The Forgotten Room: A Novel

by Lincoln Child

  Logan waved a hand as if to brush off a pesky insect. “I don’t believe that. And neither should you.”

  Olafson took a deep, even breath. “Jeremy, you’re talking about a conspiracy.”

  Logan nodded slowly.

  “I’m sorry, but I find that absurd. I know you were fond of Pamela Flood, that much was obvious, and I feel truly awful about what’s happened, but you can’t simply transfer—”

  Logan quickly approached the desk, leaned over it. “It’s your moral duty to open that safe.”

  Olafson looked at him without replying.

  “First Strachey, then Wilcox, and now Pam Flood. How many lives are going to be ruined, or cut short, before we get to the bottom of this?”

  “Jeremy, I think that’s rather—”

  “I might be the next to die. I’m the logical choice, after all. It’s quite possible one attempt has already been made on my life. How would you feel if the next one was successful?”

  “There’s no reason to think that what’s in the safe will—”

  Logan leaned in still closer. “Pam’s blood is on your hands. Your hands. You brought me in, Gregory. You asked for my help. And now we’re going to see this goddamned thing through. I’m going to learn what’s in that safe if I have to dynamite it myself.”

  A silence descended over the office. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, with a quiet sigh, Olafson picked up the phone, dialed an internal number, waited for the south London accent of the answering party. “Ian? Dr. Olafson here. Can we push that meeting back an hour? Right. Thanks.” Then he hung up the phone and his eyes swiveled back toward Logan’s.

  Reaching into a pocket for his key ring, he selected a small brass key and fitted it to the lower left drawer of his desk. He unlocked the drawer, then opened it, revealing a dozen hanging files. He let his fingertips drift over them until he reached the last. Inside was a single tabbed folder, unlabeled and brown with age. He removed it, placed it on his desk, and let it fall open.

  Within was an envelope, also unlabeled. It was closed with dark red wax that had been impressed with the Lux seal.

  Olafson picked up the envelope. Then he glanced at Logan once again. The man looked back at him, his expression now blank and unreadable. Finally, taking a deep breath, Olafson slid one finger along the back of the envelope, breaking the seal.

  Within was a single piece of light blue paper containing three numbers: 42, 17, and 54.

  Now Olafson swiveled his chair around so that he faced the back wall of the office. Below the abstract expressionist paintings, a smaller, framed photograph hung on the dark wood: a formal portrait of the first director and all the Fellows, dating from 1892—the year Lux was formally named. Olafson grasped the right edge of the frame and pulled gently. It swung away from the wall, hinged along the left side rather than hung from a wire.

  Behind lay the combination dial of a small Group 2–style safe.

  Holding the piece of blue paper in his left hand, Olafson grasped the dial with his right. He gave it several spins to the left, then slowed, making sure to stop when the crow’s foot was precisely at 42. Next, he turned the dial to the right, making two complete revolutions before stopping at 17. Then, turning the dial to the left once again, he made another complete revolution before stopping at 54. Finally, he turned the dial gently to the right until he felt the bolt retract. Releasing the dial and grasping the adjoining lever, he opened the safe.

  Inside the small cavity beyond lay a thin dossier, one envelope placed atop it. Olafson lifted them gingerly out and placed them on his desk. Both were sealed in the same red wax.

  Silently, Logan came around the desk until he was hovering at Olafson’s shoulder.

  Now Olafson picked up the dossier, broke the seal, and looked inside. He saw a list of names; a few diagrams and photographs; a memorandum of some kind. Placing it back on the desk, he reached for the envelope, on which was written, in a bold hand: HIGHLY SECRET AND CONFIDENTIAL—TO BE OPENED ONLY BY THE DIRECTOR OF LUX IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2035.

  He broke the seal and removed the single sheet within, then held it up so that Logan could read it as well.

