The Humanist

by Kenneth James Allen

  The door opens. Santiago and Darnell enter. They exchange glances with me and Grant.

  “Guards!” He yells again, straining against his bonds. His face is red, his hair frazzled. “Guards!”

  They flank him, placing their hands on his shoulders. “He killed them! He did it! He confessed to it! All of it! I’m innocent!” Spit flies from his quivering lips.

  “Come on, Grant,” Darnell groans. “Time to go.”

  “But he did it!” Grant yells. “You guys must’ve heard! He’s guilty!”

  “Shut it,” Santiago shouts.

  “You can’t do this to me! You can’t kill me!”

  “The chaplain is waiting, Grant. It’s too late for any of that.”

  One moment. That moment. Within the struggle, a look from Grant accompanied by a clicking of fingers. They wrestle Grant out the door in a flurry of words I can’t understand, with the slamming of the door silencing his rant. I’m alone in the silence, waiting for Carl to escort me back to the entrance. So much has happened, and there’s still so much to do.

  I look over the room while I wait. The flat table. The walls a little closer than they were when I entered the room. They vibrate. As if they’re alive. The color swirls. They come closer and closer. They are hugging me. Suffocating me.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t breathe.

  My brain pulses, every sound a jackhammer inside my skull.

  I can do nothing but wait.

  Chapter 33

  KOLTON: You’re going to have to give me something, Taylor. Something I can go on. I want to help you, but you got to give me something.

  TAYLOR: Wait, now I remember.

  KOLTON: Remember what?

  TAYLOR: His name.

  KOLTON: Whose name?

  TAYLOR: His name... [indecipherable]

  KOLTON: Repeat that for me, Grant. Clearly. For the record.

  TAYLOR: Sloan. I knew I’d remember. What about him? Have you spoken to him?

  KOLTON: Who’s Sloan?

  TAYLOR: My daughter’s boyfriend. He was supposed to be there.

  KOLTON: Where?

  TAYLOR: At the party. Olivia invited him. But he didn’t show. I don’t know if...but isn’t that strange?

  KOLTON: Does this Sloan have a last name?

  TAYLOR: I...I don’t know. Surely, you can find out.

  KOLTON: I’m just looking for as much help as I can get.

  BARR: I think my client has been more than helpful under the circumstances.

  KOLTON: Grant, can you describe him for me?

  TAYLOR: I’ve never met him. But I’m sure you can find something on him. Text messages, emails, something.

  KOLTON: Are you trying to feed me some bullshit right now? I don’t want to be wasting my time—

  TAYLOR: No! I’m telling you—

  KOLTON: Because all the evidence is pointing right at you.

  BARR: My client has given you a compelling reason to investigate further, detective. It certainly wouldn’t be hard to convince the DA to throw this out because you failed to investigate another potential suspect.

  KOLTON: And I think you should inform your client of the potential outcomes of a murder trial, considering the amount of evidence pointed right at him. Indisputable evidence.

  BARR: My client won’t be answering any more questions.

  KOLTON: Is there anything else you want to tell me?

  TAYLOR: No.

  KOLTON: Are you sure?

  BARR: My client has said enough, detective.

  KOLTON: Very well, then. Interview terminated.

  Chapter 34

  Grant is gone, but I’m still in the same room. I notice how small—claustrophobically tiny—it is. I am now sitting on a chair that is incredibly uncomfortable. It wobbles under my weight, and I can’t find any relief, no matter what position I put myself in. I think about standing, but I remember they told me to sit and not move. That’s an impossible command, as impractical as not breathing. My tired legs tingle.

  There’s nothing on the walls. Just white. But not arctic white or off-white. It’s cream-colored, if someone had left the milk outside in the sun for a week, and now it’s bordering on gray. I search for the door I entered through when I arrived, however it’s no longer there. I search for seams in the wall, to show where it once was, however the surface appears smooth. I want to reach out and run a hand over it, but fear I would be breaking one of their rules if I did so.

