“A resting state scan?” Kallie repeated.
“Yes. In a resting state scan, you simply lie there. We won't try to artificially stimulate your brain in any way. We do these types of scans occasionally in order to get base images of the brain at rest, so to speak. But in your case, as evidenced by the constant sensations you've been experiencing, the brain may not be in a resting mood, which is one of the reasons why we consider you a gift to our project. Before, we've had to artificially induce déjà vu like sensations in our test subjects. But since you've been experiencing them on a regular basis, we're hoping to capture images of naturally occurring déjà vu sensations.”
“How long will this take?” Kallie asked anxiously.
“It's hard to say,” Josh admitted. “Ordinarily, an fMRI scan would be about forty-five minutes. But in this case, the resting state scan could be a couple of minutes or a few hours.”
“You're going to wait until I have a sensation?”
“Or until our time runs out. We have the scanner booked for five hours,” Veronica chimed in from the other room, her voice filtering in through the head-coil which Josh still held in his hands.
Instinctively, Kallie looked at her wrist before remembering she'd removed all traces of metal from her person, which had included her watch.
“It's eleven-twenty-five,” Veronica said from the other room, her voice again filtering in through the helmet-coil.
Kallie looked toward the glass window and mouthed a thank you. She then turned back to Josh. She hadn't planned on the scan taking five hours. It would mean missing her afternoon classes. Before this week, she'd had perfect attendance in all her classes. She wondered briefly about where she could get today's missed class notes and then silently sent up a prayer of thanks that she didn't have any tests today, at least none planned. However, so far none of her professors had shown a penchant for surprise quizzes, although one never knew when the quiz-tide was subject to change. Regardless, she wanted to know what was going on inside her head. Whether it was good news or bad news, she needed to find out something today. “Okay, we'd better get started then.”
“Good,” Josh said. “Let's get you set up on the table.” Before he left the room, he gave her some final helpful tidbits and a reminder that she should remain completely still during the scan.
The scanner was louder than she'd anticipated. But it didn't sound like a jackhammer. To her, it sounded more like the electronic whining sound you heard when you accidentally called a fax line. It was that sound on major blast. She remembered that after her mother's MRI her mother had told her that classical music had played through her earphones during the scan. It had been Mozart's Symphony No. 40 in G minor. The same music Kallie's mother had played for Kallie as a toddler to help her to go to sleep. Kallie still found classical music relaxing and longed to hear some at the moment. But Josh had told her that they didn't want stimulation of any sort and that included music.
After about forty minutes or so in the scanner, she began to get used to the loud sounds and even discovered a rhythm within them. She found herself becoming relaxed, and despite the noise, sleepy. Due to the extreme brightness of the scanner, she'd closed her eyes from the moment the table had retracted into it, and now that she'd mentally conquered the noise, sleep beckoned.
Josh's voice filtered in through the head-coil. “You're doing great. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” she answered. “But I'm getting sleepy.”
“Try to stay awake,” Veronica said. “We'll do a dream-study at another time.”
“I'll try my best,” Kallie said. “But this is extremely boring.”
“I know, kiddo,” Josh said. “Just hang in there a little while longer.”
After another hour, the pull of sleep was overpowering. In an effort to ward it off, she instinctively and quickly opened her eyes. It was as if she stared directly into the sun. She blinked her eyes rapidly in an effort to recoup from the temporary flash blindness. After several seconds, her eyes still felt a little irritated, so she closed them again. But when she did so, a vision as bright and swift as a lightning bolt flashed into her mind's eye. She saw an explosion, a powerful one, of a building. There was shattered glass and body parts everywhere, entangled together like a bloody plate of mixed vegetables. She could hear sirens and horrified screams filling the air simultaneously. It was complete carnage. And she could see it all as clearly as if she was currently watching a television program in high definition.
“Are you getting this?” It was Josh's voice coming through the head-coil. And then Kallie let out a loud wail as she repeatedly squeezed the panic-ball.
* * *
McCarthy found Johnny Swag in the sanctuary, kneeling at the altar. McCarthy moved quietly down the aisle and took a seat on the first pew.
Sensing someone's presence, Swag turned around and immediately spotted his mentor. “Father McCarthy!” he said, and sprang to his feet. “Why didn't you tell me yesterday you were coming into town?”
“I wanted to surprise you,” McCarthy said. “Although with your remembering ability, I didn't think it would be possible.”
