More Deaths Than One

by Pat Bertram

  Bob tried to ignore the acrid taste in his mouth. “Do any other projects come to mind?”

  “They tried to desensitize soldiers to the act of killing. During World War Two, less than fifteen percent actually shot at the enemy.” Her hands clenched into fists. “They must have learned how to get soldiers to kill, because I read that in Vietnam over eighty-five percent shot to kill. They had all sorts of projects. They developed an aerosol spray for use in biological warfare and something called a micro-bio-innoculator that’s so tiny the victim feels nothing when it penetrates. And since the body absorbs the innoculator, no one can find a trace of the dart. They also developed lasers so tiny they can zap a single molecule. And Cerberus.”

  “Cerberus? Like the three-headed hound guarding the gates of hell?”

  She nodded. “Berquist had a special interest in that project. During World War Two, he had met several amputees. They all told him the loss of the limb devastated them, the pain debilitated them, and dealing with the stump humiliated them. But the absolute worst was the phantom pain, the cramping, twitching, itching, in the missing limb. You can’t scratch an itch or massage a muscle in a body part that is no longer there.

  “Berquist reasoned that since the brain apparently retained a memory of the limb, he could erase the phantom pain by erasing the memory of the limb.”

  “Did he succeed?” Bob asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Will said they experimented on some of the soldiers who lost limbs in South Korea, but that’s as far as Berquist got with his memoirs.”

  She finished the last of her beer, snatched her purse, and started to slide out of the booth.

  “Do you have time for a few more questions?” Bob asked.

  She sighed heavily. “A few, then I have to go.”

  “Who is Evans?”

  “The only Evans I know is Alex Evans. He’s the Assistant Director of Research and Development, but the guys who work for him don’t look like scientists.” She winced. “They give me the chills. They seem way too mean and menacing, and they all have those hard, cold eyes. They don’t belong with the rest of us, so people are always spreading wild rumors about them.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Oh, you know, like they’re Evans’s secret police, or like they’re killers.” Her eyes widened. “They must be the ones who killed Doug.”

  “Tell me about Evans.”

  “I don’t know anything. I’ve heard people say he’s a megalomaniac who wants power at any cost and doesn’t care who pays as long as it’s not him. And he’s going to take over when Berquist retires, which may be soon. Berquist has prostate cancer.”

  “What does Evans look like?

  “He’s about fifty and still good-looking, but not as good-looking as Berquist, and he has dark hair with streaks of silver in it.”

  “Can you be more specific—height, eye color, distinguishing marks?”

  She shook her head apologetically. “I only saw him once or twice.”

  “What about the kind of car he drives?”

  “I don’t know. The suits have their own private entrance on the other side of the campus.”

  “Where the razor wire is?”

  “That’s the computer center. Supposedly, be-neath the building is an installation containing acres of computers, but I’ve never been over there. The private entrance for the suits is around the corner from the computer center. It’s a garage door leading to an underground parking lot that has about as much security as the computer center. Everyone uses the commons, even the suits. The commons is what we call the park-like area, in case you didn’t know. I often see Mr. Evans’s men on the commons, so maybe Mr. Evans comes sometimes, too. If you want, I can ask around about him.”

  “That’s not a good idea. You don’t want to bring yourself to his attention.”

  Tracy stared at the ceiling, as though trying to make up her mind about something. Finally, she looked at Bob.

  “I work in accounting, and I discovered that during the past couple of years, huge amounts of money have been pumped into the Research and Development Department. They’ve obtained unsecured, interest-free, multi-million dollar loans from dozens of savings and loan companies all over the country, like Silverado here in Denver and Lincoln Savings and Loan in Irvine, California.”

  She clutched her purse to her chest like a shield. “What’s strange is there’s no repayment schedule. It’s like the savings and loans gave away free money. Most of the money was transferred to a couple of different accounts in a bank in the Cayman Islands, but when I went back to double check my figures, all trace of the loans had disappeared.

  “I think I stumbled on something I wasn’t supposed to see. Except for Doug, I never told anybody else about my discovery.” She shivered. “Is it cold in here?”

  Bob nodded, but he knew the chill they both felt had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

  Chapter 16

  Bob found Scott in the basement of his church, mopping up after the Vietnam veteran’s support group.

  Scott gave him a warm smile. “I’m sorry you missed the meeting.”

  Bob tried to return the smile but without much success. “I came to see you.”

  “Always glad of an excuse to put off work.” Scott set the mop in the bucket. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You seem to be well acquainted with the veteran community. Do you know anyone who could tell me about mind control experiments done on soldiers during the Korean War?”

  Hearing the words hanging in the air between them, Bob wished he had phrased his question in a more roundabout manner. Spoken bluntly, it sounded outlandish.

  “I do know someone.” Scott got out his wallet, extracted a small piece of paper, and handed it to Bob.

  Bob glanced at it. It was an address and phone number for Dr. James Willet in Omaha. He shifted his gaze to Scott, unable to keep his incredulity from showing.

  “How did you know what I wanted?”

