n.whaler.archive.234089(seq.n) Notes indicated that phenomena occasionally occurs during periods of extreme agitation. Confirmed by subject’s father and mother. Subject increasingly despondent. Has not eaten in three days.
harrison.archive.232359(seq.x)))x Move forward with tests, with at least one test every 72 hours. Between tests, administer methohexital to render subject unconscious. Feed intravenously. Progress is reported with additional subjects using Nocturne No. 6.
Heather quickly googled methohexital and found that it was an ultra short-acting anesthetic used to induce and maintain unconsciousness.
n.whaler.archive.234089(seq.n) (Test 2.0) Subject placed in testing area with a single table and chair, various objects placed on the table. Commenced with Nocturne No. 6. Within seconds the objects on the table begin to levitate. Objects levitated several inches from the table for the duration of the music (approx. 6:34 minutes). Objects returned to the table’s surface simultaneously as the music ended.
Physical inspection
(Test 2.1) All variables the same, but objects on floor. Observed same phenomena. Objects levitated to varying degrees. Weight and size of objects seem to bear no relation to the levitation.
(Test 2.2) All variables the same, but subject blindfolded and unable to see objects which have been placed behind where she sits. Nocturnes Nos. 1-5 played in same order, objects remained stationary until Nocturne No. 6 begins. Observed same phenomena
{{corrupted 080-89 file}}
Subject exhausted but maintains consciousness. Larger objects placed in testing area. Nocturne No. 6 played. Observed same result.
(Test 2.73) 17 hours of testing, subject showing signs of agitation. {{corrupted 080-89 file}} No. 6 played in intervals lasting 24 seconds each. Observed same result during each interval.
(Test 2.89) Subject stands at the {{corrupted 080-89 file}}00000103983094512asdf47809111111111111gfd11111125609fg8888883hghl9238yl
The text for the remainder of the file was corrupted, but she kept it open and leaned back in her chair, cradling her tea and thinking about what she’d read.
They had tortured this girl.
The girl.
It had to be Mae.
Heather knew she probably shouldn’t think of the subject as Mae, not without some evidence, but she couldn’t help it. Even without proof, the subject in her mind was this Mae Edwards. It all suddenly made at least some sense.. They’d kept her in a cell, conducting experiments on her, testing her abilities. If she was as powerful as was indicated in these emails, Heather couldn’t imagine that they’d given her any free rein. She was likely locked up in a room with no furniture and little contact with the outside world.
But, Heather thought, if Mae’s power was the cause of the destruction to the building in Miami, leaving her in a room may not have been enough protection. With the ability to manipulate the physical world to such an extent, being in a locked room without furniture, with padded walls and a straight jacket, would have just been a minor inconvenience.
She wondered how long these so-called experiments had continued, and whether Mae had been just a girl when they’d begun. Mae had to have been removed from her home, separated from family and friends, and tortured, from potentially a very young age, and all in the name of some experiments.
So how had they kept her? How did this power work? Heather’s mind swam with the possibilities, mingled with a lack of understanding and belief that was almost debilitating.
The experiments, if they could be believed, seemed to indicate that a certain song, this Nocturne No. 6, seemed to be some sort of catalyst for the psychokinetic ability. Somehow, the song was the key that opened the door. The subject had the ability, but she seemed to lack the power to control the ability on her own.
But to what end? All these experiments had to have a purpose, some grand scheme. Considering the recent events, she thought that whatever it was, it would happen soon. Whatever the plan, it was in motion. Il Contionum may have even known of Mae’s whereabouts long before they’d taken her, but had decided to wait until the last possible moment, to reduce the risk that she would cause another—
bomb without a bomb
—disaster and escape. They were desperate to keep their subject under lock and key, secreted away. Desperate to hide their true intentions.
Heather continued reading, finding mostly emails and documents that made no sense when taken out of context. After awhile, she returned to the first email between [email protected] and [email protected] and read through it again for more clues on search terms for the database. She settled on the reference to godmen. She remembered reading some reference to godmen in the book that she’d found in Paul’s room, but she couldn’t remember how they were related.
Heather opened the web browser and did a quick search for “godmen,” finding a short definition:
Godman is an Indian idiomatic term used in a derogatory fashion for a type of guru in India. They usually have a high-profile presence, and are capable of attracting attention and support from large sections of the society. Godmen also sometimes claim to possess paranormal powers, such as the ability to move objects or otherwise influence the physical world with only their minds.
Okay.
So, the subject—still assuming it was Mae Edwards, but who else made sense?—was a godman, or related to godmen in some way, which would make sense if she did in fact have these paranormal powers.
Godmen.
The thought of these gurus with seemingly magical powers gave her the creeps, but even more, her mind had difficult time coping with the idea of someone in the modern age, in the first world, with these same claims to power.
Again, the question begged. To what end?