  Across the room from me is a mustard-colored door, the one they brought Grant through when I arrived. I’ve been staring at it for ages, waiting for it to open, eagerly anticipating the moment when Carl will come and get me and escort me back to the entrance.

  Beside the door is a video camera. I hadn’t noticed it before, which is strange, because it’s in my line of vision. I can tell it’s on because its little red light is on. I don’t know why there’s a camera there; not sure what it’s supposed to capture. Is someone watching it somewhere? Perhaps some poor sod sitting at a table in a dark room, staring at the grainy image while shoveling handfuls of popcorn into their mouth.

  I’m thirsty. I wish Carl or Santiago or Darnell or anyone would come to give me some water. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I bite down on my tongue. My mouth floods with saliva, and I swallow it down. How much longer is this going to take?

  The door opens unexpectantly, making me jump. Not because I’m jumpy, or nervous, or uncertain, but because I was thinking the door was a static picture. I get to my feet, believing Carl is here to escort me away, back to the entrance, back to my car, back to the airport, back to my life.

  But it’s not Carl. It’s Grant Taylor. He’s not dressed in his orange garb—he’s uncuffed and alone. He’s wearing a white coat, with a white business shirt underneath that’s held in place with a checkered bowtie. He carries a clipboard under one arm. He looks different—fuller, fatter, more olive, less white. More aware, less resigned.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I say, standing up. “Do the guards know you’re walking around in a doctor’s coat? Shit, are you trying to escape? Holy shit, you’re trying to escape!”

  He pushes his wire-frame glasses up his nose. “Sit down.”

  “I can’t have that, Grant. I can’t have you out there spreading my story. That was just for us!”

  “Sit,” he repeats. It’s a short, barking command that almost pushes me over.

  I observe him with infinite detail. His demeanor has changed. Authority and power radiate out of him.

  I take a deep breath. “Guards!” I yell at the top of my lungs. “Guards!” I repeat.

  Taylor puts the clipboard on the table and holds out his hands. “Shh. Come now.” His voice is calmer. “There’s no need for this. Let me explain. Please sit so I can help you understand.”

  I ignore him.

  The door opens again, and I wait for a surprised Santiago or Darnell to realize a death row prisoner is escaping on their watch. But there are no guards—just another man. Dark, closely-cropped hair, graying at the sides. Green eyes. Wearing a suit and a loose tie. He is very familiar to me; I would recognize him anywhere.

  They both sit. Taylor places his clipboard down in front of himself.

  I turn my attention to the new entrant. “Mr. Tealson?” I ask. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “You,” he says, pointing at me. “Sit the fuck down!”

  I obey immediately, like Pavlov’s dog. I look at the patch on his head, above his left eye.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” he barks back at me and folds his arms.

  Grant gives him a look, and Tealson replies with one that says, “I told you so.”

  I lean forward on the table and direct my words toward Tealson. “Look, I don’t know how you followed me here, but what’s going on? You do know that’s Grant Taylor, right? The convicted murderer? They’re about to execute him, for fuck’s sake.”

  Tealson
just stares at me, chewing invisible gum. He looks like he’s trying to keep his arms pressed against his body. A tiger in a cage. Wants to pounce. Eventually he leans to Grant and whispers, “This isn’t working. We need to change.”

  Taylor adjusts himself in his seat. Clears his throat. “Agreed. Let’s start over.” Then he looks at me. “It’s time,” Taylor says. He clasps his hands over the clipboard. “It’s time to stop this charade.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a nice story,” he says. “But it’s missing the one thing we need.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.”

  “What’s your name?” Taylor asks.

  “Atlas,” I reply. “Atlas Jones. I told you that when I arrived. Now, I’d really like to be on my way. You can do whatever it is you were trying to do. I won’t tell anybody.”

  Taylor shakes his head. “Let’s just stay here for a little moment, shall we?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Now, we’d like to go back to Jason. Show us Jason, please.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Jason,” he repeats. “Jason Steal. It’s very important we talk with him.”

