Mindwalker

by AJ Steiger

  I want to say yes. But the truth is, I’m not certain of anything. “No.” I tangle my fingers together. “There’s something else. I researched Emmett Pike, and there’s almost no information on him. I don’t know exactly what that means, but it seems … suspicious.”

  He stares at me, mouth open. I can see him putting the pieces together, coming to the same conclusion I did. “You’re saying that Pike’s not real? That someone implanted memories of being kidnapped and tortured in my head?”

  “No, I don’t think they’re implants,” I reply. “It’s impossible to fabricate entire memories; the technology doesn’t exist. I think something terrible did happen to you. But if I’m right, it might not have happened exactly the way you remember. Certain details might have been altered.”

  His face has gone grayish white. “Like the identity of the guy who did it?”

  I think about the scarce information I found online. A single photo—which, I suppose, could have been created in an image program—and a handful of articles, all centered around the kidnapping, as if Pike had sprung out of thin air, then conveniently erased himself with a bullet through the head. “It seems that way.”

  His eyes slip shut. The lids are dark, almost bruised-looking. When he speaks again, his voice seems to be coming from somewhere far away. “I went to Pike’s grave once, just to prove to myself he was really dead. But I couldn’t even step on the ground he was under. I was too scared. Like he might reach up and grab me.” His fingers tighten on the glass of water. His eyes open, unfocused. “I hate him more than anyone else in the world. But if he doesn’t exist, that’s even worse. Like my whole life, all my pain, is one big, sick joke.”

  “It’s not a joke,” I say. “Whatever happened to you, your feelings are real.”

  The patch of pale sky brightens outside the window. A flock of crows fly past, tiny dots against the clouds.

  Slowly, Steven sets down the glass. He leans back on the couch, weariness etched into every line of his face. “Thanks to me, you’re a lawbreaker now. You saved me, even knowing you weren’t supposed to.”

  “It wasn’t always like this, you know. People used to do everything in their power to stop someone from dying, even by his own hand.”

  “Guess they got tired of trying to force sad sacks like me to keep living. Much more logical to just let us die.”

  “If that’s ‘logical,’ then I don’t want to be logical.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch. It’s not really a smile, but it’s something. “So, what happens next? I mean, now that I know someone screwed around with my memories, what do I do?”

  “Not you. We.”

  His brows knit together. The confusion in his eyes makes me ache. He’s so used to being alone, he still can’t believe that I’m here to stay.

  I smile. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. We’re in this together now. I promised, remember?” My smile fades, because I know he won’t like what I’m about to say. “I still think we should go to the authorities. If not IFEN, the police, at least. We need to tell someone about this.”

  A hard glint creeps into his eyes. He shakes his head. “If we do that, you’ll get in trouble. Once they find out you treated me without permission, you could lose everything.”

  “I can’t let that stop me. They need to know about what’s been done to you. It’s my responsibility.”

  The stubborn look in his eyes deepens. “Yeah, well, it’s my head.” He raps a finger against his temple. “And I say no. You’re not losing your job. Not over me.”

  I look down, self-conscious. I find myself playing with a tendril of my hair and quickly fold my hands in my lap. “This isn’t just about you and me. Whatever’s going on, it’s a lot bigger than either of us. Ten years ago, six children died. That much is certainly real. If Pike didn’t kill them …”

  “Someone else did,” he finishes. “Someone with enough power to change my memories and conjure up a fake killer out of thin air.”

  The words sink in slowly, and the full enormity of what we’re dealing with settles into my bones.

  “I know we can’t just forget about this,” Steven continues. “But I’m not going to the cops, or to IFEN. I don’t want a bunch of rich guys in white coats poking around in my memories, and I don’t want you punished for trying to help me. We’ll find some other way to get the truth.”

  He sounds so determined. Such a change from the broken boy I held last night. What’s the difference? What shifted? Is it just knowing that he’s not on his own anymore? “I don’t know what else to try,” I say.