She opened up the search browser and typed:
GODMEN
A number of documents appeared on her screen, and the list continued to grow as the computer identified more and more documents that mentioned godmen. She clicked through and read emails that discussed research into godmen, and even expeditions throughout the world to find and test individuals who claimed to be godmen. She read through many emails and archive notes, but nothing seemed to shed light on the purpose behind this research. Heather supposed that it could have all just been supplementary to the experiments being conducted on Mae, but something told her there was something more. Even those experiments were leading to something, building to some conclusion of purpose.
You don’t build a bomb, she thought, without a target to use it on.
She continued searching, draining the last of her tea and feeling the fatigue that was slowly shutting her down with every passing second. The only thing that kept her going was the thought, the feeling that she was skirting the edge of the answers. She was almost there, like a word on the tip of the tongue, but just out of the mind’s grasp.
Heather continued trying different searches and finally, after searching for the word godmen in close proximity to the dates of each day that month, she stumbled across an email sent from
________________________________________
To:
Project Godmen. Primary asset delivered to WE-1. Commence operation at 8 PM MST, 2/13.
Heather rubbed her eyes and read the email again. 2/13. February 13 was tomorrow. Something was happening at 8 PM MST. She read the abbreviation and it seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she still couldn’t place it. She googled WE-1 and several webpages and headlines appeared in her results, but all were consistent.
WE-1 = WORLD ECONOMIC SUMMIT ONE
The WE-1 had commenced a day before at a resort in northern Colorado, widely touted as the first united effort by worldwide financial and political leaders to begin solving the world’s economic p
roblems and wealth disparity. Several world leaders, including leaders from global superpowers, were expected to arrive for the Summit’s main event, to be held on February 13.
In Colorado, Heather realized with ebbing dread. A direct shot from I-80. The convoy was heading west, and the attack would take place at 8 PM.
She realized just how perfect the plan was. The logistics of planning an actual attack were no longer needed. The implements of destruction could be brought safely through any security checkpoint, metal detector, guards, sniffing dogs, anything. Mae could get through any obstacle, could sit at the table with the President of the United States, and she could do it because no one was on the lookout for her. A bomb that wasn’t just not a bomb, but was a living and breathing human being with seemingly limitless destructive power. And all from her mind.
It was genius. Mad genius. A nightmare.
Heather couldn’t imagine what was planned with Mae at the WE-1, but the attack would be catastrophic. Suddenly, she realized just how important it was that Ryan and his crew of Lit Dragons were successful in rescuing Mae. They had to rescue her and make sure that she was kept safely away from everyone.
But on the other hand, Mae was dangerous. Dangerous enough to be used as a weapon of mass destruction.
Ryan has no idea what he’s walking into, Heather thought. She found her phone and typed a quick message. Time was short, and she had to tell someone about all this. She thought about calling him, but decided against it. She needed to get the word out to more people than just Ryan.
So, Heather decided on a text, and she would call him after she got the word out. She composed it quickly, not wanting to waste time. So very little time, and she had to tell the world.
Even as she thought it, she knew that no one would be believe her. It was like Paul Freemont, the journalist who’d gone off his rocker into conspiracy theory land. No one would believe that such a thing was reality. Even after the destruction, after the attack, excuses would be made, and Il Contionum would cover it up like they had in Miami. No one would know.
She remembered Paul’s friend, or assistant, from the newspaper where he’d worked. Heather couldn’t remember his name. She’d written it down on a notepad in her apartment, but that wouldn’t do her any good now. His name… started with a D, but she couldn’t remember.
She logged into the reporter’s work email account and scrolled through the contacts. There were thousands of names here, and if she had to go through all of them, she would run out of time. She went to the names beginning with the letter “D,” but realized the contacts were sorted by last name. Instead, she ran a search of all names beginning with a “D” and several names appeared. Daemon Welner, Dennis Johnson, and Dustin McKay.
None of the names stood out to her and she almost screamed with frustration. She knew the name, but it had slipped her mind.
She opened up the details for each contact and sighed with relief when she saw that Dennis Johnson’s email address shared the same domain name as Paul’s. Dennis had to be the one.
Heather addressed the email to him and began attaching documents. She typed a quick message and sent the email.
Once it had cleared the outbox, she had the feeling that the email wouldn’t get to Dennis in time. But of course it would. It had to get there.
“Screw it,” she whispered. At this point, it didn’t matter. She’d send the email to the entire newspaper. Heather retrieved the email she’d just sent to Dennis and forwarded it. It took a few seconds to identify the Gazette Email Group in the reporter’s contact list, but she smiled almost giddily when she saw that it contained 97 contacts.
In the subject line, she typed: PAUL FREEMONT IS DEAD.
That ought to get their attention.
“Ah, Ms. Gardner,” a voice said behind her. Heather froze.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The night passed quickly as they drove, mostly in silence. Adam hadn’t slept since the attack on Ryan’s house, and he took the opportunity to get some rest. Ryan drove without music, enjoying the speed and the road stretching off into the night. Hours passed, along with cities and towns. Before long, they were driving through rural Illinois and Iowa and the sun was peeking over the horizon behind them. The sky was peach in mirrors and a deep purple ahead when he pulled over to fill up the cars and grab something to eat.
