Dispersion: Book Two of the Recursion Event Saga

by Brian J. Walton

  I pick it up, staring at it suspiciously. A whole script written in under eight hours while under the hallucinogenic influence of LSD. Could it possibly be as good as I thought it was this morning? I read the title page again, feeling uncertain.

  The Girl Who Fell Through Time

  A screenplay

  By:

  Ellis Claymore III

  I flip it open to the first page. The slug-line reads: 1948—Occupied France Territory.

  It’s as if my drug-addled brain had taken elements of both Jane’s story and Gomorrah’s Winter and concocted some sort of chimera monster out of them. I dread to read on. But I do.

  The first page is actually good. I flip to the second.

  My god, it even gets better.

  I continue flipping, reading more and feeling my excitement rise. The story is only vaguely familiar, like something from a dream. It’s as if someone else had written it. There are typos, of course. I can’t expect anything less from a drug-fueled writing binge. But that’s forgivable. The point is that I have something. It’s finished (I think) and it’s wholly original. Bob Carr will look past a world of faults if it’s a story he can be excited about, and the best way to get him excited about the story is for me to be excited about it.

  I go back out the small living room and pick up the phone, dialing Barry Mendelssohn’s number.

  “Barry, I did it. I wrote 180 pages last night.” That must’ve been why I called him, I was so pumped about the script.” I haven’t re-read the whole thing yet, but it’s good. The pages are good. I’m telling you, this is the best thing I’ve ever written.”

  There’s silence on the other end.

  “You’re telling me you wrote nearly two hundred pages in one night. What, were you high?”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  There’s another pause. “That’s brilliant kid. I don’t think Hemingway had the balls to do that. Bring the script over to my office this afternoon. I want to read it before we go to his place tonight.”

  “I can’t do that. I’ve got something this afternoon, but I can be there tonight.

  Barry sighs. “Jesus, okay. But don’t be late.”

  “I’ll be there,” I say.

  “And kid?”

  “Yeah, Barry?”

  “Make sure you read through that fucking script before you show up tonight. I don’t want any surprises.”

  A ringing telephone jolts me awake. I sit up, feeling disoriented. How much time has passed? I glance up at the sky. An hour or two at least. The script is splayed open, face down on the ground next to the chair.

  A whiskey glass is on the small table next to the patio chair. It’s empty. And the bottle is next to it as well. When did I bring that out here?

  I climb off the chair and begin picking up the script pages. How much of it did I actually read? I know I made some progress. But it was all Jane’s story, more or less. It was like I took the contents of her interviews and simply regurgitated them on the page.

  The phone is still ringing.

  I climb to my feet and run inside, snatching up the phone.

  “Hello?” I croak.

  “Ellis, it’s Vance. Where the hell are you?”

  “Back at the pool house.”

  “Everyone’s here at the lab. How quick can you make it?”

  I need a shower. I need some food. I may even need to sober up. I rub my eyes and run a hand. “Give me half an hour,” I say.

  “Well, hurry up. We think we found something.”

  “I’ll leave right away.”

  Vance pushes a map across the table to me and jabs his finger down on it. I lean over to see what he’s pointing at. On the map, there a circle scrawled around a small lake. “We found it, all thanks to the San Bernardino County Clerk’s Office.”

  The five of us are all crowded around the narrow lab table. Vance stands over the map. Aleisha stands behind him, her arm around his waist. Quincy is seated on the couch looking even better than usual in a Purple Haze t-shirt and faded blue-jeans and Jane is perched on one of the lecture hair chairs near the sensory deprivation tank.

  I look down at the map, “And what did the good folks at the County Clerks’ office reveal to you?”

  Quincy picks up where Vance had left off. “We thought we had hit a dead-end at first when they couldn’t turn up any property under the name John Parker. But then we had them pull the address that you gave us. Guess who actually owned it?”

  “Just tell us,” says Jane.

  Vance throws a stack of photocopied papers down on the desk. “West Coast Bank.”

