The Music of the Machine (The Book of Terwilliger 2)

by Michael Stiles

  7

  Nightfinger

  The world inside Witherspoon’s mind was entirely gray. The stars overhead still shone in bright colors, but the ground was dull and colorless. Ed flew over overgrown bogs, gnarled forests of stunted trees, and a vast, cold ocean of dark water. In his limited experience, he’d found that the memories people most wanted to protect tended to collect in dense, hard-to-reach places within the mind. The most sensitive memories might be found on a high, isolated mountaintop or at the heart of a treacherous swamp. Sometimes the mind protected its memories, creating obstacles to keep intruders away. Whatever Witherspoon was trying to hide, it would be found in the places that were hardest to get to.

  He explored the terrain for a long time until he found something promising: a remote canyon blanketed by a dark, tangled forest of gray trees. The walls of the canyon were steep and rocky—no obstacle to Ed, but clearly designed by Witherspoon’s mind to be as forbidding as possible.

  He drifted down to the base of the canyon until his feet touched the ground. The trees were so close together that little light penetrated the grayness inside. Taking a deep breath, he slipped between the gnarled trunks and entered the forest. Occasionally he brushed against a leaf or a branch; when this happened, an image from Witherspoon’s memory would appear before his eyes. The trees grew more twisted and closer together as he went. Sometimes they were so tightly packed that he had to turn back and find another way. But he knew which way he had to go. Witherspoon’s mind would strive to protect the memories that he most wanted to keep secret. What Ed needed would be at the very middle of the forest.

  After a while he came to a fallen tree. Its trunk was at least ten feet in diameter, and the hollow made by its uprooted base was deep and dark. Ed touched the trunk and saw a dim remnant of a memory, so indistinct that he couldn’t glean anything from it. He wondered if Nathaniel had uprooted this memory, or if it had died naturally.

  He stepped carefully down into the deep depression in the ground left by the tree’s root mass, like a bowl that had been carved out of the earth. There was a crack in the ground at the bottom—a fissure in the earth that was much larger than it first appeared. He knelt to look into the crack. A rank smell drifted out of the opening, like something was rotting inside. When that smell hit him, Ed was nearly overcome with an urge to flee this place, to leave Witherspoon’s mind and never come back. But he reminded himself that he was here for a purpose. He had no choice but to explore further. He stepped away from the hole and moved on.

  A few minutes later he came across another fallen tree, much smaller than the first one had been. Soon after that, he found many more of the dead gray trees. Some were lying on the ground, others were still standing, but he could sense their deadness even without touching them. Witherspoon was gradually losing his memory.

  Soon he found a glade, in the very center of the gray forest, where the trees were younger—the memories more recent. The older trees stretched overhead, making this spot almost invisible from above. Here, as in the rest of the forest, many of the trees were dead and decaying. One by one he touched each tree and looked in on Witherspoon’s memories.

  He was in a wood-paneled office, watching a conversation between Witherspoon and a man Ed recognized as Albert Wensel. The colors of the office were a shock to Ed after seeing so much gray. “This is unacceptable,” Witherspoon was saying. “I told you from the beginning, the Candlestick project was a terrible idea. I never should have let you go through with it. Now an innocent young woman is dead.”

  Wensel stubbed out the last of a cigarette and lit another. “And I told you from the beginning, we can’t guarantee the subjects will do what we program them to do. Their own motivations have to drive them. It just turned out that Agent Kajdas chose a subject whose motivations were unclear.”

  “Unclear. The subject was a drifter, unstable and unreliable. Kajdas didn’t know anything about him! Albert, tell me what exactly I’m supposed to tell our sponsor. Candlestick was supposed to be our first shining success, and instead we’ll be lucky if we don’t all get taken out and shot!”

  The memory faded. Ed paused, thinking. Candlestick. An innocent young woman is dead. That had to be the operation that had unleashed Nathaniel on the world. The operation that had killed Eleanor.