  “I don’t know any Jason. Sorry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d really like to leave.”

  “You are Jason Steal,” Taylor says.

  “Why do you keep saying that?” I ask, exasperated. “I know who I am!”

  I look to Tealson for support—something, anything.

  Tealson ignores my plea and asks, “What year is it?”

  “What do you mean by that? Why do you keep asking me these ridiculous questions?”

  “Just answer the question,” Tealson says firmly.

  I compose myself. I run a hand over my tie then run my fingers through my hair. The last thing you want to do in a situation like this is sound crazy. You need to be in control of the things you say and how you say it, I tell myself. If you go off ranting and raving, they’ll think it’s the voices in your head. You can’t let them know about the voices in your head. They are for you. I learned that a long time ago.

  “It’s 2011.” I point to Taylor. “I came here today because you are due for execution.”

  Taylor brings his hands together on the table, making a steeple with his fingers. “Jason, the year is 2019.”

  It’s a trick. They always try to trick you, to get you to say something you didn’t want to say. You need to show confidence. I will not be the punchline.

  I smile. “Ah, I see what you guys are trying to do here. Did the warden put you up to this?” I look around the room. “Is this a prank?” I wait for Carl to escort me out.

  “The year is 2019,” Taylor repeats. “Your name is Jason Steal.”

  I stiffen, then stretch my neck. It cracks. Don’t listen to them. Don’t let them in. Don’t let them trick you. Don’t let them control you.

  Taylor turns his clipboard around and positions it in front of me. “Let me help you understand.”

  There are two names written on an otherwise blank piece of paper, one on top of the other.

  “Look,” Taylor says as he pulls a pen from his breast pocket. “Atlas Jones, who you claim to be, this persona, is an anagram of your name, Jason Steal.” He points from name to name, showing how the letters change position. “See? The same letters. You are Jason Steal. That is your primary persona.”

  “I...I don’t know what you are talking about.” I grab my head to quell the throb that’s pulsing in my brain. I pull away, the burning sensation working its way across my skull.

  “We can tell you everything,” Taylor says, “but we first need to talk with Jason. I know this must be hard, but I need you to try.”

  I rub my forehead. “Just because you keep saying it doesn’t make it true. I know who I am!” Out of the corner of my eyes I see something. I look down, trying to reason with what I’m seeing. “What happened to my clothes?” I say, tugging at a white gown.

  Taylor sighs. “I’m sorry for what is about to happen. There doesn’t appear to be any other way, not now, not like there used to be.”

  I fold my arms. It feels uncomfortable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Look again,” Taylor says, pushing forward with his agenda. “The people you claim to play poker with. What did you call them? You gave them names.”

  “I did. Jean, Alan, Sean, Olessa, and Nate.”

  “Don’t you find that interesting, Jason?”

  Jason. The name doesn’t resonate. I shrug.

  Taylor picks up his pen again and I’m instantly transfixed. He points to the first letter of each name on the list. “Jean, Alan, Sean, Olessa, and Nate. You created names based on each letter in your name.”

  “But, why would I do that? My name is Atlas,” I charge. “Atlas Jones.”

  “And each name,” Taylor continues, “is also an anagram of your name, Jason Steal. See? Jean, J. Alan, A. Sean, S. And so on. They’re characters that are part of you.” He shows me how, but it makes no sense why I would do it.

  “Still means nothing,” I say defiantly. My head now feels like it’s splitting in two. “Can I go now? I would really like to go now.”

  Tealson crosses his arms. “No, you cannot fucking go now.”

  Taylor continues. “Let’s look at the characters in your story, shall we?” He moves the clipboard in front of himself, pen in hand. “Aston, Janet, Stone, Tessa, Talon, Elton.” He writes each down the side of the page. He then moves the page back in front of me. I look but don’t touch. Touching means interest. Interest means ownership. Ownership means taking responsibility. What am I taking responsibility for? What have you done?

