Kill Switch

by Gordon Bonnet

  For the first time since he awakened, he felt a pang of fear, but it still seemed distant, padded, indistinct. The drug was wearing off. At least that meant that he’d be able to react faster, and fight harder, if necessary.

  They came to a somewhat larger door, with another keypad. Again, his captor entered a code, and there was a soft click as a lock turned. He pulled the door open, and they walked into a room that looked like a cross between a medical laboratory and an executive office. There were spotless tiles, a large picture window overlooking woods, and several obviously expensive chairs, but to one side sat a rather formidable examining table, and a tray with several syringes and an array of other, less recognizable instruments.

  A silver-haired elderly man was seated in one of the chairs. He looked up at Drolezki and gave him a grandfatherly smile.

  “Ah, Mr. Drolezki.” His voice was tinged with faint traces of a British accent. “I’m so glad you have finally arrived. You are a bit later than I had been given to understand.”

  “We had to wait until the sedative wore off.”

  Chris looked over at him. Drolezki’s voice was subdued, hesitant. Here was someone who outranked the agent, probably by several orders of magnitude. Gone was all of his swaggering, bullshit toughness. He looked like a school kid who had been sent to the principal for swearing in class.

  The elderly man waved it away. “It is of no consequence. Do not trouble yourself about it.”

  Drolezki looked at him, uncertain, for a moment, and then turned back toward the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Drolezki.” It was said almost as an afterthought. “One more thing, before you go.”

  Drolezki turned back, his face full of apprehension. “Yes?”

  “There is the matter of the dog, Mr. Drolezki. Mr. Corgan told me about the matter of the dog. That was sloppy, Mr. Drolezki.”

  “I didn’t think the dog mattered.”

  “You should know by now. Everything matters.”

  “But a dog—”

  “Had the dog been neutralized, it would be, as they say, a done deal. Did we not make it clear that any possible link to Mr. Franzia had to be neutralized? No exceptions?”

  “Well, yes, but there were other people he met, and nothing was being done… and a dog… I didn’t think…”

  “No, Mr. Drolezki. That is correct. You didn’t think.” The man picked up a small remote that was on the table next to him and touched a button.

  Drolezki let out a long, drilling shriek. Chris’s jumped backward in shock. The muscular, tough man who had brought him, singlehanded, from Wyoming to Washington, clawed at his face in agony, his back arched, legs rigid. It went on for what seemed like minutes.

  “Goddammit, stop!” Chris turned toward the man, who was still sitting there, watching Drolezki with a bland smile. “Stop it!”

  A shrug. “As you wish. Interesting that you show such concern for a man who would kill you without hesitation if I gave the order.” He pressed another button, and Drolezki dropped to his knees, sobbing. “Hard to fathom such misplaced compassion. But then, he spared your dog, so perhaps you owe him that much.”

  Drolezki gradually got control of himself, and looked up at the elderly man with a combination of fear and hatred and submission. He reached up and dragged one sleeve across his streaming eyes.

  “Now,” the man said, his voice still gentle and urbane. “You may go. You may consider your error paid for, in full. We will speak no more of it.”

  Drolezki struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the door.

  The door shut behind him, and Chris was alone with the elderly man, who was still wearing a faint smile.

  “What did you do to him?” He knew the euphoria wouldn’t last much longer. He was afraid now.

  Whoever he was, he wasn’t the least bit concerned with what he’d just done. “Nothing that will do any lasting harm, unless perhaps to his emotional state. Simple stimulation of the trigeminal nerve, via an implant. Trigeminal neuralgia is, they say, the most painful condition in the world, to the point that people who suffer from it naturally call it ‘suicide syndrome.’ Being able to induce it artificially, and turn it off at will, is useful in giving reminders.”

  “Drolezki needed a reminder?”

  “I find that most people do, on occasion. A short one, every so often, serves to focus the mind amazingly well. But now, Mr. Franzia, there is no need to discuss such unpleasantness. Please. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink?”

