by Ted Dekker
“None.”
“Or where he could have Monique?”
“I assume she’s wherever he is. The only communication has been through the faxes, sent from an apartment in Bangkok. We took it down six hours ago. It was empty except for a laptop. He’s using relays. Smart to stay off the Web by using facsimile. The last fax came from an address in Istanbul. As far as we know, he has a hundred relays. Took us how long to track down Bin Laden? This guy could be worse. But in a few days I doubt it will matter. As you pointed out earlier, he’s undoubtedly working with others. Likely a country. You’ll know where to look then.”
“But only because he wants us to know. We can’t very well bomb Argentina or whatever country he’s using. Not as long as he has the antivirus.” The director stood and grunted. “The world’s coming apart at the seams and we’re sitting here, blind as bats,” Grant replied.
“Whatever happens, don’t let anyone talk the president into compromising,” Thomas said.
“I think you’ll have the opportunity to do that yourself,” Grant said. “He wants to meet with you personally tomorrow.”
The phone rang. Grant snatched it up and listened for a moment. “On our way.” He dropped the phone in its cradle. “He’s ready. Let’s go.”
Dr. Myles Bancroft was a frumpy, short man with wrinkled slacks and facial hair poking out of his orifices, overall not the kind of man most people would associate with the Pulitzer Prize. He wore a small knowing grin that was immediately disarming—a good thing, considering what he played with.
People’s minds.
His lab occupied a small basement on the south side of Johns Hopkins’s campus. They’d flown Thomas in by helicopter and hurried him down the steps as if he were a man committed to the witness protection program and they’d received warnings of snipers on the adjoining roofs.
Thomas faced the cognitive psychologist in the white concrete room. Two of Grant’s men waited with crossed legs in the lobby. Grant had remained in Langley with a thousand concerns clogging his mind.
“So basically you’re going to try to hypnotize me, and then you’re going to hook me up to these machines of yours and make me fall asleep while you toy with my mind using electrical stimuli.”
Bancroft grinned. “Basically, yes. I describe it using more glamorous, fun words, but in essence you have the picture, lad. Hypnosis can be rather unreliable. I won’t josh you. It requires a particularly cooperative subject, and I would like you to be that subject. But even if you’re not, I may be able to accomplish some interesting results by Frankensteining you.” Another grin.
Thomas liked this man immensely. “And can you explain this Frankensteining of yours? In terms I can understand?”
“Let me give it a whirl. The brain does record everything; I’m sure you know that. We don’t know precisely how to access the information externally or to record memories, et cetera, et cetera. But we are getting close. We hook you up to these wires here and we can record the wave signatures emitted by the brain. Unfortunately, we’re a bit fuzzy on the brain’s language, so when we see a zip and a zap, we know it means something, but we don’t yet know what zip or zap means. Follow?”
“So basically you’re clueless.”
“That about summarizes it. Shall we get started?”
“Seriously.”
“Well, it’s rather . . . speculative, I must admit, but here you go: I have been developing a way to stimulate memories. Different brain activities have different wave signatures. For example, in the simplest of terms, conceptual activity, or waking thought, looks different from perceptual, dream thought. I’ve been mapping and identifying those signatures for some time. Among countless other discoveries, we’ve learned that there’s a connection between dreams and memories—similar signatures, you see. Similar brain language, as it were. Essentially what I’m going to do is record the signatures from your dreams and then force-feed them into the section of your brain that typically holds memory. This seems to excite the memory. The effect isn’t permanent, but it does stimulate the memories of most subjects.”
“Hmm. But you can’t isolate any particular memories. You just have a general hope that I wake up remembering more than when I fell asleep.”
“In some cases, yes. In others, subjects have dreams that turn out to be actual memories. It’s like pouring liquid into a cup already brimming with water or, in this case, memories. When you pour the liquid in, the water is displaced over the lip. Quite fun actually. The memory stimulation even seems to help some subjects remember the dreams themselves. As you know, the average person experiences five dreams per night and remembers one at the most. Not so when I hook you up. Shall we begin?”
“Why not?”
“First, some basics. Vitals and whatnot. I need to draw some blood and have it analyzed by the lab for several common diseases that affect the mind. Just covering our bases.”
Half an hour later, after a brief battery of simple tests followed by five failed attempts to lure Thomas into a hypnotic state, Bancroft changed tracks and hooked him up to the EEG machine. He connected twelve small electrodes to various parts of his head before feeding him a pill that would calm him without interfering with brain activity.
Then he turned down the lights and left the room. Moments later, soft music began to play through ceiling speakers. The chair Thomas lay in was similar to a dentist’s chair. He wondered if there was a pill that could block his dreams. It was the last thought he had before slipping into deep sleep.
Mike Orear left his office at CNN at six and struggled through traffic for the typical hour it took to reach Theresa Sumner’s new home on the south side. He hadn’t planned on seeing her tonight, though he wasn’t complaining.
She had been called off to some assignment in Bangkok for the CDC and returned earlier today to another private meeting in Washington. A bit unusual, but only a bit. They both lived lives full of curve balls and sudden changes in plan.