  The next few trees held nothing of interest. There were meetings, endless meetings. Some seemed to involve more traditional FBI business. J. Edgar Hoover himself attended some of them. Ed soon discovered that the meetings he was interested in were the ones where Hoover was not present. Whatever Witherspoon and his people had been working on, it was something they’d kept a secret from the Director.

  He kept moving from tree to tree, looking for any memories that related to the project called Novus. He also watched carefully for any indication of who Witherspoon had been working for. If Ed could learn that, it would at least give him another lead, something he could investigate. As it was, his only source of information was Witherspoon’s scattered memories. He hoped the information he needed wasn’t lost forever in one of those dead trees.

  The next tree he touched took him to the office that Ed had come to recognize as Witherspoon’s own suite in the Department of Justice building in Washington. The office had large windows; in the daytime, the office had a fine view of a major construction project on the opposite side of Pennsylvania Avenue. But it was dark outside now, and Ed could see nothing in the windows except the reflection of Charles Witherspoon as he sat at his desk. It was strange, Ed thought, to look at those windows and not see his own reflection. But he was a spectator in this memory, and could not be seen.

  The old man was in the middle of a conversation on his speaker-phone.

  “He’s here,” cried a man’s voice on the line. Whoever it was, he was panicking and hard to understand. “He’s outside the lab. We’ve locked the door, but—something’s wrong with him. He’s trying to…”

  More noise. “Dr. Whitehead?” said Witherspoon. “Dalton? I can’t hear you.”

  “I said we are in the laboratory with the door locked. He’s outside.”

  “Well, why don’t you let him in? He’s perfectly harmless.”

  “He’s looking in the window. My god! What’s he doing? His… his eye! What’s wrong with his eye? Charles, send help! He’s―”

  The line went dead. Witherspoon jabbed the intercom button. “Margie, see if you can get Dr. Whitehead back on the line.” Then he waited in silence, drumming his fingers on the desk.

  “He’s not picking up,” said the secretary after a long, tense minute.

  “I need to make another call. Stay off the line, please.” Witherspoon picked up his desk phone again and began to dial a number from memory. But before he finished dialing, he dropped the receiver and jumped to his feet. The phone receiver fell, bumping the side of the desk rhythmically as it bobbed at the end of its helical cord.

  Witherspoon was staring directly at Ed. Ed froze, his heart beating rapidly. Could the old man see him? After his initial fright, though, he understood that Witherspoon was looking not at him, but at the office window.

  “You,” the old man whispered. “How did you get in here?”

  Mirrors, Ed thought. The man was seeing something in the reflection of the window. Ed went closer and gazed into the glass, but all he could see was the office behind him.

  “I’m sorry they did it to you,” Witherspoon said. “I had nothing to do with it.” He paused again. “Albert, I swear, I didn’t know they would kill you. But if you knew who I had to answer to… No! The Director was never told about Novus. The order came from Mr. Nosgrove, through our sponsor. Not the Director, and not from me.”

  Mr. Nosgrove. That was a name Ed hadn’t heard before.

  “Yes, how did you know? Agent Kajdas has woken up. He just arrived at our detention facility. Dr. Whitehead phoned me to say that he’s there. But something is wrong. I was just about to call―”

  Witherspoon fell silent, listening. As he
listened, his face turned pale and his forehead began to perspire.

  “But our sponsor has to know,” he said. “I have to tell someone.”

  He listened again, and his lower lip began to quiver.

  “Please,” he pleaded, “not her. Not Emma. I’ll do whatever you ask… But someone has to be told! Novus is too dangerous for any one person to…”

  Another long pause.

  “All right!” cried Witherspoon. “I won’t tell. You have my word; just promise me that you won’t hurt her. Hurt me, do whatever you want to me, just… Albert?” He blinked and looked around the room, apparently realizing only now that he’d been alone the whole time. He went back to his desk and collapsed into his chair, pressing the intercom button as he did so. “Margie, have you seen Albert Wensel today?”

