by Amy Cross
Nodding, I thank Mr. Haynes for the linen powder and then I turn and walk to the door. Once I'm out in the street, I take a deep breath and try to decide what to do. Perhaps Mr. Haynes is correct when he says that there comes a point when an animal should be put out of its misery, but does the same apply to a man such as Albert Caster? I have been telling myself that my work with Albert is designed to help him, and to make him better and stronger, but is it possible that I am merely prolonging his misery and making a mockery of his character? Just as David Haynes plans to shoot his dog, is it not a reality that I should end Albert's life if I come to the conclusion that he can never regain his former strength? Does poor Albert sit alone and pray for a swift end to his suffering, and could I really be the one who performs such a dreadful deed?
"Good afternoon, Ms. Paternoster," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see the dread sight of Dr. Collings approaching me. He has a curious smile on his face, and he has clearly already noticed the jar in my hands, which he eyes with a hint of suspicion. "Linen powder?" he asks. "How strange. I don't recall writing a prescription for linen powder recently."
"I had some with me when I came to Devil's Briar," I say desperately, even though I know my excuse is unlikely to placate him. "I was just..." I look down at the jar in my shaking hands.
"You were just taking it for a stroll?" he asks.
"It was an emergency," I say, turning and hurrying away from him. That man makes my skin crawl, and I cannot bear to be anywhere near him. Only when I get to the next street, do I dare stop and look back, at which point I find to my relief that the doctor has not followed me. He quite clearly knows what I'm doing, and for whom the powder is intended, and he must therefore also understand that Albert's recovery is not going well. I feel as if he is enjoying every moment of Albert's downfall, and that his glee has a quality of sadism that I find particularly revolting. I must have faith, even if it feels as if God Himself has turned his back on this place.
Chapter Five
Today
"So do you think I need to get my head examined?" I ask, as Ed and I walk through the front door of the Maygold Neurological Institute. I've heard of this place, and its reputation is immense: there are more Nobel Prize winners working here than in any other facility in the world, and security is tight. Frankly, I'm surprised Ed has even managed to get us past the front entrance, although - from what I've heard - the main building is basically just a cover for the real facility, which is entirely underground.
"Trust me," he says, "there's something here that'll blow your mind."
"Not literally, I hope."
"You'll see," he replies. "For someone who's done with Devil's Briar, you seem pretty curious."
I stop dead in my tracks. "If this is some stupid scheme to get me to go back there with you -"
"Not at all," he says with a smile. "I just want you to see what you're missing."
Heading to the reception desk, Ed introduces us and gets a couple of security passes, and then we head off along a corridor that leads deep into the building. "This place is one of the leading specialty centers for neurological care in the world," he explains. "If the President of the United States got a bump on the head, this is where they'd bring him. The facilities here are beyond cutting-edge. They do experiments with nanorobotics, things like that."
"Great," I say. "So what does this have to do with Devil's Briar?"
"We're going to meet a guy named Dr. Reuben Cole. He's pretty much top of the tree in terms of this kind of thing. I talked to him earlier and it turns out that he's been working on something that might be linked to the stuff you and Bill found out in Colorado." Leading me along the corridor, Ed seems unable to stop grinning; it's as if he's got some huge surprise lined up for me, and he can't wait to see the look on my face. "I'm gonna be honest with you, Paula," he continues, "I could hardly believe what I was hearing when I talked to him this morning, and I'm pretty sure he's psyched about it too. There's a small chance that we've got our wires crossed and this is gonna turn out to be nothing, but if not..."
We emerge in a long, low corridor that seems like it belongs in a military base. "Is this going to take long?" I ask, checking my watch. "I kind of have things to do." That's something of an understatement: if I'm seriously going to be heading out to California tomorrow, I have to basically pack up my entire Boston life in an afternoon and an evening.
"Hold on," Ed says, knocking on a door. "I promise this'll be worth it."