  I lean forward. “That was my father’s first huge building contract. That put him on the map.”

  “West Coast Bank was also a major investor in the Cedar Springs Dam. Remember that?”

  “That’s right,” I say. “They bought up all the land around the reservoir before it was even built and sold it off at huge profits.”

  “And it was almost never finished,” Quincy says. “This is why I remembered it. Back in ’58, construction on the Cedar Springs Dam was stalled because people thought the Dam was cursed.”

  Jane grimaces. “Cursed?”

  “That’s the year I went missing,” I say.

  Vance takes out another photocopied paper. “Thanks to Quincy’s impeccable memory, as well as to the good people at the San Bernardino County Library, we found this.”

  He holds up a copy of an old newspaper. It’s faded, but the cover story is still legible.

  Dam Construction Stalled After Disappearances

  Aleisha takes the paper and begins to read. “This Friday, the fourth person in a series of missing persons cases has been declared missing outside of the ongoing construction site for the Cedar Springs Dam. Community leaders have expressed safety concerns. John Parker, a VP of West Coast Bank who has put up much of the funding on the project, has insisted that all concerns are unfounded…”

  “Jesus,” I whisper. “You don’t think…”

  “Two of the missing people were constructions workers. The other two were local residents. The probably had trouble initially securing the area. But once they did, I bet a few of the construction workers got curious. Poked their noses where they shouldn’t have.”

  “Hold on,” Aleisha says. “This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve been to that lake before. It’s crowded with houses now. If the government wanted to build a top-secret military base, why would they turn it into a major housing development.”

  “It does make sense,” I say. “They don’t choose where those tunnels pop up, and those mountains were already becoming a popular place to live. Local residents would probably not appreciate a military complex being established next to their vacation homes. They needed a cover. A dam would require a whole lot of cement, and allow them to do as much digging as they wanted.”

  Quincy nods. “They would just need someone to siphon the money through.” He turns to me. “And that’s where Daddy Claymore comes in.”

  I feel a horrible sinking sensation. I clench my eyes shut, but then I’m back in that place. That dead city. The knowledge that others like me stumbled in their as well, and probably weren’t so lucky, is horrifying.

  I look up at the others. “Let’s do it. I think we’re ready to go.”

  “Not so fast,” Aleisha says. “We still need to work a few things out. We should find a place to stay overnight, and we need wheels.”

  “Not everyone can fit on my bike,” Vance says.

  I look at Quincy, and then Jane. “You guys don’t have cars?”

  “Graduate student housing,” Aleisha says. “I don’t need one.”

  “I’ve only got a two-seater,” Quincy says. “We’d still need more seats.”

  Vance looks sharply at me. “He, do you think Jim would loan us his van?”

  “Oh no,” I shake my head. “He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

  “So, I’ll ask him.”

  “Vance, we’re going up there
to get arrested. Which means anything we drive is probably going to get impounded. Who knows how long it will be before he would get it back.”

  Jane looks up sharply. “I’m the only one that is going to get arrested.”

  “No way!” Quincy and Vance both say at once.

  “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” Vance says. “With you, we have the chance of seeing something that only a handful of people on this planet will ever see.”

  I fold my arms. “How are we going to get in, anyway? If I’m all in, then I need to know the whole plan.”

  Jane nods. “Getting arrested will be easy. We just have to find the door and knock.”

  “Even if we found the door, wouldn’t they just ignore us?” Quincy asks.

  I nod in agreement. “And even if they do bring us in, they’re just going to throw us in a little padded room, pump us full of drugs, and drop us off somewhere on the highway fifty miles away. And that’s if they allow us to ever see the light of day again. I actually have my bets on the five of us spending the rest of our lives in those little padded rooms. If you want to see this Phaedrus guy then you’re going to have to do better than simply knocking.”

  Jane looks down, her face thoughtful. “I’m going to tell them what I know. That will be my bargaining chip. Ten minutes alone with Phaedrus in exchange for everything I know.”