  “Sir,” the secretary replied after a long silence, “Albert’s dead. Remember?”

  “Yes, I…” Witherspoon took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I know. I only thought—forget it, Margie, it’s just been a long day.”

  “I’ll arrange for a ride,” said Margie. “You should go home and rest.”

  Witherspoon sagged in his chair. “Yes,” he said. “Rest.”

  * * *

  Ed withdrew from Witherspoon’s mind and opened his eyes. Driscoll was still standing by the bed, watching the old man with concern. “How long was I in there?” Ed asked.

  Driscoll checked his watch. “About half an hour. You’re done already?”

  “Barely started. But I found one thing that might be useful. A name. Have you ever heard of someone named Nosgrove?”

  At the sound of the name, Witherspoon gasped and struggled to his feet. “Where did you hear that name?” he demanded, his voice shrill. “Never say that name!”

  Driscoll helped him sit back down. “Is that the man who’s been threatening you and Emma?”

  “No,” said Witherspoon. “Elmer Nosgrove was the man we used to work for. No one is supposed to know he exists. He always passed his orders through an intermediary, a sponsor, so we wouldn’t know about him. But we all knew his name. The threats…” He glanced at the spot where the mirror had been hanging, before he smashed it. “That’s someone else.” He shuddered violently.

  Driscoll turned to Ed. “Would you get him a glass of water? His lips are parched.”

  Ed left the room, reluctantly, and went downstairs for some water. Emma showed him where to find the drinking glasses. “Will he be all right, Walter?” she asked. “You can help him, can’t you?”

  “I’ll try my best,” Ed promised.

  “Just don’t let them take him from me.” She grasped Ed’s forearm and held it tightly. “I don’t want to lose my Charles.”

  He put his arm around her shoulders. “I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  “I believe him, you know,” said Emma. “Not that I think there are people in our mirrors, but I believe that he’s seeing something real. You believe him too, don’t you?”

  Ed looked into her eyes. They were filling up with tears. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  Driscoll was sitting close to Witherspoon and talking quietly to him when Ed returned with the water. Both men looked up as he entered. “I don’t think we’ll get much else from him today,” Driscoll said as he held the glass for the old man to drink. “His mind is deteriorating.”

  “Not deteriorating,” Ed replied. “It’s under attack. We have to help him fight back.”

  “That’s your domain,” said Driscoll. “I can’t be much help there.”

  “There’s another way you can help,” said Ed. “Do you still have contacts at the FBI?”

  Driscoll nodded. “I still know people.”

  “Good. See if any of them have heard of this Nosgrove. He’s all we have to go on. I’ll stay here and…” He looked into Witherspoon’s troubled eyes. “I’ll do what I can for him.”

  * * *

  Arthur wiped his mouth politely with a napkin. His table manners were impeccable, John had to admit. Two of the junior men were cleaning up the table while John and a couple of the leaders briefed Lord Orc on the day’s events. There would be another briefing later, in private, but most of their news could be shared in front of the others. The dining room in Society House was large—not big enough for the entire Society to dine together, but the table was long enough for twelve of the senior men to eat together. All the cooking was done by the girls, while the recruits served and cleaned up. They would eat later, whatever was left over.

  “Spence has been doing well,” said Bowers. Bowers was a big man, a former biker like Big John and several of the others. A long, pink scar on his neck was the most visible remnant of his biker days—the spot where a rival had attempted to cut his throat. That rival had not survived the attempt. Bowers was one of the most prominent of Arthur’s lieutenants, although his position had diminished somewhat when John had returned from his time away. He had never quite forgiven John for coming back. “He has a good mind for investments. I gave him fifty thousand to see what he’d do with it, and he’s grown it four percent since January.”

  “Entrust him with a little more, then,” said Arthur. “Tell him not to be too aggressive, though. We’ll need all the resources we can get in the coming months.”