Moments later, the door opens and a fairly short man appears, wearing a white lab coat. "Mr. Raman?" he says with a smile.
"It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Cole," Ed says, before turning to introduce me. "Dr. Reuben Cole, this is Dr. Paula Mitchell. She was up at the Devil's Briar site until a couple of days ago. She was with Bill Mitchell when they found the place."
"It sounds like you've found something quite remarkable up there," Dr. Cole says. "I was skeptical at first, but Ed sent me some data by email and now I can't wait to find out what you discover."
"Paula isn't going back to Devil's Briar," Ed says. "She's moving on to other work."
"How can you tear yourself away from such a mystery?" Dr. Cole asks.
"It's complicated," I reply.
"I'm got to admit," Dr. Cole says, "I'm finding all of this a little hard to believe. I don't know how much Ed has told you, but I think maybe we have different pieces of the same puzzle." He ducks back into the room, and then emerges with a notebook. "Come on, I'll take you straight there."
"Where are we going?" I ask as we walk along the corridor.
"We're going to Room 408," Dr. Cole says, as if that explains everything.
"Dr. Cole specializes in analyzing the way cognitive powers can remain functional in those who are otherwise immobile," Ed explains. "Trying to communicate with people in a vegetative state, that sort of thing."
"It's fascinating work," Dr. Cole says. "In certain cases, the human body might appear to be shut down completely, but there can still be furious activity in the brain. We've only just started to scratch the surface of the subject, but the best way I can explain it at the moment is by saying that in some cases, the brain seems to turn all of its attention inwards and focus exclusively on its own structures. Like a kind of feedback loop in which all external stimuli are completely ignored." He stops as we reach a door near the end of the corridor. "You'll have to excuse me," he continues, "I'm not very good at explaining my work in layman's terms. That's something I generally leave to my colleagues." He pauses. "Perhaps Dr. Mitchell would like to lead the way?"
Feeling a little apprehensive about what I might find, I reach out and open the door, before stepping into a small, dark room. I can hear some kind of equipment running nearby, and there's a small, bright monitor a few feet away, although I don't understand the readings.
"We keep the lights off in here most of the time," Dr. Cole says, as he and Ed follow me inside.
"Is that to make her more comfortable?" Ed asks.
"Not really," Dr. Cole replies. "It just saves money on the power bill. And anyway, I don't think she has any idea what's going on in the real world." There's a pause, and then he switches on the lights
It takes a moment for the fluorescent strip on the ceiling to flicker into life, but finally I see that we're standing in a small hospital-style room, and we're face to face with a human body in a bed. Not just any body, either: it appears to be an extremely old woman, well over a hundred years old, connected via various tubes and wires to a series of machines. Her eyes are closed, but the bedsheets are slowly rising and falling as she breathes.
"Paula," Ed says, "I'd like you to meet Victoria Paternoster. She recently passed her 109th birthday."
"There wasn't much of a party," Dr. Cole says. "She hasn't been conscious for a very long time. She's in a coma, which is how she's been ever since she was found by the side of the road up near the town of Florence in Colorado."
"Florence?" I say, turning to him. "That's not
far from Devil's Briar."
"Victoria Paternoster was the niece of Thomas Paternoster," Ed says, walking over to the bed. "I'm still sifting through the data, making sure everything matches up, but I'm fairly confident that this is the woman who was with Thomas in Devil's Briar all those years ago. In fact, the dates fit perfectly. She was found unconscious by the side of the road, just outside Florence, back in 1925. She's never woken up since that day. But it seems like quite a coincidence, don't you think? Based on everything we know so far, it looks as if Victoria left Devil's Briar and entered her coma right around the time that the town died out."
I join Ed at the side of the bed. Victoria's skin is old and wrinkled, and her hair is thin and white. Her eyes are closed, and she seems very thin, almost skeletal, yet at the same time there's a sense of calmness about her. It's hard to believe she could have been here, in a coma, for almost ninety years.