  I shake my head again. “None of us are ever going to breathe the free air again.”

  “There’s a chance,” she says.

  “What kind of a chance?” Vance asks.

  “In my dreams, I’m her… Molly. And I’m visiting the Los Angeles Station. I see that man, Phaedrus held in a cell, and then I see a younger woman talking to him. It’s me. I bang on the door, demanding that they open it to let her in. At that moment the lights begin to flicker. There’s a horrible sound like metal being ripped apart. There’s a horrible light, and then a sound like an explosion.”

  “What the hell?” Quincy whispers.

  “It’s a Recursion Event,” Jane says. “Just like what brought me here. But this one is larger.”

  “It nearly takes the whole structure down.” She opens her eyes, looking around at the rest of us. “I’m going to be straightforward with you. If you come, I don’t know that any of us will make it back.”

  Aleisha sits on the couch. She folds her legs in front of her and hugs her knees. “Vance is right that someone should stay behind. Not just to return the van to Jim but also to deliver letters.”

  “Letters?” Quincy asks.

  Aleisha sucks in a deep breath. “In case we don’t make it back.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Quincy says.

  Vance and Quincy both look somber. Jane stands up suddenly. “I won’t let you do it.” She shakes her head, walking away. “None of you are coming in there with me.”

  I jump up. “You’ve got no more right to be a martyr than the rest of us. If we’re right about all this,” I gesture at the map, “then I have as much a right as anyone. My own father took a month off my life and has been lying about it to my face for the last fifteen years.”

  “And remember Jenny?” Vance says.

  “Who’s Jenny?” I asked.

  “She’s the reason we even found the tunnel,” Quincy says.

  Vance turns away. I give Aleisha a question glance.

  “They were close,” Aleisha says.

  Vance turns back to the rest of the group. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is flushed. “We’ve all lost something. We’ve all got just as much a right as you to want to take these guys down.”

  Jane nods slowly. “Fine, anyone who wants to risk their lives, raise a hand.”

  Vance turns back, and all of our hands go up. Quincy shakes his head. “One of us needs stay behind and doesn’t look like anyone’s going to volunteer.”

  “We draw straws then,” Aleisha says. “Whoever gets the short straw has to stay back.”

  “We don’t have straws,” he says.

  “We’ve got these,” Quincy says, jumping up. “He walks over to the table and snatches up a stack of fliers. Pulling out five, he takes one and rips off a corner. Then he shuffles the cards and fans them out. “Pick a card, any card,” he says.

  “Well, Jane needs to go,” Aleisha says.

  Quincy nods. He pulls out a flier and hands it to Jane. It isn’t torn.

  “I’ll go next,” Quincy says. He takes a flier from the stack. There’s no tear.

  “I’ll go,” Vance says.

  He chooses his own flier. It’s also not torn.

  “My turn,” I say. Quincy holds the stack of fliers out to me. I hesitate for a moment, as if my desire to go or not would have any bearing on which flier I picked. I think about Bob Carr and his goons. About my dreams of fame in Hollywood. It all seems so small now. After all, I may not make it through the weekend. And if I do, there’s a good chance I’ll live out my life inside a padded cell at the bottom of some missile silo in Idaho. Am I really willing to risk my life for… for what? I shut my eyes for a moment and take in a breath. For the truth. That’s what I’m risking my life for. The truth about what really happened to me sixteen years ago. I take the flier.

  The torn edge stares mockingly up at me.

  “That decides it then,” Aleisha says. Her voice sounds small and frightened.

  I throw my torn flier back onto the floor. “Well, that’s just great,” I say.

  Vance takes a step toward me. “Come on, man.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, “really. One of us has to stay back. Might as well be me.”

  Vance nods. “That’s right. One of us does have to stay back, but it could have been any of us. Are you going to be cool with that?”

  I take in a shuddering breath. “Yeah, I’m cool.”