  “What about that Lucid stuff I keep seeing ads for? Isn’t that supposed to enhance memory?”

  I pause, thinking. “Lucid is designed to improve day-to-day mental functioning. It’s not strong enough to unearth pieces of an altered or deleted memory. If we had access to IFEN’s resources, we could get our hands on something more powerful, but—” I stop. An idea flickers.

  Ian’s mother is a drug researcher. From past conversations with him, I know that she tends to mix work and pleasure. She—and, indirectly, he—has access to all kinds of experimental substances, legal and illegal.

  The last time I spoke to Ian was when I chewed him out at lunch and stormed off. I can’t exactly ask him for a favor now. But then, who else can I turn to? There’s no one else I trust. And I realize that, in spite of everything, I do trust Ian. At least, I trust him not to betray me.

  “Lain?”

  I look up. “The truth might be hard to deal with,” I say. “If there were a pill that could help you remember, would you want to take it?”

  His teeth catch on his lower lip, tugging. He looks younger when he does that. “I want to know who did this. I can’t just erase the memories without knowing what’s actually there.”

  “In that case, I’m going to call Ian.”

  Steven’s mouth falls open. “Wait. Him? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “He’s my friend,” I say.

  “He attacked you.”

  “He kissed me.”

  “He pushed you against a wall—”

  “I’m not saying it was right, but he’s already apologized for it. It’s not going to happen again.”

  Steven scowls.

  “Steven.” I look him in the eyes. “If we’re going to do this, we need his help.”

  “And you think he’ll be able to help us,” he says flatly.

  “It’s worth a try. I’m just going to call him and ask.” I pull out my cell phone and dial, ignoring the dour expression on Steven’s face.

  After the second ring, Ian picks up. There’s a brief pause. I hear the faint rasp of his breathing at the other end of the line, and suddenly, my head is a blank. I stare at my feet, hunting for words.

  It’s Ian who speaks first, his voice low and cautious. “Lain, is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me. Hello, Ian.” There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. How should I approach this? I can’t just say, I need some drugs from you.

  “I wasn’t sure I was ever going to hear from you again,” he says. “I mean, you seemed pretty angry with me last time.”

  I wince at the small, sharp pang of guilt. “I was upset. About a lot of stuff. I said some things to you that I shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, you were right. Even if you were going out with Steven, it wouldn’t be any of my business. I mean, it’s not like I’m your boyfriend.”

  Is it my imagination, or is there a faint hint of bitterness in his tone? “It’s okay,” I reply awkwardly. “You were concerned. That’s all.”

  “Yeah.” There’s an uncomfortable silence. “So, what do you need?”

  “What makes you think I need something?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  Heat creeps into my ears. “Well, no.” I moisten dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “Do you know much about Lucid?”

  “The drug?” I hear a hint of curiosity in his words. “My mom was part of a study on that recently. S
omething about helping people with degenerative neurological conditions recover lost memories.”

  “Is that the same drug you can get on the market right now?”

  “Yes and no. The version they were testing was a lot stronger than anything you can legally sell to the public.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I remember reading about Lucid in my biopsychology class, back when it was still known by its long chemical name, before its formula had been watered down and transformed into a product. “So, what does it do, exactly?”

  “It’s weird stuff. In small doses, it acts like a mild stimulant, but you get the dosage high enough, and the effects are almost like ketamine,” Ian says. “You start tripping, and you come out of it remembering stuff you thought you’d forgotten. People with Alzheimer’s suddenly recognize their family again—stuff like that. Pretty amazing. But it can mess you up awfully bad, too.” A pause. “Wait—are you thinking about trying it?”

  “I am. Or rather, I know someone who’s thinking about trying it.”

  Another few heartbeats of silence pass. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet, very serious. “Lain, what’s going on?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how much I can safely say. I’m conscious of Steven’s gaze on me. “It’s complicated.”

  “Is this something that could get you in trouble?”

  “Not if I’m careful.”