  Scott tugged at an ear. “I didn’t. I got it for me. Dr. Willet’s a psychologist specializing in the problems of veterans. He has a particular interest in memory dysfunctions and debilitating nightmares, especially those arising from possible abuse or interference. I heard about him at a meeting once, and after talking about my nightmares the other day, I asked around until I found someone who knew how to get in touch with him.”

  Bob tried to return the paper to him, but Scott waved it away.

  “I decided against going.” He looked at Bob with serene eyes. “I know I did those things I saw in my dreams.”

  “You weren’t responsible. The people who programmed you are the ones to blame.”

  Scott shook his head. “I fired the weapons. I have to accept that. And I do. But I decided I don’t want to live in the past. It’s more important to be in the present with my family and my work. They deserve all of me now, so I have to handle it, get over it, and forget it.”

  “An admirable goal.”

  “A necessary goal. I have you and Kerry to thank for making me finally face what I did.” He gave Bob a shrewd look. “You don’t seem surprised by my revelation.”

  “No. It seems as if mind alteration is much more prevalent than I ever realized. I’m just sorry it happened to you.”

  “I’ve come to see that we’re controlled every minute of every day. We’re bombarded with ads, commercials, newspaper articles, television shows, all of which program us to think and act in certain ways, to accept modes of behavior that were anathema a couple of generations ago.” Scott’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “I’ll get off my soapbox now.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Scott grabbed hold of the mop. “I’d better finish here. Rose will be expecting me. You’re welcome to come to dinner. We can talk afterward.”

  “I wouldn’t be good company tonight. Maybe another time.”

  “I’ll ho
ld you to that. And bring Kerry. We all love her.”

  Bob smiled.

  ***

  The sodium vapor lights gave Colfax Avenue an unearthly glow, like an alien world with a dying sun.

  The hookers teetered on their platform shoes and tugged at their miniscule skirts. Here and there a tattered old man smelling of urine, vomit and cheap whiskey slept fitfully in a doorway, while the homeless women pushed their shopping carts, doggedly steering clear of grifters, drug dealers, and crazies.

  Bob walked among them. He’d detoured by the boardinghouse to see if it was still being staked out—it was—and now he had nothing to do but wait for Kerry to show up for her shift at the coffee shop.

  Feeling twitchy, as if someone were following him, he cut diagonally across the street and glanced over his shoulder.

  Herbert Townsend weaved through the crowd. He didn’t rant but peered anxiously into the faces of the people he passed. He turned his head toward Bob, and their gazes met. Townsend loped toward Bob, hand outstretched.

  The man wanted his ID back, Bob realized. He paused under a streetlight, pulled his picture off the nametag, and returned it to Townsend. He planned to return to ISI, but as long as he didn’t try to enter any building except the cafeteria or health club, he could do without it.

  Townsend carefully stowed it in a pocket of his jeans and curved his lips into something resembling a smile.

  “Are you hungry?” Bob asked.

  A brief pause as if the words filtered into his head through the aluminum foil helmet, then Townsend nodded.

  Bob headed for Rimrock Coffee Shop, Townsend close on his heels.

  “Let’s go in here,” Bob said, pausing outside the brightly lit restaurant.

  Townsend shook his head no.

  “It will be okay.”

  Bob entered the coffee shop. The taller Townsend followed, trying to hide behind Bob’s back.

  The dark-skinned, frizzy-haired waitress dropped her towel on the table she’d been busing and hurried toward them.

  “You can’t come in here.”

  “Who? Me?” Bob said.

  The waitress pointed at Townsend. “No. Him. If he doesn’t leave, I’m calling the cops.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Bob stared at her. “He’s with me.”

  She took a step back. “He better not bother anyone.”

  “He won’t.” Bob led Townsend to an unoccupied booth.

  The waitress put her hands on her hips. “Ya want coffee?” she asked, making the innocuous words sound like a threat.

  “Yeah,” Townsend answered, head bowed.

  “Hot chocolate,” Bob said. “And menus.”

  Despite the inauspicious beginning, the waitress treated them with an efficiency that could almost be called courtesy, and in short order placed steaming plates of food in front of them.

  Hunching over his plate, Townsend shoveled huge bites of roast beef and whipped potatoes into his mouth, and washed them down with noisy gulps of coffee.

  When the waitress came to clean away the dishes, Bob slipped a ten-dollar bill into her hand.

  “Keep the coffee coming.”

  “Sure. Whatever.” She left with the dishes, returned immediately to refill Townsend’s cup, then took off again.

  “What happened to you?” Bob asked softly.

  Townsend shrugged.

  “Did you and Michael Mortimer see some-thing?”

  A barely perceptible nod.

  “A space ship?”

  “No!” The word exploded out of Townsend.

  “Lights?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where were you when you saw the lights?”

  Bob had to strain to hear Townsend’s whispered reply. “San Luis Valley. Michael’s grandmother lives there. We went to visit her.”

  “You and Michael are friends?”

  “Then. Not now.”

  “Why not now?”

  “He believed them when they made us think we’d seen aliens, but we didn’t.”

  “Who made you think you’d seen aliens?” When Townsend didn’t respond, Bob said, “Was it the doctors at the Rosewood Research Institute?”

