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

by Michael Stiles

  “Is it one of those?” Driscoll asked him.

  “How the hell should I know?” Ed looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sorry. I’m just not sure. He’s got this big garden on a mountaintop, with rows and rows of memories planted in it. Phone numbers, bank account numbers, high school locker combinations, you name it. It’s all jumbled up. I’m trying to find the most likely ones and memorize them long enough to write them down. Can you think of a better way?”

  Driscoll sighed. “I wish I could help.”

  Ed handed back the notepad and pencil. “Be back in a few minutes.” Then he was gone again.

  They repeated this process twice more, adding to the list of numbers, until Driscoll started to worry that Ed might be in danger of harming himself. He was sweating profusely and trembling so much that he could hardly write the numbers legibly. Milligrew was increasingly agitated as well, and he was starting to look around in alarm every time Ed entered his mind.

  “I think we need to stop,” Driscoll said the next time Ed came back out again. “He knows something’s up.”

  “We have to get it,” Ed insisted. “There might be something in that safe about Novus.” There was a deep desperation in his eyes. “Just one more time, Ken.”

  Driscoll rubbed his temples. “All right. Once more. Then we’re getting out of here.”

  But the last time proved to be one time too many. Only a moment after Ed left his body, he snapped back with a grunt and slumped down in his seat. Milligrew looked around the theater, blinking, and then turned to stare directly at Driscoll with a murderous expression.

  “Ed,” Driscoll whispered, “I think we should go.”

  Ed groaned, holding his head.

  “Did you hear me? He’s looking at us.”

  “Whiplash,” Ed muttered.

  “Ed, he’s getting up. Ed. Ed!” Driscoll had been tugging on his sleeve, to no effect. Growing desperate, he grabbed Ed’s arm and dragged him away toward the aisle. Ed stuffed the notebook in his pocket. The pencil fell to the floor and rolled away. Milligrew stood up and began negotiating his way past the other people in his row.

  A moment later they were out of the theater and running down the street. It had begun to rain; Driscoll removed his sodden wig and carried it in his hand like a limp animal. Ed took off his useless glasses and tossed them aside. They splashed down a narrow alley, across a one-way street, rounded a corner and cut across a big, open square before they allowed themselves to stop for a rest.

  “Ed,” Driscoll said breathlessly, “try to keep up! Why are you limping?”

  “Because you shot me in the leg,” Ed panted. “Remember?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  There was a statue at the center of the square with a nameplate engraved with a single name: FARRAGUT. They hid behind the statue’s pedestal and watched for any sign of Milligrew.

  “I don’t see him,” said Ed, who was still trying to catch his breath.

  Driscoll, somewhat less winded, peeked around the side of the pedestal to see if they were being pursued. He didn’t see Milligrew either, but it was hard to make out anything in the rain. “I think he’s gone,” Driscoll said. “But we’d better find someplace to―”

  He broke off when Milligrew stepped out from the other side of the statue. He glared at the wig in Driscoll’s hand, which Driscoll belatedly hid behind his back. “Gentlemen,” Milligrew said. “Nice night to go running in the rain.”

  Driscoll’s hand twitched toward where his shoulder holster would have been, had he been armed. Milligrew’s eyes followed the movement closely.

  “Didn’t you enjoy the movie?” Ed asked. When Milligrew frowned at him, he added, “You left in the middle.”

  “So did you.”

  “Because you were chasing us.”

  Milligrew’s expression turned to one of fury. The rain was rolling off of his brush-cut in little beads. “You have no right to read my mind without permission. Who the hell do you think you are? And what is that thing?” He gestured at the wig that Driscoll was hiding behind his back. Lowering his voice, he said, “Are you spies?”

  “I have a question,” Driscoll said.

  “I’m asking the questions,” said Milligrew. “Do you work for Brezhnev? Goddamn Communists!”

  Driscoll continued, undaunted. “Who was that woman you were watching? And the little girl?”