  He exhales a tense breath. “Maybe I’m not one to talk, but you haven’t been acting like yourself lately.”

  “Ian.” I soften my voice. “Please trust me. This might not be technically within the rules, but it’s something I need to do, and it’s very important.”

  He chuckles, a hard, brittle sound. “You’re not going to tell me anything, but you expect me to help you?”

  “I know I’m asking a lot of you, but—”

  “It’s him, isn’t it? Steven Bent. This has something to do with him.”

  Maybe it’s obvious. After all, Steven’s the one I’ve been spending most of my time with lately. For a moment, I wonder how I’d react if the reverse were true—if Ian suddenly started ignoring me and hanging out with some girl I barely knew. I’ve never looked at Ian in that way, yet the thought makes me instantly uncomfortable. I truly am asking a lot of him. “I shouldn’t explain this over a cell phone,” I say quietly. “I’ll tell you more in person.”

  I wait, the blood whooshing in my ears.

  He gives a small, resigned sigh. “Just promise me one thing, all right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be careful,” he says. His tone is gentle, concerned. He sounds like his old self. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?”

  A faint smile tugs at my lips. “That leaves me a lot of options.”

  “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do, then.”

  I utter a short laugh. It catches me off guard. “All right, I won’t.”

  “See you at my apartment.” He hangs up.

  ***

  When we pull into the lot outside Ian’s building, the sky is a clear, innocent blue, dotted with cottony clouds. Monorails race back and forth on their tracks, high above the city. I park the car and say, “I’ll be right back.”

  “Oh no,” Steven says. “I’m going in with you.”

  “Steven …”

  “After what he did, you think I’m leaving you alone with him? I don’t trust him.”

  I meet his gaze and set my lips into a firm line. “Ian’s not dangerous. And I need to handle this on my own.”

  His eyes flash, and I see him getting ready to argue.

  I reach out and place a hand on his arm, and he freezes. “Steven,” I say again, more quietly, “something happened to Ian. He went through a very painful experience, and it’s affecting him more deeply than I expected it to. I need to have a serious talk with him, and I can’t do it with you hovering over my shoulder and glaring lasers at him the whole time.”

  A muscle in Steven’s jaw twitches. “Fine. I’ll wait ten minutes. If it takes any longer than that, I’m coming in.”

  “I don’t know how long it will take,” I say, annoyance creeping into my tone. “And what are you planning to do after ten minutes? Break down the door?”

  “If I have to.”

  I roll my eyes. He’s determined to be dramatic about this. “Look, what if you come into the apartment with me and wait just inside the door? Ian and I can talk in the other room, so we’ll still have some privacy, but you’ll be close by.”

  He pauses—then gives a single sharp nod.

  We walk in through the wide double glass doors of the lobby and take the elevator up to the top floor. When the doors slide open, Ian’s in the living room, sitting on the couch. At the sight of Steven, he tenses. “It’s all right,” I say. “He’s just going to wait here.”

  Steven and Ian stare at each other, and Steven narrows his eyes. I can almost hear the testosterone crackling in the air between them. I suppress a sigh.

  Then, unexpectedly, Ian smiles. It looks real—open and warm, the way he used to smile so often—though I can still see the lines of fatigue around his eyes. “Anyone want coffee? I’ve got a pot brewing.”

  Steven blinks, then frowns, eyebrows scrunching together. He wrinkles his nose, as if sniffing for a trap. “Sure,” he mumbles, surprising me.

  Ian glances at me. “No thank you,” I reply. Coffee’s too bitter for my taste.

  Ian goes into the kitchen and returns with two steaming mugs. He hands one to Steven, who examines it as if it might be poisoned, then takes a cautious sip.

  “I never really introduced myself, did I?” Ian asks. He extends a hand. “Ian Wellick.”

  Steven hangs back, peering at Ian’s outstretched hand. Then he clasps it and gives it a brief, hard shake. “Steven Bent.” He lets go and stuffs his hand in his pocket. “Sorry for nearly strangling you.”