  Chris sat in one of the chairs and shook his head.

  “As you wish. I trust you know why you are here.”

  “Some of it. Apparently I know something I’m not supposed to know, and once you find out what it is, you’re going to have me executed.”

  The man frowned. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Crudely put. But accurate, at least in the essentials, unfortunately.”

  “What exactly do you think I know that is so important?”

  “That is what I intend to find out. You gave my people quite a merry chase, you know.” His eyes twinkled. “It might have been easier had you acquiesced and died quietly. But then, of course, I would not have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, and that would have been a pity.”

  “What about Elisa?”

  “Ms. Reed? She is here, as well. I expect you would like to see her, but I am afraid that that will be impossible, although I very much regret it.”

  “But if we’re both going to be killed, what’s the harm?”

  The man raised one eyebrow. “A tearful kiss farewell, you mean? How marvelously romantic. I was given to understand the two of you had never consummated a relationship.”

  Chris snickered and was immediately surprised at himself for reacting that way, but suddenly the entire thing seemed ridiculous. The fact that these people had gone to great effort, and probably great expense, to track down a harmless middle-aged schoolteacher from upstate New York, and now he was sitting in some kind of high-tech torture chamber in western Washington talking about whether he and Elisa had ever slept together.

  “No, we never had sex, if that’s what you’re saying. But yeah, if it comes to that. I would like to kiss her. Just once, if that’s all I’ve got.”

  The man’s smile faded a little. “I see no point in it. But I suppose you’re right. There is no harm. And even condemned men are allowed one last visit with their loved ones.”

  He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Very kind of you.”

  “You will find that we are no kinder, nor more brutal, than most people.”

  “I wonder if Drolezki would agree with that, after your ‘little reminder?’”

  The man frowned. “Mr. Drolezki understands that there are great things at stake.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He kept telling me about all these great things. What are they, anyway?”

  “Now, now, Mr. Franzia, patience. I am asking the questions, please. Why don’t we start with your recounting whatever you recall about your field trips, with your college friends, up into the Cascade Mountains, back when you were at the University of Washington.”

  “So I was right. That is what this is all about.”

  “Yes. In part, at least. What do you recall of those youthful expeditions into the mountains?”

  “Can you tell me first why on earth I should answer any of your questions instead of just telling you to fuck off?”

  “Oh, certainly. That is an understandable question, given the circumstances, if a bit crude in formulation. The easiest answer is that I can kill you any time I desire to. If you cooperate, I can make that death quieter and easier than any man has a right to expect. A gentle drop into blissful darkness and rest. If you do not, I can make it more painful than anything you can imagine. You saw what Mr. Drolezki endured? Perhaps that gives you some understanding of what we are capable of, technologically.” He smiled a little. “You will beg for death, plead for it, before you find it. I can stretch out what Mr. Drolezki just experienc
ed into hours, days, make it subside only to make it intensify, until finally your mind breaks. It is a choice between cooperation and a swift, easy release, and defiance and an excruciating and protracted journey toward death. Do you find my answer sufficient?”

  Chris cocked an eyebrow at him. “So, without all of the flowery verbiage… tell you what I know, or you’ll beat it out of me, and either way I’ll end up dying, so I might as well cooperate.”

  “Again, crudely put, but essentially correct. Now, why don’t you tell me what you remember about the class you took at the University of Washington, and the field trips you went on, and we can avoid discussing further unpleasantries.”

  This was one of those times to choose his battles. Play along, for now, and look for any possible way out.

  “Fine. You win.” He held up both hands, palms out, in a sign of surrender. “The Field Biology class? It was just a class. We went up more than once, sometimes to low-elevation sites, sometimes high ones. We took a couple of trips up to Teanaway Pass and Lake Ingalls. Camped, did bird banding and general wildlife surveys.”

  “You went up with a professor and perhaps two dozen other students?”