Theresa had called him from the tarmac at Reagan International, telling him to get his sorry self to her house tonight by eight. She was in one of her irresistibly bossy moods, and after giving her a piece of his mind, mostly nonsense that made for good drama, he agreed as they both knew he would before she’d even asked. He’d only been to her new house three or four times in the ten months they’d dated, and he never left disappointed.
A white box-looking car—a Volvo—rode to his right and a black Lincoln to his left. Neither of the drivers looked at him when he drilled them with a good stare. This was the rush hour in Atlanta, and everyone was lost in his own world, oblivious to anyone else’s. These zombies floated through life as if nothing would ever matter in the end.
Three years ago, his reassignment to the Atlanta office from North Dakota to anchor the late-afternoon hours was a good thing. Now he wasn’t so sure. The city had its distractions, but he was growing tired of pursuing them. One of these days he would have to quit playing the tough guy and settle down with someone more like Betty than Theresa.
On the other hand, he liked playing most of this game he was playing. He could turn the tough act on or off with the flip of a hidden switch, a real advantage in this business. To the audience and some of his peers, he was the genuine North Dakota face with a GQ shadow and dark wavy hair that they could always trust. To others, like Theresa, he was the enigmatic college quarterback who could have made pro if not for the drugs.
Now he threw words instead of balls and could deliver them at any pace required by the game.
He finally pulled his BMW in front of the white house on the corner of Langshershim and Bentley.
He sighed, opened the door, and unfolded himself from the front seat. Her car was in the garage. He could just see the SUV’s roof rack through the window.
He sauntered up to the door and rang the bell.
Theresa opened the door and walked back into the kitchen without a word. See, now Betty, the girl he’d dated for two years during college, never would have do
ne that—not knowing he’d driven for an hour to see her. Well, maybe she would as a come-on now and then, but never while wearing this distant, nearly angry look.
Her short blond hair was disheveled and her face was drawn—not exactly the tempting, sexy look he had expected. She pulled a wineglass from her rack and poured Sauvignon Blanc.
“Am I wrong, or did you actually invite me out here?” he asked.
“I did. And thank you. I’m sorry, I just . . . it’s been a long day.” She forced a smile.
This wasn’t a game. She was obviously bothered by something that had happened on her trip. Theresa put both hands on the counter and closed her eyes. He registered alarm for the first time.
“Okay, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing I can tell you. Just a bad day.” She took a long drink and set the glass down. “A very bad day.”
“What do you mean you can’t tell me? Your job’s okay?”
“For the time being.” She took another drink. He saw that her hand was trembling.
Mike stepped forward. Took the glass from her hand. “Tell me.”
“I can’t tell—”
“For crying out loud, Theresa, just tell me!”
She stepped away from the counter and ran her hands through her hair, blowing out a long sigh. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her in this condition. Someone had died, or was dying, or something terrible had happened to her mother or the brother who lived in San Diego.
“If you’re trying to scare me, you’ve already done it. So if you don’t mind, let’s cut the games. Just tell me.”
“They’d kill me if I told you. You of all people.”
“‘You’ meaning me in the news?” She’d said too much already, and her quick side glance confirmed it. Something had gone down that would make her sweat bullets and send a newsman like him into orbit. And she was sworn to secrecy.
“Don’t you kid yourself,” he said, grabbing a glass from the rack. “You called me down here to tell me something, and I can guarantee you I won’t leave until you do. Now we can sit down and get sloshed before you tell me, or you can tell me straight up while we still have our full wits about us. Your choice.”
“What kind of assurance that you don’t go public with this?”
“Depends.”
“Then forget it.” Her eyes flashed. “This isn’t the kind of thing that ‘depends’ on anything you think or don’t think.” She wasn’t in complete control of herself. Whatever had happened was bigger than a death or an accident.
“This has something to do with the CDC, right? What, the West Nile virus is loose in the White House?”
“I swear, if you even breathe—”
“Okay.” He lifted both hands, balancing the glass in his right. “Not a word about anything.”
“That’s not—”
“I swear, Theresa! You have my complete assurance that I won’t breathe a word to anyone outside this house. Just tell me!”
She took a deep breath. “It’s a virus.”
“A virus. I was right?”
“This virus makes the West Nile virus look like a case of hiccups.”
“What then? Ebola?” He was half-kidding, but she glared at him, and for a horrible moment he thought he might have hit it.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Of course she wasn’t kidding. If she was kidding, her upper lip wouldn’t be misty with sweat.
“The Ebola?”
“Worse.”
He felt the blood drain from his face.
“Where?”
“Everywhere. We’re calling it the Raison Strain.” The tremor had spread from her hands to her voice. “It was released by terrorists in twenty-four cities today. By the end of the week every person in the United States will be infected, and there is no treatment. Unless we find a vaccine or something, we are in a load of hurt. Atlanta was one of the cities.”
He couldn’t quite sort all of this into the boxes he used to understand his world. What kind of virus was worse than Ebola?
“Terrorists?”