  “Sorry for nearly stabbing you.” He smiles again and takes a sip from his mug. “So.” He turns to face me. “You need some Lucid?”

  I nod.

  He steers me through a door into a bedroom—his mother’s, judging from the diamond necklaces sparkling on the dresser and the thin black gown hanging up on the closet door. “Should we be in here?” I ask nervously.

  “It’s fine.” He sets his coffee on the dresser. “She’s gone for the rest of the week.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to get you in trouble. Will she notice if some of her supplies go missing?”

  “I doubt it. She’s got other stuff on her mind right now.” He opens a drawer and rummages through the contents. Then he withdraws a shiny black compact and flips it open.

  I lean forward. Inside, I see three compartments, each containing a single capsule—a shiny white circle with a tiny cartoon image printed on the front. One has a blue rabbit, one a smiling mushroom. On the third is the head of a snarling Chinese dragon.

  He snaps the compact shut. “So, you going to tell me about this blocked memory, or what?”

  I hesitate. “It’s very personal. It involves something that happened to Steven when he was a child—a trauma. I don’t know if he’d want me going into detail.”

  Ian’s fingers curl around the compact. “You know, I looked up his name earlier today.” His gaze flicks away. “I’d ask why he wanted to remember something like that, but I don’t think you’d answer.” A muscle in his jaw tightens, then loosens. He hands the compact to me. “Be careful with this stuff. You remember that study I mentioned? With one of the subjects, they messed up the dosing, gave him too much. He flipped out and tried to jump off a building. They stopped him, luckily. Afterward, he couldn’t remember why he’d done it.”

  I fidget nervously. “Is there anything safer that could achieve the same result?”

  “No.”

  I’m starting to have second thoughts about this. But I’m here. The pills are within reach. Later, I can talk to Steven and decide whether he actually wants to take them. “So how can I m
ake sure that doesn’t happen to Steven?”

  “Space out the pills,” Ian says. “Don’t take more than one within twenty-four hours. Personally, I would start with the blue bunny. Try the mushroom only if that doesn’t do it for you. The dragon—well, let’s call that a last resort.”

  I rub my thumb over the compact’s smooth, glossy surface. “Have you ever taken Lucid?”

  “No, but my mom took a blue bunny once. While she was studying its effects, she decided to sample the wares.” He digs in the drawer again, pulls a small notepad out, and flips through the pages. “She told me she was planning to write down the whole experience—you know, for science—but this was all she got.” He opens the notebook to a page on which she’s scrawled:

  ROSEBUSHES BEHIND MY OLD HOUSE A BOWL OF

  BUTTER-BROWN ICE CREAM.

  And several inches below that, in a shakier hand:

  GREEN FOAM EXPLODING OUT OF MY ANUS.

  Oh dear.

  “I guess she started hallucinating at some point,” he says. “Like I said, it makes you trip.”

  “Then how do you tell the real memories from the hallucinations?”

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  “Well, of course. Hallucinations are just products of the brain. They don’t mean anything.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” His eyes lose focus. “Neurologically, there’s no difference between a real and an imagined experience. In a way, it doesn’t matter if something actually happened to you or not. On the inside, it’s all the same.” He blinks a few times and gives his head a shake, as if coming back to the moment. “By the way, make sure you don’t lose these pills. They’re the last ones I have, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get more.”

  I sit on the edge of the bed, holding the compact and studying Ian. He seems to be in control of himself. That unnerving, half-crazed look no longer haunts his eyes. But his face is thinner than usual, and his lips are cracked and chapped. “What happened during that last immersion session?” I ask quietly.

  He doesn’t respond.

  I continue, keeping my tone calm and gentle. “I know it was a sexual assault, and those are especially hard to deal with. But no client’s ever affected you like this. You’ve always been the strong one—strong enough to deal with the things I couldn’t. I don’t know what you went through this time, but it must have been terrible.”