  “Yes. Plus two assistants, I think.”

  “And while you were up there, near Lake Ingalls, I believe you and six of your classmates discovered something intriguing.”

  “A cave. A cave in a hillside.”

  “Ah!” The man waggled his finger at Chris. “So you do recall that, then.”

  “No. Not at all. Elisa told me about it. In an email. She said I was there, and I have no reason to think she was remembering wrong, but I have no memory of it at all. It’s as if it never happened.”

  “Think carefully, Mr. Franzia. If you were there, the memories are somewhere in your brain. Memories can be suppressed, but not, apparently, erased. It was an error to assume the contrary. I want you to cast your mind back to the last trip you took with your class, up and over Teanaway Pass. You and your six friends went away one afternoon and discovered a cave. You were gone for hours. In fact, your professor was considering going out with one of the assistants to look for the seven of you when you came back under your own power. You have no memory of this?”

  “No. None. I mean, Elisa described it to me—”

  “No!” The man slapped the tabletop with the palm of his hand, causing Chris to jump in his seat. “Do not conflate your memory with what you’ve been told. I am not interested in hearing you tell me what Ms. Reed remembers. We will have that out of her directly. I want to hear what is in your mind alone.”

  “But nothing is. I really, honestly, don’t remember anything.” He felt himself close to laughing again and tried to keep himself from smiling. “It really is kind of absurd, isn’t it? All of this fuss to find out I don’t know anything of value.”

  The man’s voice dropped, became silky, dangerous. “Oh, I don’t think that is necessarily the case. As I said, it is seldom memories are truly forgotten. They are usually accessible, with a little bit of assistance.” He gestured toward Chris with a well-manicured hand. “Might I ask you to remove your shirt, Mr. Franzia?”

  A cold sweat broke out on his forehead. “Why do you ask? Is this when the torture begins?”

  He expected the man to get angry, but he smiled, instead. “Torture? Floggings and such things? We have progressed beyond such barbarism, even though the public spectacle of times past could be looked upon as a useful means of convincing the general populace to cooperate. No, I intend you no harm, and little in the way of pain, I assure you. Now please do as I say. I suspect you are aware I could summon help with a touch of a button, and my assistants would be much less gentle in removing your shirt than you might be comfortable with. So please, Mr. Franzia.”

  Chris’s jump toward the old man was as sudden as a trap springing. He had never been in a fistfight before. He had always been a genial person, right back to childhood, and had made friends easily and seldom angered anyone. His own strength and reflexes surprised him. His greater body weight knocked the man’s chair over backwards, and Chris landed on top of him, one knee solidly in his enemy’s solar plexus. There was a wheezing gasp as the old man’s breath came out in a rush, and then his fist made solid contact with the old man’s mouth.

  It was probably hopeless from the beginning, but that realization would only come in hindsight. The door was locked, so there would have been no way out even if he had had the chance. But seconds after his punch struck home, another door burst open, and two broad-chested men in orderlies’ scrubs rushed in. Chris was lifted bodily from the floor, and his arms pinned behind him.

  The old man stood, stiffly, and wiped a thin thread of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Foolish. A foolish and pointless act. Perhaps understandable, given your situation, but still, it will be paid for.”

  He nodded to his henchman, and Chris’s shirt was pulled backwards. Buttons popped and flew, pattering down onto the tiles like hail, and the shredded remains of his shirt were tossed onto the floor. Then he was dragged back toward the examination table, forced onto it, and his arms and legs secured with straps.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” The old man’s voice had regained some of its previous cultured urbanity. “You may leave us. Please let the doctor know we’ll be ready presently.”

  The two men left through the same door, without uttering a word. Assholes. Automatons, of the same stock as Drolezki.

