It was well past midnight, but Tom didn’t want to go to sleep. He had lost five days to unconsciousness, and he didn’t feel that it deserved any more of his life right now.
He was sitting on his bed, computer in his lap, searching the Internet. What was the name of that award she was nominated for? he asked himself, fingers paused over the plastic keys. Ernest Hemingway, he remembered, typing the author’s name into the search engine.
Tom knew he was pushing his luck. He hadn’t bothered to work out or nap during the day. His parents would probably say he was rebelling against his illness again, but the explanation was much simpler. He really was afraid—afraid of his dreams. Bizarre images from the hypnagogic hallucination he’d had the other night flashed through his mind, and he felt that disconcerting tingle at the back of his neck as the hair there stood on end. He’d had many hallucinations, but none had ever stayed with him like this one.
He saw the old man again, the flowers of blood blossoming on his chest as he fell backward to the fireplace hearth. Tom rubbed vigorously at his eyes, trying to make the images of the dying man disappear—the man that he had killed.
No. He hadn’t killed anyone; it was only a dream. A screwed-up dream.
He reached over to his nightstand for the open can of Coke. Another big-time no-no, caffeine before bed, but he didn’t care—it helped to keep him awake.
“Okay, where was I?” He took a deep breath and focused his attention back on the laptop. This must be it, he thought, clicking on the site for the Ernest Hemingway Writing Awards for High School Journalists.
He was curious if the site had any work posted from the people who had been nominated. Luckily it did, including the year Madison was nominated. He found her name with three others under the heading Runners-up and called up her entry. He was thinking he might be able to impress her by talking about the article at dinner tomorrow night.
Dinner. Crap. He’d forgotten to tell his mother about their guest, and he briefly toyed with the idea of going to tell her now. Nah, he decided. She’d probably already be asleep and then mad that he was still awake. I’ll tell her in the morning, he decided, and went back to Madison’s article.
It was a piece on a small nursing home in Chicago and how its residents had become their own extended family, doing their best to care for each other, offering support and sharing families with those residents who didn’t have any. The story was really well written, and he wondered how it could possibly have been beaten out by an article on monkeys, but then again, he was slightly biased.
Tom’s mind started to wander as the image of Madison lying out in her bikini top took over front and center. Pretty much where it had been since he’d seen her earlier.
He was smiling when explosions of crimson suddenly blasted through the image. An old man’s withered mouth rose up from the sea of thick red, struggling to speak. To say the word that Tom had not been able to hear during last night’s hallucination.
“Janus,” said the mouth as it filled with blood, and the crimson liquid became like an ocean swallowing up the trembling maw before it could speak again, and everything turned to red.
The sensation of the computer sliding from his lap was enough to pull Tom from the grip of the bloody vision, and he caught it just as it was about to fall over the edge of his bed. His breath was coming in quick, labored gasps and his heart beat incredibly fast as he carefully placed the laptop safely down on the bed beside him. Hallucinations had been a part of his life for nearly as long as he could remember, generally bizarre, sometimes disturbing. And he had learned to live with them, riding them out until they were finished or until he could manage to break their hold on him. But there was something about these latest visions that he found absolutely terrifying. These were different, almost real.
“Janus,” he said aloud, trying out the word. The smell of blood was suddenly in his nostrils, and Tom wanted to gag. He had read once that intense hallucinations and unexplained smells were the first signs of a brain tumor and wondered if that was the answer to recent events.
Janus. He couldn’t get the word out of his mind. It echoed inside his head, the old man’s voice wet with blood.
Tom glanced at the laptop beside him and quickly picked it up, typing the mysterious name into the same search engine he’d used to locate Madison’s article. The results were typical, ranging from computer software companies to porn sites. He scanned the length of the page until his eyes landed on something different. It was a description from a site dedicated to world myths and legends, where he learned that Janus was a lesser god of Roman mythology. He clicked on the site to learn more.
Janus was the Roman god of gates and doors, he read, beginnings and endings, represented by a double-faced head, each looking in opposite directions. Tom scrolled down the page until he came to a photograph of a statue of the god. He focused on the two faces. Both were the same, but one wore a look of calm, the other an expression of ferocity.
For a moment Tom felt himself begin to slip away, like he was about to be sucked into another of his bizarre visions. Instead his fingers began typing, seemingly on their own, and he was calling up a site that he’d had no previous knowledge of.
The site downloaded and a picture of a heavy wooden door appeared on his screen, the kind of door that might be found on a log cabin. A haunting piece of classical music began to play, startling him.
A blank window appeared beneath the picture of the door, where a password was supposed to be entered. Tom stared at the space, and suddenly the Latin word for truth inexplicably popped into his head. Feeling the slightest twinge of fear, he typed veritas into the space and then hit enter.
The screen went blank, and his modem began to make bizarre noises. Shit, he thought, hitting the escape key, hoping he hadn’t just opened the door to some nasty virus that would destroy his hard drive. He hit escape again just for good measure. What was he thinking? How could he have done something so …
The screen blinked out momentarily, and then a video began to play. Tom gasped, hypnotized by the image of the old man from his dream, sitting in a high-backed leather chair before a roaring fireplace, a red blanket draped over his legs. The old man was looking at him, a warm smile on his grandfatherly features.