  Ed leaned close to Driscoll and said, “I wouldn’t mention them if I were you.” He said it out of the corner of his mouth, as though Milligrew would not be able to hear.

  Milligrew’s expression grew even darker than before. “They’re none of your business.”

  Driscoll shrugged, trying as hard as he could to mask his satisfaction at successfully changing the subject. “It just seems a little odd,” he went on. “A hefty guy like you spying on a defenseless woman and girl. At least we were spying on a grown man.”

  “Ken,” said Ed, “leave it alone.”

  Milligrew sputtered. “We’re not talking about them! Who are you working for? And why were you in my head? I saw you writing something in a notebook.”

  Driscoll started to speak again, but Ed punched him hard on the arm to shut him up. “It’s all right, Vince,” Ed said. “The Doctor sent us. He wanted to test you, to see if you could keep his secrets safe. And to make sure you’ve been keeping away from… from anyone who’s not supposed to know you’re here. You passed the test, but he won’t be pleased to know you were watching them.”

  For a moment, it seemed Milligrew was trying to decide whether to believe Ed or kill them both on the spot. Then his expression turned to one of anguish. “It’s not right,” he said. “They should at least know that I’m alive.”

  “That’s for the Doctor to decide,” said Ed.

  “The paper,” said Milligrew. The look of suspicion returned to his eyes. “What were you writing?”

  “It’s a shopping list,” Ed explained patiently. “Groceries.”

  Milligrew looked angry enough to bite Ed’s head off right there in the street. “Groceries,” he repeated doubtfully.

  “I was just on my way to do some shopping.” Ed looked over at Driscoll for some support, but Ken could think of nothing to say.

  “Let me see it,” Milligrew insisted.

  Ed sighed. He took the little spiral notepad out of his pocket, hunching over it to shield it from the rain, and opened it to an empty page. “See? Just a shopping list. Nothing to worry about.”

  Milligrew stared at the blank page, frowning. Driscoll did the same. There was nothing at all written on the paper. What did Ed think he was doing? After a long moment, Ed closed the pad and put it away again.

  “Grocery list,” Milligrew said, looking a bit bewildered.

  “We’re going to leave now,” said Ed.

  “I’m going to ask the Doctor about this,” Milligrew said. “Make sure you’re telling the truth.”

  “If you do that,” Ed said, “he might want to know why you were watching Willy Wonka. That might raise some questions.” Ed began to back slowly away. Milligrew stood where he was, thinking things through. Ed cleared his throat loudly; Driscoll, startled, followed him, leaving Milligrew alone by the statue of Farragut. A minute later the two of them were hurrying along K Street, both of them soaked to the skin and shivering.

  “His wife,” Ed said. “And daughter. I saw them in his memories.”

  It took a little time for Driscoll to catch on. “Why was he spying on them?”

  “Keep moving.” Ed glanced over his shoulder. “His wife was told that he went missing in action. His boss, the Doctor—that’s Dr. Kissinger—doesn’t want anybody to know that Milligrew is working for him. Milligrew isn’t supposed to be in contact with anybody.”

  “So he watches them in secret,” Driscoll said. “That might be useful to know. Why do you keep looking back? He’s not following us anymore.”

  “I don’t know how long he’ll be fooled. I used a trick on him, something Jo
nathan taught me, but I’m not very good at it yet.”

  Driscoll wrung out the dripping wig and plopped it back on his head. “Better keep moving, then,” he said. “I don’t want to be around when he figures it out.”

  26

  Blue Pills

  “Good morning!” Joy squeaked as a middle-aged woman came into the office. “We’ve been expecting you!”

  The woman stopped just inside the door, cringing and looking around fearfully.

  “No, it’s all right,” said Joy. “Come on over here. Are you Mrs. Moran?”

  The woman, now looking quite embarrassed, smoothed her dress and walked over to the reception desk. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “Sometimes the voices―”

  “I understand completely,” said Joy. “Happens all the time.”

  “Dr. Fielding tells me the voices aren’t real,” the woman said. “But they seem so real.”