  Newport, Rhode Island

  December 30, 1935

  To the Director of Lux, 2035:

  You are no doubt aware of the circumstances under which this letter, and the attached précis and other assorted documentation, are being placed under lock and key. You are also undoubtedly aware at least in bold strokes of the research that has prompted such action, and which has of this date been abandoned.

  Those few here at Lux who knew of it had high hopes for Project Synesthesia. As the work matured, however, it became increasingly clear that there was no certain way to divorce the beneficial effects of the project from the potentially destructive. In the wrong hands, this technology could prove uniquely devastating. I have thus, with no small amount of regret, determined that it cannot now continue.

  The benefits, however, are so intriguing that I have not ordered the destruction of all work to this point. Instead, if you are reading this letter, one century has passed since its writing. No doubt human science has advanced to a great degree. It is your task, therefore, to examine the details of Project Synesthesia and make a determination whether it can be brought to conclusion in such a way that no potential harm could befall the human race.

  This letter, and the documents that accompany it, do not detail the project or its aims; the extensive records held in the West Wing laboratory itself contain all relevant data. Rather, it provides a degree of background information and explains how the laboratory itself is to be accessed.

  It is now your job to choose—and choose very carefully—four members of the board to assist you. Preferably, they should come from a variety of scientific, philosophic, and psychological backgrounds. You as a group are to study the records stored in the laboratory, examine the research that has been accomplished so far, consider the current state of technology as it exists in your own time, and then convene—in secret—to discuss and, ultimately, vote upon whether the work should be taken up again. In the event of a deadlock, you yourself are to act as tiebreaker.

  If your decision should be in the negative, I strongly recommend that all records, materials, equipment, and anything else related to the project be immediately and thoroughly destroyed.

  I wish you good luck and Godspeed on this most vital of tasks.

  Sincerely yours,

  Charles R. Ransom II

  Director

  Lux

  39

  It was half past two in the afternoon when a quiet knock sounded on Logan’s door.

  He glanced up from his desk. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Kim Mykolos stepped in. She had a satchel slung over one shoulder and was holding a plate covered by a linen napkin.

  “I didn’t see you at lunch, so I thought I’d bring you a sandwich,” she said, putting the plate on his desk. “Roast chicken with avocado, peach chutney, and watercress. I had one myself—they’re not bad.”

  Logan sat back and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you.”

  She slipped into a nearby chair and regarded him intently for a moment. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was. About Pamela, I mean.”

  Logan nodded.

  “You know, I felt bad, talking the way I did to you about her. Now I feel even worse.”

  “You couldn’t have known.”

  They sat in silence for a minute.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked a little awkwardly. “About the fire, I mean?”

  “Preliminary investigation is ruling it an accident. Faulty electrical wiring, overloaded fuse box. Supposedly.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “I am. I was there. I’ve never seen a fire rage like that one did.” He swallowed. “She never had a chance.”

  The talk died away again. Outside, Logan could hear hammering, the whine of a band saw. Work was already under way to prepare the mansion for
Hurricane Barbara. In a matter of hours it had strengthened to a Category 2 hurricane off the Delmarva Peninsula and, if it kept racing along its current track, was forecast to make landfall somewhere along the southern New England coast late that evening. Lux was already putting together evacuation plans.

  “What are you working on?” Kim asked, gesturing at the papers that littered his desk.

  “Something I’ve been meaning to tell you about.” Briefly, he described Olafson’s secret safe, the hundred-year freeze, how he’d successfully convinced Olafson to give him the documents. As he spoke, the expression on Kim Mykolos’s face—which had been an odd mixture of regret and embarrassment—slowly changed to intense interest.

  “What a break,” she said when he finished. “What have you discovered?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. Unfortunately, the documents in the safe don’t go into any detail about the nature of the work. The assumption was that, in 2035, the director would be able to peruse the reams of paperwork in the secret lab—paperwork we now know to have been deliberately removed.”

  “So what have the documents told you?”