"We've used her for various experiments over the years," Dr. Cole explains. "To us, she was always a remarkable specimen. There's no obvious reason for her coma. It's as if she simply decided to shut down. We've tried waking her up, and we've tried communicating with her, but nothing works. Every time we have a new theory, we test it out on other patients first, and then we come down to Victoria and draw a blank." He pauses. "She's different. There's something about her that we've yet to fully understand. I've got to admit, we've kind of become attached to her. She just stays in this bed, getting older and older, never moving and never opening her eyes. Our scanning equipment reveals that there's very little activity in her brain."
"But there's some?" I say, unable to stop looking at the old woman's face.
"There's some," Dr. Cole says. "In her own way, she's still functional, and occasionally there are little spikes in the numbers. Whether she's actually aware of her surroundings, or even of herself, I don't know. We have a slightly morbid tradition of making all our new interns come down and spend a few hours sitting with her, reading the newspaper out loud, just in case she can hear the voices. She's never responded, though. We gave up trying to wake her a long time ago. Now, we just monitor her and try to learn as much as we can about how the human body functions in such an extreme situation."
"Is she ill?" I ask.
"Not really," Dr. Cole continues. "Obviously her advanced age has brought some complications, but we keep her alive with a very delicate balance of nutrients. She's already lived longer than anyone expected, but about six months ago her kidneys started to show abnormal readings. It's my opinion that she'll probably not last more than another year. To be honest, there's been a debate for many years over the question of whether or not to just let her die right now. Some people worry that she's in pain and that we should put her out of her misery, but there's nothing to support that idea. For now, she just seems to be perfectly at rest."
"Until today, all they knew was her name," Ed explains. "She had a few basic documents with her when she was found. Other than that, Victoria Paternoster was a complete mystery until I came across the name in the papers from Devil's Briar and put two and two together, although..." He turns to Dr. Cole. "I'm afraid it seems we've just answered one question with another. We know she was in Devil's Briar, but we don't know what happened to her, or how she ended up like this."
"You can understand how excited I was to receive Ed's call," Dr. Cole says. "The thought of finally discovering a little more about Victoria's past is rather humbling."
"And there's no way to speak to her?" I ask. "No way to communicate with her in any way?"
"I'm afraid not," Dr. Cole replies. "We've tried everything, although..." He pauses. "There is one thing that's kind of interesting. I'll show you." He walks over to one of the machines. "It's just a parlor trick, really. Believe me, we've looked into it, and it seems to be entirely an auto-motive response with no thought process behind it whatsoever. I'm a little reluctant to do it, usually, because I don't want it to seem flippant, but I guess I should let you see." He turns a dial on the machine. "If I increase the feedback on the cerebral monitoring system, this happens."
After a moment, Victoria's eyes slowly open. The eyes themselves are almost pure milky white, with a hint of yellow and red blood vessels at the edges.
"Can she see?" I ask.
"The cataracts cover 98% of her field of vision," Dr. Cole replies. "She -"
Suddenly Victoria's eyes turn to look straight at me. I feel a cold chill run through my body, but I remind myself that this is just an auto-motive response. Her body is simply performing certain actions automatically. Glancing over at Dr. Cole, however, I see a look of concern on his face.
"She's never done that before," he says, clearly a little shocked.
"Never done what?" I ask, starting to worry.
"She's never looked at anyone." He steps over to the bed and leans closer to Victoria's body, looking directly into her eyes. "She's never shown any awareness of people being in the room with her." He waves his hand across her eyes, but she pays it no attention; her focus appears to be solely and resolutely on me.
"I'm flattered," I say. To be honest, I kind of want to get out of here. It's a little creepy to think that these eyes, which haven't looked at anything or anyone for more than half a century, have suddenly turned toward me. "Maybe you should turn that dial back down," I say to Dr. Cole. "She might be in pain."
"Wait just a moment," he replies, checking some of the other machines. "I want to see whether there's any brain function. The figures show a small elevation in the..."