“Hello, Tom,” the man said. “If you’ve found this, then it means that I am dead, and things have been set in motion that cannot be permitted to continue.”
Tom felt like he was being electrocuted, raw voltage coursing through his body, holding him in place. He couldn’t take his eyes off the computer screen—off the old man.
“First, let me assure you, this is not a product of your illness but the beginning of a process that will reveal to you the truth and set you free. There are things you must know about yourself, Tom, things that have been hidden from you.”
Tom began to panic, terrified that he was losing his mind. His finger moved toward the power button.
“You must listen carefully to me, Tom,” the mysterious old man cautioned. “I need you to sleep.”
Tom tried to hit the power button, but his limbs suddenly weighed hundreds of pounds, and he found that he could no longer keep his eyes open. “No,” he gasped, his chin lolling down to touch his chest.
“That’s it, Tom,” the old man was saying. “Nice and easy.”
Tom fought hard but was pulled deeper and deeper.
“There is so much to tell you.” The old man’s voice followed him into the realm of dreams. “Soon it will all be revealed. But first, sleep. Go ahead, Tom, just let yourself sleep.”
Chapter 8
Christian Tremain’s hand shook uncontrollably as he brought the coffee cup to his lips, its contents spilling over the rim and down his chin, staining his tie.
“It’s going to be one of those days,” he grumbled, cursing under his breath as he placed the cup into the holder and searched the glove compartment for napkins. He found three and dabbed at the wet spots dappling the surface of his navy blue silk tie,
hoping the subdued yellow checks would hide the stains.
Tremain tossed two of the crumpled napkins into the paper bag that had once contained his coffee and again reached for the cup. His hand still shook.
Carefully he lifted the coffee to his mouth again, clutching the third napkin in his other hand just in case. Tremain watched the rain fall outside his car—the precipitation so heavy that the drains in the parking lot of the Lancelot Psychiatric Facility were having difficulty keeping up.
He didn’t want to get out of the car—not because of the rain; the sun could be shining for all he cared. He just didn’t think he had the strength for another day.
What choice do you have? a voice somewhere in the back of his thoughts asked. This is your job—your responsibility. Think of the lives that could be lost if you were to fall down on the job.
Christian Tremain sipped his hot drink, watching the rain and remembering how he had come to be here.
They had recruited him from the CIA’s clandestine operations department, where he’d always imagined he would grow old and eventually retire. They called themselves the Pandora Group, and they’d piqued his curiosity the moment they made contact. They were a covert government agency working outside the constraints of the political machine: an agency in charge of the research and development of new technologies used to keep this great country safe.
The rain continued to pound the roof of his car in a frantic, staccato beat. His coffee was nearly cold, but still he drank, the final sips of the beverage bitter on his tongue.
Pandora was what intelligence agencies referred to as a black box operation, with monies filtered in from any number of legitimate federally funded programs. Tremain had always wondered about the Pentagon’s two-thousand-dollar toilet seats and the hundred thousand dollars spent by the air force to study the effect of the noise of jet engines on horses. Now he knew that this money was actually going to Pandora.
Why the secrecy? he was sure the average citizen would ask, and he would have to answer that occasionally things operatives within the group had to do were, well, viewed as amoral. So Pandora worked in secret, keeping the world safe from bad guys—at least that was what he’d told himself during his first years with the organization.
Tremain realized that his cup was empty and dropped it inside the bag on the passenger seat. The rain had diminished to a heavy mist, and he knew he could no longer put off his latest assignment.
Five years ago they had promoted him to the position of director of operations. It was supposed to be a cushy job, sitting in a big office in Washington behind an equally impressive desk, signing his name to documents authorizing programs that would keep this country safe. But he didn’t see it that way. He wanted to know what was being done in the name of science—in the name of protecting the citizens of the United States. And what he had seen in his five years as director had changed him dramatically.
Biological warfare, nanotechnology, genetic engineering, advanced robotics, weather manipulation: these were but a smattering of the fields being mined by groups working under the umbrella of the Pandora Group. What he had seen at some of these facilities had chilled him to the soul; the destructive potential of these sciences, should they be released upon the world, was mind-numbingly horrific.
And Tremain had made it his personal mission to see that that never happened.
He opened the car door and got out into the heavy mist. It was incredibly humid in West Virginia this time of year, and he debated whether to leave his raincoat behind but decided against it, slamming his car door closed and making his away across the parking lot to the building’s front entrance.
The Lancelot Psychiatric Facility had been closed for over twenty years, and the public believed the building now housed a research group searching for a cure for autism. If only that were the case, Tremain thought as he slowly climbed the concrete steps to the front doors. Actually it was home to one of Pandora’s most intriguing endeavors, the Janus Project.
At the top of the stairs he pushed an intercom button.
“Yes?” came a cheerful-sounding voice from the mounted speaker.