  “Maybe. Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “We saw strange lights in the sky. Blue lights. Michael said they were UFOs, but they weren’t. They were round and trans . . . translucent, like ball lightning, or earth lights.”

  “Is the San Luis Valley on a fault line?”

  Townsend nodded.

  “So you could have seen earth lights,” Bob said, remembering reading once that when tectonic plates on a fault line rub together, they generate great energy, which is sometimes manifested by balls of light called earth lights. “What happened next?”

  “Nothing, for a while. Michael kept talking about the UFOs. Then after a couple of weeks, our boss came to us and said his boss said our work suffered because of our UFO experience, and they wanted us to see a UFO specialist in Boston.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think they made it up.” Townsend’s voice had been getting louder and shriller the longer he talked; his last comment caused heads to swivel in their direction.

  “Drink your coffee,” Bob said.

  Townsend obediently raised the cup to his lips. When Townsend set aside the empty cup, Bob signaled for a refill. Within a few minutes, Townsend had calmed enough to continue.

  “Michael agreed to go to the specialist. He was sure we’d been beamed aboard a spaceship, and he wanted to remember. I refused to go, but they said they’d fire me if I didn’t. So I went.” He was silent for a long time, then he added, almost inaudibly, “I can’t believe I was such a fool.”

  “What happened in Boston?” Bob asked.

  “I don’t remember.” Townsend looked as if he were about to cry. “I can’t remember things that hap-pened, but I can remember things that didn’t happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we got back to Denver, we both remembered being on the space ship. You know. Bright lights. Rectal probes. Long tweezers poking something far up our nasal passages. Tall, beautiful, blond aliens. Short gray ones with huge slanty eyes.”

  Townsend gulped his coffee. Putting down his cup, he gave Bob a surprisingly perceptive glance. “The aliens even warned us about nuclear bombs, like we’re dumb enough to believe anyone living on a planet light years from here would be affected if we blew up our planet. If we did blow it up, it wouldn’t generate even a fraction of the nuclear energy our sun does, so who would care? Besides us, I mean.”

  The waitress came and refilled Townsend’s cup once more.

  Bob waited until he drank it, then asked, “How did you know the memories weren’t real?”

  “I didn’t. You trust your memories. All you are is what you remember. I figured I was wrong about the earth lights.”

  “So how did you learn the truth?”

  “I found the computer chip they planted. One of them. The other is still in my head.” Townsend showed Bob a red, puckered scar on the top of his wrist. “I took a knife and dug it out. Then I knew for sure.”

  “That the memories weren’t real?”

  “Yeah. I recognized the chip. Issy markets them. They sell them to ranchers to keep track of cattle, but they’re trying to get prisons to use them to keep track of convicts, and then . . . They already keep track of everyone through satellite pictures and computers. What will happen if everyone is implanted with one of these chips? No one believes me,” he added softly, as if to himself. “I try to warn them, but no one listens.”

  “I listened,” Bob said as quietly.

  Townsend looked at him for a long time, then he nodded once.

  ***

  Townsend slipped away while Bob paid the bill.

  Pocketing his change, Bob opened the door. When he stepped outside, two young men flanked him. They stood so close Bob could smell the acrid odor emanating from their large, well-muscled bodies. One had a s
mooth, baby face and tiny, feral eyes. The other had a pimply forehead and the merest wisp of a mustache. They didn’t seem to fit with the other denizens of Colfax, probably because of their expensive jeans and brand-new running shoes.

  “We need some shit, man,” Baby Face said.

  Bob pushed by them without responding.

  They stayed right with him.

  Pimples bounced on the balls of his feet. “We got money.”

  Bob kept walking.

  Baby Face planted himself in Bob’s path. “We said we got money, now give us the shit.”

  Bob stopped and glanced from one to the other. “You’re making a mistake. I’m not who you think I am.”

  He started to walk around them, but Pimples grabbed him by the arm. “You playing games with us, asshole?”

  “No.” Bob jerked his arm out of the young man’s grasp. “I’m telling you the truth.”

  Before he could take more than a few steps, they shoved him into a passageway between two buildings. He heard the distinctive sound of a switchblade being flicked open.

  “Give us the drugs or I’ll stick you,” Baby Face growled, waving the knife.

  Bob spread his hands. “You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

  “Stick him,” Pimples said in a high, excited voice.

  Looking at the gleaming blade, at the young men towering over him, Bob was surprised to find he had no fear. His muscles felt loose and fluid, his mind alert.

  He bent his knees slightly and stared into Baby Face’s eyes.

  “This is the last time we tell you,” Pimples shouted. “Give us the drugs.”

  Baby Face lunged, aiming for Bob’s abdomen. Bob grabbed the young man’s wrist with his left hand, pulled him forward, and smashed the heel of his right hand into his nose. As Baby Face started to fall, Bob twisted his wrist.

  The knife clattered to the ground.

  Baby Face continued to fall; Bob maintained his iron grip.

  The bone snapped. Baby Face screamed. He rolled around on the ground, blood on his face, cradling his wrist.