I wait for him to finish the sentence, before looking over at him. "A small elevation in the what?"
He stares at the machine for a moment longer. "She's showing signs of cerebral activity," he says, "and generally elevated brain function. Nowhere near normal levels, of course, but far above anything we've ever seen her exhibit in the past." He checks a couple more monitors, before turning to me. "I think she's waking up."
Chapter Six
1925
"I have decided to take you for a walk tomorrow morning," I say as I look down at Albert's untouched lunch tray. The soup has gone cold, and he's not eaten any of the bread. Even more of a worry is the undisturbed glass of water. If he doesn't drink soon, Albert is in danger of dehydrating, but I do not feel as if I have the necessary strength to force-feed him. At this rate, I fear I shall have to enlist Mr. Porter's help in order to literally pour some water down my patient's throat, although I bristle at the thought of using brute force.
"Just a short walk," I continue, wandering across the room until I am standing directly in front of Albert. "I think perhaps it would do you good to get some fresh air, and to see the world again. I'm quite certain that the people of Devil's Briar will be very pleased to discover that you are up and about again." I wait for some kind of reaction, but of course there is nothing. Albert merely sits and stares straight ahead, and he seems to be trembling more than ever. Glancing down at his left hand, I see that he appears to be hiding something in his sleeve.
"Can I see what you have?" I ask, kneeling next to him. "Albert? Show me what is in your hand." My heart fills with cautious optimism, since I am quite certain that I have not given him anything, which means he has perhaps left the chair at some point. I reach out and try to force him to reveal what he has; at first, he resists, but finally I am able to make him turn his hand over, and I see that he is holding a pistol. A cold chill runs through my body as I realize that this must be the gun that went missing from Mr. Porter's desk.
"Albert," I say softly, "why do you -"
"Make him stop," he says suddenly, his voice tense and harried.
"Make who stop?" I ask, but he says no more. "Albert, make who stop?" I ask again, determined to find out what is causing so much trouble.
"Make him stop," he says, suddenly throwing the gun across the room. "I don't care how you do it," he continues, turning to me. "You can cut my head open for all I care, but just get his voice out of here!"
"Whose voice?" I ask, real
izing with dread that Albert's emotional problems would seem to be far stronger than I had anticipated.
"Lawrence Evans," he hisses, his whole face trembling. "He speaks to me all day and all night, whispering vile things in my ear. He says I must..." He pauses and closes his eyes for a moment. "He is such a terrible man," he continues after a moment. "The things he wants me to do..."
"You must tell me," I say, reaching out and taking Albert's hands in mine. "It's okay. I shall not judge you, Albert. You must simply tell me what this man says to you. I'm quite certain we can find a way to silence this voice, but you must help me to understand, in order that I can help you banish him." Close to tears, I feel utterly lost and dumbfounded now that I know Albert is hearing voices. It's tempting to think that perhaps the poor man is possessed by some kind of demon, but I suspect there is a more mundane explanation: his mind has been ruined by Dr. Collings, and there is no way back.
"He talks about you," Albert says quietly. "He says such awful, awful things about you, my dear. Such things as I do not even think could be possible." He pauses. "Don't you understand? It's the reason I sent you away from my employment. I could not trust myself. He goads me to..." Another pause. "He was the most frightful man when he was alive, and death has not improved him."
I take a deep breath, surprised that Albert's mental disturbance appears to be focused on my own person. "You must tell me what he says," I tell him. "Is he talking to you at the moment?"
Albert nods.
"What is he saying?"
Albert stares at me, his eyes widening in horror. "I cannot say the words," he splutters. "I cannot give voice to such heinous thoughts as a man -"
"Tell me!" I insist, trying to affect a firm and comforting tone of voice. "Just say the words after he has said them. I promise I will not ascribe them to your own soul, Albert, but rather I will accept them as an account of this madman's villainy. But you must tell me what he whispers inside your mind. No matter how awful it seems, you must tell me."
