iain whacked the steering wheel with his fist. “Fuck!”

  Chapter 22

  Ben walked to the corner of Shepard and Pratt where he got on a bus going up North Charles. He then waited for a train at Baltimore Penn Station, which took him all the way to New York Penn Station, and from there he bought two tickets going farther upstate.

  He exchanged glances with the conductors and passengers when they saw him sitting next to an empty seat, and he was mindful to remain silent to Emily, who sat beside him. She led him from bus to bus, and station to station. It was much easier dealing with insanity now that he knew he was crazy. Just don’t talk to her—don’t talk to anybody.

  Ben heard the seat cushion creak as she sat down, saw the chair move back on its hinges ever so slightly when she pressed her back against it. She, too, was mindful not to speak, not wanting her Bennie to start talking to an empty chair and wind up in a psychiatric hospital.

  The hours of quiet offered Ben time to reflect on a scale that was terrifying.

  If you’re not really here, he thought, if you’re only a figment of my imagination, then could we speak through our thoughts alone? Can you hear me?

  Emily did not respond. She just sat on the seat beside him with a pleasant grin and a straightforward gaze on her face, as if she could see the end of it all, wherever this crazy trip was taking them.

  If you’re not real—if this is all a dream, a delusion—then how do I determine what’s real and what’s fake? Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’m in a coma and can’t wake up. I could be lying in a hospital bed, or strapped to a gurney in Dr. Wulfric’s office, being experimented on.

  Ben’s thoughts entered the realm of the macabre:

  Maybe the doctor is fiddling around inside my brain, with the crown of my skull neatly cut off and resting on a metal tray, and the dura mater cut neatly from around my brain and draped over my eyes like wet leather. Or maybe I’m dead. This could be purgatory. Everything is fake, a figment of my imagination. Everyone I ever met, everyone around me—my entire life—it never happened …

  Emily reached over and took Ben’s hand in her own, squeezing it. His mind slowed and his heart rate dropped back below panic levels.

  He rested his head on the headrest, gazing outside the window at the blur of scenery as it raced by. It reminded him of when he was a boy, sitting in the back seat as his foster father drove him for weekend trips and vacations to Lake Placid, and sometimes Vermont. He loved staring outside the window, watching towns race by in dizzying speed—like rapids on a stream. It put him in a trance and calmed his nerves. The absence of people and buildings outside the window, and the increase of trees and wilderness indicated they were now far outside New York City, farther upstate.

  He closed his eyes, but when he did, a jumble of words—random and in no logical order—went racing through his mind: Carbon, carbon copy, absolutely, the significance of maybe tomorrow, and mother, my mother, no, the deadline is whenever. The words rambled into his consciousness in voices that were not his own, talking all at once, indecipherable.

  It was best to keep his eyes open.

  He longed to talk to Emily—an overwhelming urge. He had so many questions for her. He had to know what was going on, and he needed to keep the voices he was hearing out of his head. Some sort of reassurance that he was doing the right thing was needed—although he wasn’t quite sure what it was that he was doing or where he was going.

  It sounded perfectly sane when Emily told him to follow her out of the apartment and directed him to buy the train and bus tickets. When she
spoke, when she looked him in the eyes, he was powerless. A fog enveloped his brain that cut off his rational thoughts. It was almost better this way—not having control, just experiencing the flow of bliss as it flooded his body. He would follow her off the edge of a cliff and fly if that’s what she wanted him to do.

  This silence, these long stretches of being alone with his thoughts, brought trickles of doubt, confusion, and intense fear. He was quite possibly going insane, completely bat-shit crazy. The air in the bus grew thick and hot, and it felt as if the metal walls were closing in on him.

  Several miles later, the bus pulled into a gas station and came to a full stop. Ben stood, walked down the aisle with the rest of the passengers, passed the small group gathered at the door to stretch their legs and light cigarettes, and crossed the street. He didn’t realize he was leaving; there was never a plan, and he didn’t know where he was going, but one thing was for sure: he needed to be far from civilization. If he was close to cracking, he’d rather do it far from where people could see him.