  Joy shrugged. “Some of them might be,” she said, trying to stay upbeat. It always made the patients feel at ease if you remained positive. “You never know.”

  Mrs. Moran smiled uncertainly and took a seat in the corner. Joy went back to flipping through her screenplay. She had typed more than fifty pages of Night of the Gnome, and she was pleased with what she’d come up with so far.

  The phone rang. She picked it up and answered: “Doctor’s office!”

  “Miss Trumble?”

  Joy recognized the voice: it was Dorothy Emerson, a long-time patient who was always very nice to her. “Yes, Mrs. Emerson. How can I help you?”

  “Ohh,” the woman said, sounding rather worried about something. “Ohh, I hate to bother you with my problems.”

  “But that’s why I’m here!” Joy said happily. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I guess I am just being silly,” said Mrs. Emerson. “But, you see…” She trailed off, and Joy waited for her to speak again. Mrs. Emerson hated being interrupted, especially when she was trying to get her words together. So Joy waited, flipping the pages as she looked for spelling mistakes. Joy was a stickler for proper spelling and grammar. “I think they’re outside again,” Dorothy said at last.

  “The man and the woman?”

  “Yes. The man and the woman. Both of them. They just walked past my house. That’s the third time this week. They were talking about me.”

  “Did you actually hear them talking about you?”

  There was a pause. “No, but I know who they were talking about. Who else would they be talking about as they walk past my house? Should I go out there? I’m going to go out there.”

  Joy put down her screenplay and leaned sideways in her seat, looking down the hallway behind her to see if the doctor’s door was open. It was not. He would not be done with his appointment for at least another fifteen minutes, and that was too long for Dorothy Emerson to wait. “Mrs. Emerson, when was the last time you took your medication?”

  “Ohh,” Dorothy said again. “Not today. I think I took it yesterday. Those pills make me feel so confused.” Then she began to shout. “Don’t you come near my property! I have a gun!”

  “Mrs. Emerson!” Joy said sternly. There was no response. “Mrs. Emerson!”

  “I don’t really have a gun,” said Dorothy. “I just want them to think I do.”

  Joy had to shake her head and smile. The woman was such a sweetheart, but she had her moments. “That’s good.”

  “Actually,” Mrs. Emerson confided, “I do have one. Do you think it would scare them off if I fire a couple of shots outside?”

  “Don’t,” Joy said. With Dorothy Emerson, you had to be polite but firm. “That will not accomplish anything.”

  “These people keep walking past my house, almost every day. I think they want to do something to me. They look like they’re planning something. I’m going to go out there.”

  “They’re your next-door neighbors, Mrs. Emerson. They’re only taking a walk. They don’t mean any harm.”

  “Don’t you tell me about harm. You haven’t seen these people.”

  The woman had a point; Joy had never seen the people. “Well, I suppose it’s possible they mean you harm. But you won’t fix that by shooting them.”

  “Sure I will.”

  “No, you’ll just get yourself arrested. Do not shoot them.”

  “All right. But I’m at least going to give them a piece of my mind.”

  “Before you do that, would you please take your pills? Do that first so you don’t forget.”

  “Pills,” the woman said. The line went quiet. Joy waited, humming to herself and smiling at Mrs. Moran in the corner. Mrs. Moran, startled by the sudden attention, raised her magazine and held it up like a shield.

  A loud, crackling pop came from the phone receiver on Joy’s ear, making her jump. “Mrs. Emerson? Hello?” There was no answer. Joy began to wonder whether she should barge into the doctor’s office or just call the police.

  “I’m all right,” Mrs. Emerson said, just as Joy was about to start shouting for the doctor. “I only dropped my water glass.”

  Joy pressed her palm to her forehead. “I thought you… It sounded like… Did you take your medicine?”

  “Yes, yes. And then I dropped the glass. That old glass deserved to be broken, if you ask me. It was always looking at me in an offensive way. Now I’m going to see to those people out front. They’re still talking about me. Do you think they want to kill me?”