At the gas station, the other drivers were sleepy and quiet. Even Sam, who Ryan remembered would hardly ever shut up, was subdued. He walked into the gas station while Dani filled the car, and returned carrying energy drinks, which he passed around.
“I’ll drive for awhile,” Adam said, looking more alert than most everyone else. Ryan didn’t argue and couldn’t think of a reason to not allow Adam to drive. He tossed him the keys and nodded his thanks before climbing into the passenger seat.
“West,” Ryan said, “and keep it fast.”
He was asleep before Adam could respond, and he didn’t dream.
When he finally awoke, they were driving toward the setting sun and an oncoming storm. The sky beyond the sunset was a dark grey, only a shade darker than the endless grey fields on either side of the road. Dirty snow and ice stretched as far as he could see, and life seemed impossible here in the cold. It made him think of a nuclear wasteland.
He heard the faint strumming of a country western song, turned down low, and Adam was humming along, his eyes on the road but his mind seeming to be elsewhere.
"Hey," Ryan said as he sat up in his seat.
"How'd you sleep?"
“Any sign of them?” Ryan asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The answer to the question was obvious and the road ahead was empty of any other drivers, but he was hopeful.
“No, we passed the road block a few hours ago, but we haven’t seen anyone on the road since. Saw a jackrabbit though, just jumping right across the road. It was much bigger than I thought it’d be."
"I don't know if I've ever seen one," Ryan said absently.
Ryan took his phone from the dashboard stand. He saw a missed call from Heather and a message that he had to study for several seconds before he understood the first part of what she'd written:
b crfl of M Dngrsaaa
Noctrn #6 Dnt lt thm plaaay
Be careful of Mae Dangerous. The extra As had to be a typo. But why would she write that, and then what did she mean with the second part: Noctrn #6? Dnt lt thm plaaay? Ryan thought that could mean Don't let them play, but that didn't make sense either.
He switched to the phone app and dialed her number. His call was immediately forward to voicemail. He dialed again, and the same thing happened. This time he left a message.
"It's Ryan, call me back when you can."
"Who was that?" Adam asked.
"Heather," Ryan said. He went back to the text messages and copied "Noctrn #6," then pasted it into his phone's web browser and searched.
Did you mean Nocturne No. 6?
Ryan shrugged and indicated that he wanted to see search results for both the term Heather had sent and Nocturne No. 6, which made sense. Immediately, his screen filled with sound and video samples for a classical song by an Irish pianist and composer.
Okay, this is weird, Ryan thought. He scrolled through and saw nothing else that noctrn #6 could mean, aside from the song. He played a sound clip and it was about what he'd expected. A classical song on the piano.
"Everything okay there?"
"Yeah, just got a weird text from Heather."
"With a song?"
"Hang on," Ryan said. He sat thinking about what she'd written to him, and how the text had been written. She had typed it fast, that much was obvious given the lack of letters and mistakes.
Be careful of Mae. Dangerous.
Then she'd typed the name of a song and had told him not to let them play. Play what? The song? He wondered how that could have anything to do with anything they were currently dealing with, but decided that he would not have any idea what she was talking about until he talked
to her again.
"Where are we?"
"Nebraska," Adam said. "You couldn't tell from all the dead corn fields?"
They passed a sign indicating gas and food at the next exit.
"Let's pull over here, gas up and switch."
"You got it."
Chapter Thirty-Six
Whoever it was had used her real name. Somehow, that was even more disturbing to her than the fact that they’d found her. They knew who she was. Not her online persona, but the real Heather Gardner. The idea ripped her back into the here and now with such force that she felt a wave of nausea and dizziness wash over her.
Her concentration broke and for a second, she forgot where she was. But when she looked up, she was looking into the black barrel of a gun. Further up, she saw the smiling face of the man who’d broken into her apartment. The man who’d been sent to kill her. Heather glanced around at the people in the hotel, everyone frozen and watching the scene unfold. She saw other soldiers, this time dressed as police officers, guarding the exits, guarding her should she make a sudden move. Her eyes flitted back to her computer screen and she wished that they’d come only a few seconds later. Thirty seconds later, and she would have sent the email and the world would have known…
She moved her fingers, only slightly, pushing the mouse to the SEND button, but even that smallest of movements made the officer jump forward, the barrel of his rifle only inches from Heather’s face. She heard a woman nearby gasp at such an overt threat of violence, and Heather almost laughed.
“No, no, no,” he barked, “get away from the computer.”
But maybe Dennis? She held onto that, hoping that all she had just done and uncovered was not for nothing. Get your email, Dennis Johnson, whoever you are. Get your freaking email.
“Okay,” Heather said, raising her hands above the keyboard. “I’m not touching anything.”
The Snow Swept Trilogy Page 61