  They approached an old diner on the corner, its large plate glass window displaying aged tables and chairs behind dusty sun-beaten curtains. They could see the well-worn breakfast bar with its splintering stools. A few people sat at the counter sipping coffee and eating eggs and pancakes from chipped white plates. The scene was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

  Emily said, “Reminds you of Pat’s, doesn’t it?”

  Ben nodded. Just about every town, both large and small, had its own mom-and-pop diner or restaurant. Pat’s Diner was Ben and Emily’s regular breakfast stop when they lived upstate.

  As they passed the old diner on the corner, the air grew fragrant with the smell of fried bacon, and a sweet, smoky smell like maple syrup. Ben’s stomach ached, and his mouth watered.

  When was the last time I ate? What … day is it?

  “Where are we going, Emma?”

  “You know where we’re going, Ben. You’re the one walking.”

  “I’ve been following you. I don’t know where we’re going.” But his legs were moving, somewhere. Onward.

  The street came to a dead end, and just beyond, in a cluster of trees, flowed a rushing stream. The swells of water foamed white as the waves crashed among the rocks and flowed in swirls among the rapids. They followed the water holding hands, feeling the coolness of water vapor in the air.

  “I think I should call Dr. Wulfric.”

  “We’ve been over this, Ben. You know you can’t do that.”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “I’m going insane; I think—I think I’m crazy.”

  “No, Ben, you’re not crazy.”

  “I am. I have to be. I mean, this is … you … you’re not real.”

  “Ben!” Her lip curled, and he knew he’d pissed her off.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  “You know you can’t trust them. If you call Dr. Wulfric, Iain Marcus will come find you, and you don’t want that to happen.”

  “Why? Why would I care if Iain Marcus finds me?”

  She shook her head and exhaled a deep air of disappointment.

  “What? Why would I care?”

  “Oh, Bennie. You really don’t remember, do you?”

  “Remember what?”

  “The dream you’re having. It’s all there; it’s in your head. You just need to remember.”

  “Which dream?”

  “Drapery Falls, Ben.”

  He thought about the dream. It was true, now that he thought about it. Dr. Wulfric seemed to act a bit strange when he told him the details. What was it about that dream? As strange as the dream was, it was only a dream. Nothing to be hung up about.

  What he did remember was vivid: the car driving at night, the sign for Drapery Falls, the cold rain, the man on his knees …

  “It’s all in your mind, Ben. Just remember.”

  He played it over and over, repeating each scene. Then, very slowly, the fuzzy gaps began to fill in. He saw himself struggle with the man on the ground, saw and felt his own hand push a syringe into the man’s arm. He smelled the smoke as it rose from the pizza box and thought he could even feel the warmth of the fire as it grew.

  He became aware that he was not doing these things; he was not in his own body—it was Iain Marcus. He could feel and sense the emotions Iain felt as the events unfolded—the unpleasantness of the cold rain, the rush of adrenaline during the struggle, and the anxiety as he quickly left the scene of the crime. And something else: enjoyment, a sense of pleasure at the thrill of it all.

  “Holy shit!” he shouted louder than he anticipated. “I killed someone. I mean, Iain killed someone!”

  “What else?”

  “I, um …” He let the dream play out repeatedly. “I remember the place going up in flames, and Mr. Kalispell was there with Iain. But Iain is calling him Michael.”

  Emily nodded. “Well, that’s a start.”

  “Dr. Wulfric, he was involved, too. I don’t know how, but he was.”

  “Yes, Ben, he was. They are murderers. All of them. They are bad people. You can’t trust them. We’re on our own from here on out. It’s just you and me. I’m going to keep you safe, away from these people who want to hurt you. Do you trust me, Ben? Can you trust me?”