  “How to access the lab—which we’d discovered already, thanks to Pam. The names of the three scientists who were directly involved in the work. Oh, and the name of the venture: Project Synesthesia.”

  Kim frowned. “Synesthesia?”

  “A neurological term for an unusual phenomenon where stimulating one sensory pathway causes the stimulation of a second. Tasting colors. Seeing sounds. It was a topic of great scientific interest in the early part of the twentieth century, but that interest died out long ago.”

  “Interesting.” Kim thought for a moment, eyes far away. Then she turned back to Logan. “But what does it have to do with catching ghosts?”

  “I was asking myself the same thing. I’m beginning to wonder if I was wrong about the purpose of the Machine.” He shifted in his chair. “At least we now know where ‘Project Sin’ came from. It was clearly the nickname, or code name, for the work.”

  “Nickname,” Kim nodded. “You mentioned the names of the scientists. Anyone I might have heard of?”

  “I doubt it.” Logan glanced over his desktop, picked up a sheet of paper containing three brief paragraphs. “Martin Watkins was the elder scientist on the project. From what I can gather, he spearheaded the work. He was an expert in physics. He died quite some time back, in the early 1950s. Apparently a suicide. Edwin Ramsey was his associate, a mechanical engineer. He died four years ago. The third was named Charles Sorrel, the junior man on the project. A medical doctor, specializing in what today would be called neuroscience. I don’t know what happened to him—I haven’t been able to track him down.”

  “And that’s all you’ve learned?” Kim looked disappointed.

  “Yes, save what I’ve been able to read between the lines. The work was obviously controversial and cutting-edge, which is why it took place in the secret room. But there’s nothing in this dossier about why the work was abandoned—why it was considered dangerous.”

  Another silence fell over the room. Kim looked out the window, chewing her lip absently. Then she turned back.

  “I almost forgot. I’ve made some progress of my own in examining those small devices we found in the room. A little progress, anyway.”

  Logan sat up. “Go on.”

  “Well, based on the components, I think they might be tone generators. At least in part.”

  Logan stared at her. “What? For what purpose?”

  She shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

  “What’s their relationship to the Machine?”

  “Can’t tell you that either. Sorry.”

  Logan slipped the napkin off of the sandwich. “Doesn’t sound very menacing.”

  “I know. I could be wrong. I’ll keep working on it.”

  Logan picked up half of the sandwich. “A tone generator.” He prepared to take a bite. Then a thought came into his head and he put the sandwich down. “That reminds me. I meant to ask if you could lend me some Alkan CDs.”

  “Great minds think alike.” She rummaged in her satchel. “I have one right here.” She handed the jewel case across the desk.

  He glanced at the cover. “Grande sonate ‘Les quatre âges,’ by Charles-Valentin Alkan.”

  “A four-movement piano sonata. Real hairy one, too. It was Willard’s favorite.”

  Grasping the CD, Logan rose from his desk and walked into the bedroom, Kim following. Beside the bed was an alarm clock with a built-in CD player. He slipped the CD into the loading slot, adjusted the volume. A moment later, the room became filled with precisely the music he’d first heard in Strachey’s parlor: lush and romantic, yet at the same time seemingly possessed by demons; full of complex passages that veered between major and minor, wickedly complicated, shot through with the rising arpeggios and chordal work he remembered so vividly. He took an instinctual step back.

  “What is it?” Kim asked him. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost—to coin a phrase.”

  “This is it,” he told her. “The music I’ve been hearing in my head.”

  “What does it mean?” she asked. “You don’t think the Machine’s responsible, do you?”

  Quickly, he shut the music off. “No,” he said, returning to his office and sitting back behind the desk. “No, I don’t think so. Recall my telling you I’m an empath? The first place I heard that music was in Strachey’s study. If I was to speculate, I’d guess that the empath in me was picking up what Strachey himself heard—when he was becoming sick.” He paused. “But there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “When I first heard that music—in Strachey’s study—I smelled something, as well. It was awful, like burning flesh.”