  Aleisha grabs a stack of papers and pens from the lab table and begins passing them out. “We’d better get writing,” she says. She hands me a pen and paper. “I think you should write one as well. You never know.”

  I nod, taking the pen and paper from her. What the hell would I even write? Sorry mom and dad, I know you were in collusion with a secret government organization and I just died in an attempt to bring them down. Jesus, that’s dark

  But it would be true.

  “Let’s take the next hour getting this done. I’m going to head back to my place. We don’t we meet up there around nine, have a meal, and finish making plans.”

  Jane smiles. “Do I really get a night out?”

  Vance shrugs. “I guess that’s really up to you, but I thought one last meal breathing the free air together would be good for all of us.”

  “So it’s settled then,” Aleisha says. “We leave tomorrow?”

  Jane nods. “Tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good to me,” says Quincy.

  Vance looks at me, expectantly. “Ellis?”

  I turn to Vance, realizing I must have a vacant look on me face because he’s staring at me with a curious expression. “Sorry, what time did you say it was?”

  Vance glances at his watch. “Half past seven.”

  “Oh shit,” I say, jumping up. “I told Barry I’d be there at eight. I need to hurry.”

  “Where are you going?” Vance asks.

  I snatch up my shoulder bag. “I need to deliver my script!”

  I start for the door.

  “Don’t forget your note!”

  I turn to see Aleisha, holding up the pen and blank piece of paper that she had just handed me.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, returning to snatch them both from her.

  “My place at nine,” Vance calls after me.

  “I might be a little late” I shout back.

  Vance’s motorcycle cruises along Mulholland Drive. A break comes in the trees and behind me and to my right I catch a glimpse of the sun setting against the shimmering blue of the Pacific Ocean. For a moment, I forget it all. The mission. My father. The way I’ve treated Jim. All gone and lost to the ocean breeze and the evening tid
e.

  I take a curve in the road, leaning into it, and Carr’s home comes into view. The place is a multi-leveled, Spanish-style Xanadu. A line of cars leads from the street all the way down to the circle drive and a crowd of people are streaming inside.

  Bob Carr’s reputation as a party animal is legendary. His parties are one part swinging orgy, one part cocaine den, and one part who’s who of the International elites.

  I should be coming here to enjoy myself. Instead, I’m coming here to tell Bob Carr, in person, that I’ve gone and changed his whole story with less than three months before cameras are set to roll. But not to worry, because the result would be sure to blow everyone away.

  I swallow and tell myself that, for better or worse, I may not even be here come Monday to face the brunt of his wrath.

  I navigate down the driveway, weaving around the cars, and stop at the valet booth. The tuxedoed parking attendant gives me a glare as I hand him a dollar bill. He can smell the fraud all over me. I flash him my largest most shit-eating grin and stride inside.

  Lights, sound, music and flesh assault my senses. Women in sparkling lingerie pass hors d'oeuvres while shirtless young men, oiled like Greek Gods, pour wine into silver goblets. A jazz trio plays in the corner, and the singer, who apparently forgot the shirt for his tuxedo, croons to the classics. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. I had heard of Carr’s flamboyance, but didn’t realize he would flaunt it so openly at his parties. Christ, I’m going to have to focus.

  “Ellis, over here!”

  Speak of the devil. It’s Barry. Anything to get my attention away from the assembled pantheon of shirtless men surrounding me. I need to focus.

  I turn to see Barry, looking dashing as usual in a baby-blue suit with a lavender silk scarf and lavender tinted shades. I feel positively square in my bellbottoms and corduroy jacket.

  “You’ve got the script?” Barry asks.

  I pat my bag as I glance around the room. “It’s right here. Where’s the bar? I need a drink.”

  “Not now, kid. First, business. Then, it’s party time. This way.”

  He takes my shoulder, leading me through the crowded interior of the home. I steel myself. Half-familiar faces float past me and I realize they’re familiar because I’ve seen them, all of them, in some movie or television show or magazine cover.