  He looked into her eyes. Any questions he may have had or feelings of dismay fizzled out of his thoughts. He was mindless—a zombie.

  “Of course, my Emma.” His eyes felt lethargic. “I trust you.”

  “They killed that boy while he was working on Lucy. He was doing what you’ve been doing—testing the serum.”

  “Are we going to Drapery Falls?”

  “We’re going somewhere safe. Somewhere far from Iain Marcus and Mr. Kalispell. They are aware that you know too much. They killed that boy without the slightest show of remorse or regret. Murder is nothing to them, just part of the job. Tell me, what was Iain thinking about when he killed that man?”

  “Nothing really. He kind of thought he was doing him a favor.”

  “He felt justified. He thinks murder is justifiable. That makes him a very dangerous man. They know you’re having this little, well, this little episode …”

  “Crazy. I’m going crazy.”

  “They know that their secrets are compromised, and that you are compromised, and they will do whatever is in their power to keep you and those secrets suppressed. That’s why we left the apartment, Ben. That’s why we left the city, and that’s why we have to keep moving.”

  “Jesus Christ. Where are we going?”

  “A place where we can be alone. You would like that, Bennie, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes …” The words came out of his mouth, but he had no control over them. “I’ll follow you … anywhere.”

  Chapter 23

  Iain Marcus and Michael Bennet sat in the back of the cramped comms van, pouring over every second of sound and background noise taped from Ben’s apartment prior to his disappearance. The air inside the van was rank with body odor and fast food, a disgusting combination that infuriated Iain even further. Still, he kept himself cool and rational. He’d been cramped in tanks that smelled worse.

  They were joined by a technician named Aaron Tyler, who actively replayed a blip of sound over and over again, a mumble of words too low and quiet to be easily deciphered. Aaron slowed the recording to a fraction of the normal speed, but it was still incomprehensible. The microphone over Ben’s window was badly damaged, and the quality of the recording was compromised. Iain, however, identified a barely audible squeaking sound as the front door.

  “Move on.” Iain instructed.

  Aaron fast-forwarded the recording, focusing on the next blip of sound. Iain took off the heavy earphones and turned to Michael.

  “We’re missing something.”

  Michael nodded, removing his own headphones. There was nothing on the tapes. They had listened to each second of the recording maybe a dozen times. It
was getting them nowhere.

  “We need to think like him, find out where he would go, and why he would go there. What was so pressing that he would disappear early in the morning, without a trace, without his keys?”

  “Without his phone,” Michael added.

  Iain nodded. They’d called his cell phone several times, leaving voice messages in cheerful tones: “Hey, Ben, this is Iain. Listen, we have to meet up. Mr. Kalispell has some good news for you. Call me back when you get this. I’ll be in your neck of the woods today, so I can stop by whenever. It will only take a second. Thanks.”

  It was not until Michael watched the live feed from the apartment, while Iain was calling Ben, that he noticed an illumination from the edge of the couch. Ben left his phone at home, tucked halfway between the couch cushions.

  “Do you still think he left for Paris?” Michael asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  They tapped into his bank account and charge cards. Nothing had been purchased. Even if he bought a plane ticket with cash, the comms team would find out. They had every major airline flying out of Philadelphia, New York, and New Jersey cross-referencing his name.

  “Where else would he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think he went there? You know, to Drapery Falls?”

  Iain shot Michael a glance, looking at Aaron who was listening intently to the recordings. He hissed, “Why would he go there?”

  “I don’t know, maybe he remembered more of his dream. Or maybe he wants to remember more of his dream.”

  “Without his car? I doubt it.” But it wasn’t out of the question. It was a possibility they mulled over, but after tapping into Ben’s computer and going through his internet history, nothing about Drapery Falls came up. The last conversation they had with Ben, Drapery Falls was still nothing more than only a dream. A phantom town. He had no idea the implications the dream carried. The idea was put aside, especially since his car was parked a block away, and his keys were left on the kitchen counter.