  “Alkan’s music has weird effects on people. Some have claimed to smell smoke while listening to it.”

  Logan barely heard this—he was thinking. “Right before he died, Strachey said he was being pursued by voices. Voices that tasted like poison. And then Dr. Wilcox, at breakfast. He raved about voices in his head. Voices that hurt, that were too sharp.”

  “I wasn’t there,” Kim said. “Thank God.”

  “At the time, I assumed Wilcox meant the voices hurt because they were too shrill, too loud. But I don’t think that’s the kind of ‘sharp’ he meant. I think he could feel the voices.”

  Kim looked at him. “You’re talking about synesthesia—aren’t you?”

  Logan nodded. “Smelling music. Tasting voices. Feeling voices.”

  Kim stood before the desk, considering this for a long moment. “I’d better get back to work,” she finally said, in a low voice.

  “Thanks for the sandwich,” Logan replied. He watched her leave, shutting the door behind her. His eyes traveled to the sandwich, sitting on the white china plate. Then they moved to the sheet containing three paragraphs—the brief dossiers of the scientists behind Project Sin. After a moment, he picked up the sheet and began rereading it thoughtfully.

  40

  The Taunton River Assisted Living Community was a cream-colored three-story building on Middle Street in Fall River, Massachusetts. Logan parked in the lot behind the building, then—leaning into the howling wind—went through the front entrance and made a series of inquiries.

  “That’s him over there,” a second-floor nurse said five minutes later. “By the window.”

  “Thanks,” Logan replied.

  “How did you say you’re related again?”

  “Distantly,” Logan said. “It’s complicated.”

  “Well, however you’re related, it’s nice of you to stop by, especially with this storm approaching. Both his children are dead, and his grandchildren never visit. Shame, really—mentally, at least, he’s still sharp.”

  “Thank you again.”

  The nurse nodded toward the box of chocolates in Logan’s hand. “He can’t have those, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll leave them at the nurse’s
station on the way out.”

  He walked through the large community room, past superannuated men and women watching television, playing cards, doing jigsaw puzzles, mumbling to themselves, or in some cases just sitting with vacant expressions on their faces. He stopped before a large picture window in the far wall. It overlooked Kennedy Park and, past the train tracks, the approach to Battleship Cove. A wheelchair was placed by the window, and in it sat perhaps the oldest man Logan had ever seen. His face was sallow and covered with an incredible tracery of wrinkles; the bony white knuckles that grasped the arms of the chair almost threatened to burst through the tissue-paper skin. Extreme age had shrunk and twisted his body into the shape of a comma. A tube of oxygen lay in the base of the wheelchair, and a nasal cannula was fixed in place. But the faded blue eyes that glanced Logan’s way as he approached were as bright as a bird’s.

  “Dr. Sorrel?” Logan asked.

  The man looked at him a moment longer. At last, he nodded in the faintest of motions.

  “My name is Logan.”

  The old man’s gaze dropped to the chocolates. “Can’t have those,” he said. His voice was like dry leaves skittering over broken paving stones.

  “I know.”

  Sorrel’s gaze rose again. “What do you want?”

  “May I?” Logan pulled up a chair beside the old man. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Talk all you like.”

  Logan sat down. “Actually, I’d rather hear what you have to say.”

  “About what?”

  Even though nobody was listening, Logan lowered his voice slightly. “Project Sin.”

  The old man went very still. The knuckles grasping the arms of the wheelchair turned even whiter. Slowly, his eyes left Logan’s and drifted away. It took a long time for him to respond. Finally, the end of a tiny pink tongue emerged to wet his lips. He cleared his throat.

  “Quite a storm brewing,” he said.

  Logan glanced out the picture window. The leading edge of Hurricane Barbara was approaching the city, and the trees in the park were writhing crazily in the wind, small branches and green clouds of leaves streaming away in contrails beneath an ominous sky. The streets were eerily deserted.