“Christian Tremain to see Brandon Kavanagh,” he said. A gust of moist wind made him pull up the collar of his raincoat. He was glad he had decided to wear it.
“Very good, sir,” the pleasant voice responded, and a buzz sounded as the electronic lock disengaged.
The waiting area was painted a soft shade of green, and its calming atmosphere reminded him of a doctor’s office. A door opened to the right of an empty reception desk, and an attractive older woman entered the room, accompanied by two large men. She smiled as she walked toward him. “If we could see some identification, please,” she said pleasantly.
“Of course,” Tremain responded. He pulled his wallet out of his suit coat, flipped it open, and handed it to her.
“Thank you, Mr. Tremain,” she said with a gracious smile, folding up the wallet and handing it back to him. “Follow me, please.” She gestured back toward the door behind her.
She punched in a code on a keypad beside the door. The two silent men walked at a polite distance behind them as they proceeded down a brightly lit corridor into the body of the facility. They took a right and came to another locked door with a small security camera mounted above it. Tremain listened to the faint hum of its pivoting mechanism as it trained its focus on them.
“Mr. Tremain, sir,” the woman said, gazing up into the small electronic eye.
Tremain looked up as well, imagining Kavanagh on the other side, scrutinizing his appearance, attempting to read his body language, eager for some inkling as to why he had requested this meeting.
Brandon Kavanagh had been with Pandora for about as long as Tremain had. In fact, the two men had served together on an acquisitions committee, before his own appointment as director and Kavanagh’s to the Janus Project. It had been several years since they had seen each other. Tremain remembered his old acquaintance as arrogant and frighteningly brilliant but was having a great deal of difficulty recalling any of the man’s likable qualities.
The door unlocked with another electronic buzz and the woman pulled it open so that he could enter. “Down the hall and to your left,” she directed.
He thanked her and walked down the short hallway until he came to a door on the left, slightly ajar. He rapped on the door frame with his knuckle before entering.
“Come in,” called a voice from inside, and Tremain did. He stepped into the spacious office and observed Kavanagh on the phone behind his desk. The man looked pretty much as he remembered, except for the nearly white hair, now worn extremely short.
Tremain looked around the office. It was nice, much nicer than his own back at operations. The dark wood paneling, track lighting, and framed artwork on the walls created a soothing environment. He noticed a coatrack in the corner and hung his rain-soaked coat on one of its hooks just as Kavanagh finished up his conversation.
“Sorry about that, Chris,” Kavanagh said, leaning down to jot something on a notepad on the desk. “I’m surprised they can go to the bathroom without me to show them how it’s done.” He tossed down the pen and came around the desk, hand extended. “It’s great to see you.” A smile lit his handsome features. “It’s been a long time.”
Tremain took Kavanagh’s hand and they shook. “It has, hasn’t it,” he answered politely. If he had managed never to see the man again in his lifetime, it wouldn’t have fazed him in the least.
“Please, have a seat,” Kavanagh said gesturing toward a leather chair in front of his desk as he went around to the other side. “I was a bit surprised to hear that you were coming down,” he said, settling into his chair. “But at the same time a little excited. I think Pandora is going to be quite pleased with the advances we’ve made over the last six months.”
A knock sounded at the door, and the assistant entered carrying a tray with coffee. The men thanked her, and she left with a radiant smile. “If you gentlemen need anythi
ng else, just call.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without Karen,” Kavanagh said as he reached down and pulled a bottle of whisky from his bottom desk drawer. “Can I spice up your coffee a bit?” he asked with a wry smile.
There was nothing Tremain wanted more. Hell, he would have preferred to dump the coffee and just have the whisky, but that wasn’t how it was now. As much as he craved it, he didn’t drink anymore.
“No thank you,” he replied, bringing his cup to his mouth, struggling to suppress the tremble.
“Are you sure?” Kavanagh enticed him. “It’s Glenfiddich.”
Tremain had been sober for six months and for six months able to think clearly. He didn’t want to go back to the way things had been: looking at his life—his job—as if from a distance.
He shook his head as he placed his cup down on the saucer. “This is perfectly fine, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Kavanagh returned the whisky to the drawer. “As I was saying, you won’t be leaving here disappointed.” He reached out and picked up a small remote control from the desktop, pointing to the wall behind him.
There was a faint hum and the wall slowly began to split open, revealing rows of television monitors. Multiple images appeared on the various screens. “As you can see, we’re quite busy here,” Kavanagh said proudly.
Tremain sipped his coffee as he studied each monitor. Scenes of incredible violence suddenly erupted on each of screens, startling him, hitting him like a slap across the face. He had already reviewed the files on Janus and knew that the project had made substantial advances. But this, it only made what he had come to do all the more pressing.
“You have been busy,” he said, leaning forward to place his cup and saucer on the corner of Kavanagh’s desk. “Which makes what I’m about to tell you so troubling.”
Kavanagh quickly looked away from the screens. “I don’t like the sound of that,” he said, picking up the remote again and turning off the monitors.
Sleeper Code Page 7