  The Society was funded by “voluntary” contributions from its members, along with the proceeds from the jobs the men did around town. Every man who joined Arthur’s ranks volunteered to give everything he had to the Society. No man would need money or possessions when the True Judgment came. Most of the soldiers hadn’t been wealthy in their previous lives, but a few had come to Arthur with bank accounts or assets they could sell. Arthur had put it all in savings accounts at some local banks, earning five percent a year, until a young man named Spence had suggested making investments in stocks. John hoped that Spence’s stocks continued to rise. Arthur would not be pleased if his portfolio lost its value. And a displeased Arthur usually meant that someone would be assigned to garden duty.

  That was their last item of business. “If that’s all,” said Arthur, “I have some reports to read upstairs.” John knew there weren’t any new reports today that required Arthur’s attention. Lord Orc would retire to his bedroom for half an hour, and then he would send for two or three of his girls to join him. It was the same every Saturday night.

  “Please excuse me,” John said, getting up from the table. One of his own recruits, a man named Jim Litton, was on his way out the back door. John held the door for him and they went out to the garden together.

  “What’s the good word, Little John?” Litton asked him once they were outside.

  “I’m telling you,” John said good-naturedly, “call me that one more time and you’ll be joining them.” He glanced over in the direction of the Society’s big garden, where the buried remains of four soldiers and two of Arthur’s girls provided excellent fertilizer to grow their vegetables. They were all assigned to what Arthur liked to call garden duty. “Have you spoken with Flem?”

  Litton nodded. “He’s prepared. Seems trustworthy enough. I’m not so sure about McWaters, though. He’s squishy.”

  “McWaters is fine. I’ve checked him out.” John had delved into the mind of every man in the Society to see which ones would support him against Arthur. He didn’t want any surprises when the time came.

  “It’s not easy to keep secrets from Arth—Lord Orc. I’ve been hiding my thoughts the way you said, but what about the younger guys? Fleming don’t seem like much of a poker player.”

  John had given that a great deal of thought. If any of them revealed the slightest notion of a revolt, it would all be over. But Arthur’s tricks were easy to avoid, once you knew them. And although Arthur probed the thoughts of John and other senior men from time to time, he didn’t check the newer recruits very often. They weren’t enough of a threat to worry about.

  “Fleming will do what he needs to.” He ignored Litton’s skeptical frown. “Listen, Arthur’s getting ready to
do something big. He’s not saying anything about it, but something’s going down. Spread the word to the others: we’re making our move on Sunday night.”

  “Sunday. Yes, sir. And sir? Larson’s been asking around about you. Him and Bowers are pretty tight, you know? I’d watch out for those two.”

  This was not news to John. Larson was one of the earliest members of the Society. He was Arthur’s man to the core. “I’ll watch them. Just stay quiet and follow orders. Have you made sure all the hinges are oiled?” The men of the Society were always assigned jobs to do around the house, so this order should not have attracted any attention.

  “Every door in the house is perfectly quiet,” said Litton.

  “Good.” John raised his voice a bit for the benefit of anyone who happened to be listening. “Oh, and have one of the recruits run over to Ralphs for some more Oreos. We’re almost out of Oreos.” He slapped Litton on the back and went inside the house.

  * * *

  The headquarters of Nightfinger Records was located on the eleventh floor of a nondescript building near 39th and Broadway. Sarah got off the elevator and stood outside the glass doors of the offices, taking a moment to quiet her butterflies. Then she took a deep breath and opened the door to face her first day on a real job.

  The receptionist, an Oriental woman named Judy, got up out of her chair and came around the desk to give her a hug. Sarah had met her the other day, when Eileen had brought her upstairs for her interview. The interview had consisted of sixty minutes in Eileen’s office, listening to records. “Good morning, Sarah!” Judy gushed. “We’re so excited you’re here! Do you want some coffee? I’ll go tell Eileen you’re here!” Sarah listened to this onslaught of perkiness, unable to get a word in, and before she knew it the girl had zipped out of the room.