  “You’re a perfectly nice person,” said Joy. “I’m sure they don’t want to kill you.” She looked at the appointment book. “The doctor has an opening tomorrow morning at nine. Would you like to come in to see him?”

  “I bet that doctor talks about me, too. Does he ever talk about me?”

  “I’ll put you down for nine. Write that down, all right? Nine o’clock.”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “You sound awfully tired, Mrs. Emerson. Why don’t you lie down for a nap?”

  “Ohh,” the woman replied. “Yes. I am quite tired. I suppose I can shoot the people tomorrow.” There was a click, and then a dial tone.

  Joy smiled to herself, happy that she had found a job that allowed her to help people. That was all she had ever wanted to do, even when she’d been writing for the Denver Post. Helping people was what came naturally to her. She kept smiling until she noticed the creepy man walking past the front window of the office for about the tenth time.

  He and his friend had been walking around the parking lot while Joy was on the phone. She could see them through the front window. They were dressed in ridiculous clothes that didn’t fit and were at least two years out of date, and they kept taking photographs of each other. They wouldn’t have looked unusual if they had been tourists at Grauman’s, but in the parking lot of a doctor’s office they looked out of place.

  “…make sure you set up your next appointment with Miss Trumble,” the doctor was saying. Mrs. Greenbaum came out of Dr. Fielding’s office, nodding and mumbling something in reply. She looked bewildered and heavily medicated as she wandered down the hallway toward the reception area.

  “I hope it went well, Mrs. Greenbaum,” said Joy.

  Ruth Greenbaum ignored her, reaching into her purse to look for something. “I can never find the damn things,” she muttered.

  “I wanted to thank you again,” said Joy.

  Ruth paused in her search, but didn’t look up at her. “You’re welcome?” she said uncertainly.

  “For introducing me to your psychiatrist. You helped me get my job here, do you remember?”

  “You’re welcome,” Ruth said with a bit more conviction.

  “It seems like just the right kind of job for me. I love helping people.” She hesitated, mainly because Ruth did not seem to notice that she was talking. “What are you looking for?”

  “Her car keys,” said Mrs. Moran from her corner. She was still hiding behind her magazine.

  “Mrs. Greenbaum,” Joy said, “you’re not supposed to drive while you’re on your medication. Rem
ember? Your daughter is coming to pick you up.”

  Ruth’s eyes lit up as she seemed to notice Joy for the first time. “Sarah?”

  “No,” Joy said gently. “Rachael.”

  Her eyes went out of focus again and she slumped against the wall. “That’s right. Rachael. The good one.”

  As if on cue, Rachael Greenbaum came in through the front door, ignoring the stares of the two strangely-dressed men outside. “Mother,” she said with an impatient sigh, in a tone that only a snotty teenager can get away with, “let’s go.”

  “Your mother and I were just talking about how much I enjoy working here,” Joy said. She tried not to let Rachael’s attitude bring her down. Anyone would be sad after losing a father and a sister. And you could hardly blame a teenager for acting teenagerish.

  Rachael looked like she was about to say something, then stopped herself and put on a huge, beautiful, completely fake smile. “I’m so glad you like it. After you’ve been so nice to us, it was the least we could do.”

  Joy put on her own fake smile, which she was fairly certain was more convincing than Rachael’s. It wouldn’t do to meet nastiness with nastiness; that would just circle back on itself eventually. “The psychiatrist is a very good boss. And I’ve been meeting so many interesting people.”

  Rachael rolled her eyes, very quickly so no one would notice. But Joy noticed. “That’s wonderful.” Then her expression turned instantly serious. “Have you found Sarah yet?” Her mother turned to look at Joy, suddenly very interested in the conversation.

  Joy felt her smile falter. “Not yet.” It was bothering her quite a bit, actually. She had not heard from either Ed or Sarah in months. She had tried visiting his mind a couple of times, but the man who watched the holes in the ground had not been happy to see her. Joy had tried to stay confident that Ed would be in contact eventually, but Rayfield was losing hope, and hopelessness tended to be contagious.