  Taylor points at each name with his pen as he talks. “Every single one of these names is an anagram of yours. All the letters are contained within your name, Jason Steal.”

  I look at all the letters on the page. They jump and move about, creating new combinations. Anjela. Easton. Jetson.

  “Is it still a coincidence, Jason?” Taylor asks, his eyes peering over the top of his glasses.

  Jason. Jason. Jason. “Well, what about you? Grant Taylor? That isn’t an anagram. Same with Olivia. And what about Isabelle Chalmers? What about them? This is all bullshit!”

  I shouldn’t have said “bullshit.” That’s too aggressive. Aggression means you’re panicking. Panicking means you’re guilty. You’re not guilty...are you? I should’ve said something along the lines of, “I disagree with your hypothesis,” or something wonky like that. Don’t let them be the intellectual superiority. You’re smarter than they are; they just don’t realize it yet.

  “You are correct, Jason,” Taylor says. “Grant and Olivia and Isabelle are real people. But I am not Grant Taylor, as much as you think I am, or as much as you want me to be.”

  We size each other up. My head is spinning. Keep your head. I can’t. Keep it.

  “My name is Dr. Galdini. I...run this facility.” A slight pause. Small oscillations in pitch. Is he nervous? Lying? “You, Jason, are a patient here.”

  My breath catches in my throat. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what is real. Were they implanting reality into me—or helping me see the real world?

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “No!”

  How much could I trust? Nothing felt real—not the room I was in or the clothes on my back. I looked down. My Armani suit replaced with plain white garbs. I ran a hand over them, inspecting the magic trick, then looked at my hands. Are these my hands? Nothing is familiar.

  Jason? Jason. Jason.

  I look at Tealson, but say to Taylor, “I guess you’re about to tell me this isn’t my boss, Mr. Tealson.”

  I mouth to Tealson, Get me out of here.

  He looks over to Taylor (or Dr. Galdini, if he’s to be believed), who waves an inviting hand toward me.

  “My name is Kolton,” he states, disappointment mixes with frustration.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m fairly
sure you are Mr. Tealson. I should know because we worked together for many years. You’re the reason I am who I am today.”

  The recipient of my remark scoffs openly.

  “Kolton is here to find out information,” Taylor says. “A critical piece of information we were hoping Atlas would know.”

  I shrug. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Tealson grunts. “Everything you’ve said is complete bullshit. You’ve never owned an apartment on the West Side. Wakefield & Gold doesn’t exist. You don’t even know what year it is. You’re talking about events and television shows from eight years ago. You’re fucking unreliable. I don’t trust anything you say.”

  “Which is why we need to talk to Jason,” Taylor adds.

  Tealson stands and places his palms on the table, his bulk looming over me. “I need to know, Sloan. I need to know. And you’re going to tell me what I want to hear.”

  Taylor places a hand on Tealson’s arm. “Okay. We need not escalate things. This will not help the situation. You know who we don’t want to talk to.”

  I rise, slowly, keeping eye contact with Tealson. I cock my head to the side. “I’m telling you the truth! I don’t know who Jason is. My name is Atlas Jones.”

  Jason. Jason. Jason!

  #

  I stumble back, my ears ringing. I blink slowly. The scene around me fades to black, then to white. My eyelids flutter as I take in my surroundings. I look at my hands, turning them over. They look familiar.

  I look up and point to the man on the right. “Hey, I know you. Galdini, right? Doctor Galdini?

  “Jason?” he replies.

  “What?” I say, shaking my head. “No! Sloan.”

  “Where’s Jason?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I look over to the other person sitting at the table. “Oh. You. Kolton. I heard about you. Heard about both of you.”

  “Doc?” Kolton asks. “What the actual fuck is going on here?”

  Galdini holds up his hand. “Just... Just give me a few minutes.”

  Kolton shrugs impatiently.

  “Who told you?” Galdini asks. “Who told you about us?”