  Chris struggled against the straps but could get no purchase. The elderly man approached the table and dismissed his efforts with a wave. “Please, Mr. Franzia, These straps are quite impossible to break, even for someone with far greater physical strength than you have. You are exhausting yourself for nothing.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The man shrugged. “As you wish. If it amuses you, by all means keep struggling. You will simply end with bruised and cut skin on your arms, for no good reason.”

  He subsided, but still stared up at the imperturbable face of the old man with an expression of fierce hostility. “Before you kill me, I just want to know one thing. Just one.”

  “If it’s a question I can answer, I suppose you have the right to that, at least.”

  “You people somehow cracked our code. Elisa and I came up with a code we thought there was no way anyone could break. You probably tracked me using some kind of bug. Somehow you put one on me, or my dog, and followed me around that way. I thought I’d lost you in Nebraska, but then somehow, you captured Elisa and used her as bait to get me. So before you start to interrogate me, or torture me, or whatever you’re planning on doing, just tell me, how did you find Elisa? Because the code was something no one else who is still alive would have known about.”

  The man looked down at him with a beatific smile. “Yes, that was clever, I must admit. Ms. Reed showed great ingenuity to come up with such a system. I think I will let someone else explain, however.”

  “Why?” Chris gave an angry snort of laughter. “Watching me strapped down shirtless to an examining table giving you too much of a boner to think straight?”

  The man chuckled again, shook his head. “Such noble defiance, and such a flair for drama.” He reached for the remote, and Chris winced, expecting to feel a flare of searing pain, but instead there was a click from a speaker, and the man said, “We are ready for you. If you would join us, please?”

  A female voice replied. “Be right there.”

  He turned back to Chris. “We have found that our interrogations are best supervised by a qualified doctor. Although I will be asking the questions, she will be responsible for the physiological side of things.”

  There was a soft click as a lock turned, and the same door that the orderlies had used earlier opened. A woman wearing a white lab jacket came in, a stethoscope around her neck. She had straight brown hair in a no-nonsense cut, and modern-looking plastic-framed glasses. “Well, Chris Franzia. Long time, no see, old buddy.”

  Chris stared, his mouth hanging open.


  Deirdre Ross.

  Chapter 19

  There was a moment during which Chris froze in place, his mind wiped clean by incredulity. The question of whether the whole thing had been a dream drifted through his brain, but he had no certain answer to that, so he simply stared at Deirdre’s smiling face for what seemed like minutes.

  “Aren’t you even going to say hi?” She lifted one eyebrow in an ironic gesture that was so characteristic of his old college friend his paralysis vanished, replaced by a desperate curiosity.

  “You’re—you’re alive? So—all the others… Gavin and the rest…?”

  “No.” Deirdre spoke with the same droll, matter-of-fact tone he remembered from their college days. “They’re all dead. Mine is the only miraculous resurrection you’ll get to witness, I’m afraid.”

  “But—how?”

  She shrugged. “It never occurred to you that it was a little peculiar that they never found my body? It happens sometimes with drowning victims, I suppose, but still. How likely was it that I took off all my clothes, jumped into Lake Quinault for a nice skinnydip, and no trace?”

  “I thought that because the others had died....”

  She looked over at the elderly man. “You were right, then. I didn’t think that story would fool anyone, but I seem to have been wrong.”

  The man gave a gracious nod of the head, but said nothing.

  “You’re helping them?” Chris twisted against his bonds, the anger coursing through him. “You helped them kill all of our friends?”

  “Nope.” She gave a rueful little chuckle and shook her head. “Can’t lay the blame for that at my feet. But there’s no need to go into that now.”

  “How did you avoid getting killed yourself?”

  Deirdre looked again at the old man, an unspoken question in her eyes.

  With a slow, icy calm, he consulted an old-fashioned silver pocket watch at the end of a chain. “Allow him five minutes to ask questions, then we must proceed. Satisfying his curiosity on a few points will serve to clear his mind for questioning. Your giving him certain answers wouldn’t affect our goals, except insofar as our main line of inquiry goes, and you know not to address those topics.”