She nodded. “They’re demanding our nuclear weapons. The world’s nuclear weapons.”
Mike stared at her for a long time.
“Who’s infected? I mean, when you say Atlanta, you aren’t necessarily saying—”
“You’re not listening, Mike. There’s no way to stop this thing. For all we know, everyone at CNN is already infected.”
He was infected? Mike blinked. “That’s . . . how can that be? I don’t feel like I have anything.”
“That’s because the virus has a three-week latency period. Trust me, if we don’t figure this out, you’ll feel something in a couple weeks.”
“And you don’t think the people deserve to know this?”
“Why? So they can panic and run for the hills? I swear, Mike, if you even look funny at anyone down at the network, I’ll personally kill you! You hear me?” She was red.
He set his glass on the counter and then leaned on the cabinet for balance. “Okay, okay, just calm down.” There was still something wrong with what she’d told him. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something didn’t compute.
“There has to be a mistake. This . . . this kind of thing just doesn’t happen. No one knows about this?”
“The president, his cabinet, a few members of Congress. Half the governments in the world. And there is no mistake. I ran some of the tests myself. I’ve studied the model for the past twelve hours. This is it, Mike. This is the one we all hoped would never come.”
Theresa dropped into an armchair, rested her head, closed her eyes, and swallowed.
Mike straddled a table chair, and for a long time neither spoke. The air conditioner came on and blew cold air through his hair from a ceiling vent. The refrigerator hummed behind him. Theresa had opened her eyes and was staring at the ceiling, lost.
“Start at the beginning,” he said. “Tell me everything.”
There was a problem with the EEG.
Bancroft knew this wasn’t true. He knew that something strange was happening in that mind that slept in his chair, but the scientist in him demanded he eliminate every possible alternative.
He switched out the EEG, plugged the twelve electrodes back in, and reset it. Wave patterns consistent with conceptual brain activity ran across the screen. Same thing. He knew it. Same thing as the other unit. There were no perceptual waves.
He checked the other monitors. Facial color, eye movement, skin temperature. Nothing. Not a single cottonpickin’ thing. Thomas Hunter had been asleep for two hours. His breathing was deep and his body sagged in the chair. No doubt about it, this man was lost to the world. Asleep.
But that’s where the typical indications ended. His skin temperature had not changed. His eyes had not entered REM. The signatures on the EEG did not show a hint of a perceptual signature.
Bancroft walked around the patient twice, running down a mental checklist of alternative explanations.
None.
He walked into his office and called the direct line Phil Grant had given him.
“Grant.”
“Hello, Mr. Grant. Myles Bancroft with your boy here.”
“And?”
“And I think we have a problem.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning your boy’s not dreaming.”
“How’s that possible? Does that happen?”
“Not very often. Not this long. He’s sleeping, no doubt. Plenty of brain activity. But whatever’s going on in that head of his isn’t characterized by anything I’ve seen. Judging by the monitors, I’d say he’s awake.”
“I thought you said he was sleeping.”
“He is. Ergo, the problem.”
“I’ll be over. Keep him dreaming.”
The man hung up before Bancroft could correct him.
Thomas Hunter wasn’t dreaming.
9
RACHELLE HEARD the ululating cries on the edge of her consciousness,
beyond the sounds of Samuel’s singing and Marie’s hopeless efforts to correct his tone deafness. But her subconscious had been trained to hear this distant cry, day or night.
She gasped and jumped to her feet, straining for the sound. “Samuel, hush!”
“What is it?” Marie asked. Then she heard the warbling cries too. “Father!”
“Father, father!” Samuel cried.
They lived in a wooden hut, large and circular with two floors, both of which had doors leading to the outside. The doors were one of Thomas’s pride and joys. Nearly ten thousand houses circled the lake now, most of them among the trees set back from the wide swath cleared around the waters, but none had a door quite like Thomas’s. It was the first and best hinged double door in all the land, as far as Thomas was concerned, because it could swing both ways for fast entry or exit.
The top floor where they slept had a normal locking door that opened onto a walkway, which was part of a labyrinth of suspended walkways linking many homes. The bottom floor, where Rachelle was ladling hot stew into tin bowls, boasted the hinged double door. The hinges were made of leather, which also acted as a kind of spring to keep the doors closed.
Marie, being the oldest and fastest at fourteen, reached the door first and slammed through it.
Samuel was right behind. Too far behind. Too close behind. He met the doors as they released Marie. They smacked him in the forehead and dropped him like a sack of potatoes.
“Samuel!” Rachelle dropped to her knees. “Those cursed doors! Are you okay, my child?”
Samuel struggled to a sitting position, then shook his head to clear it.
“Come on!” Marie cried. “Hurry!”
“Get back here and help your brother,” Rachelle yelled. “You’ve knocked him silly with the doors!”
By the time Marie returned, Samuel was on his feet and running through the doors. This time the doors struck Rachelle on the right arm, nearly knocking her down. She grunted and ran down the stone path after the children.
The doors had hurt her arm, she saw. They had opened a very small cut that could hardly concern her now. She ignored the thin trail of blood and ran on.