The two of them shook hands and embraced. “Well, you succeeded in it. I didn't see it coming.”
Swag led him through a door at the back of the sanctuary to the pastoral chambers. “May I offer you a drink,” he said after they'd entered the chambers and McCarthy was seated on the brown leather couch positioned perpendicular to the large, oak-top desk.
“Scotch and water with a little ice if you have it,” McCarthy said.
“Sure thing,” Swag said. He prepared the drink and brought it over to him. “So what brings you out this way? Business or pleasure?”
McCarthy sipped his drink. “A little of both I suppose, but mostly business.”
“Oh,” Swag said. “Anything I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes, there is.”
Swag sat down beside him on the couch. “All right. What's up?”
McCarthy took another sip from his drink and then placed the glass down on a side table. He faced Swag. “You know I've always been impressed with you. I sponsored your membership into the Alliance. And they've been equally impressed, perhaps more so.”
Swag shifted testily. “With all due respect, how about dispensing with the preliminaries? What's on your mind?”
“The Rogue,” McCarthy said. “The other Rememberers are certain he's here in the States. Somewhere in North Carolina, I'm told. He's changed his name obviously. But he's here. Yet your reports make no mention of him. I've been talking with you weekly and you haven't said a word. Why?”
“I think I'll fix myself a drink,” Swag said. “Care for another one?”
“No, I'm fine, thanks.”
Swag stood and walked to the back of the chambers to the wall-mounted liquor cabinet. As he prepared his drink, he smiled broadly at McCarthy. “My father was a Baptist preacher. For Baptists, drinking of any sort is usually frowned upon. My father never kept any of the stuff around. And his congregation thought that he was the salt of the earth. Few of them knew that he was a drunkard and a womanizer. I keep this liquor cabinet out in the open. I want everyone to know that I am who they believe me to be.” He took a long sip from his drink and rejoined McCarthy on the couch. You were a basketball player, right Father?”
“I was.”
“And from what I understand, you were quite good.”
“I was fair, I suppose.”
“There's no need for modesty,” Swag said. “Four conference championships in a row. Three time consensus All-American. A shot at playing professionally. I'd say that was more than fair.”
“What's the point?” McCarthy said impatiently.
“Exactly,” Swag said. “What was the point? Including high school, you played, what, eight years of competitive ball? If you'd decided to play professionally and had a solid career, you'd probably played what, another ten years or so? And every year it would be the same. You knew exact
ly how the season would end. Oh, the last team standing may have changed, but ultimately you knew how it was going to end. A team would be crowned champion. The other teams would be disappointed. One or two of them would vow that next year they would be the ones standing on the champion's podium. And the next year, maybe the previous champion repeated or maybe a new champion was crowned. But regardless, the same scenario played out. One team blissfully happy, all the others bitterly disappointed. And every year, it's the same thing—over and over and over again.”
“What does this have to do with the Rogue?”
“Have you stopped and asked yourself why he left?”
“He was disillusioned.”
Swag smirked. “Of course he was disillusioned. But why?”
“I don't see how that matters.”
“It matters because once you know why he left, you'll realize that this has nothing to do with stopping terrorist plots and saving lives, no matter how noble a cause that is.”
“All right then,” McCarthy said. “You tell me. Why was the Rogue disillusioned?”
“For the same reason you decided to no longer play basketball. He wanted more. You see, as a Rememberer he had the ability to see how this thing called life played out. And he had no desire to see how many championships he could win in a row. Or how many times he could lead the league in scoring or how many majors he could collect in a lifetime. Ultimately, he wanted off the merry-go-around.”
“I don't understand,” McCarthy said.
“The reason I can't find the Rogue is because he's changed the game. He's figured out a way to open demonic portals.”
* * *
“You knew about this?” McCarthy asked Boland. He was following behind the bishop in Boland's greenhouse.
“I did,” Boland said, stopping to water a plant.
“Then why wasn't I told?”
Boland ignored the question. The answer was obvious.
“But you told me to rein him in. How am I to be an effective mentor if he knows more than I do?”
Boland sighed. “Most effective leaders aren't skilled specialists in any particular area. They often have less knowledge on certain subjects than the people reporting to them. Leaders simply lead.”
McCarthy didn't respond to that. Instead, they were silent as they continued walking down the aisle while Boland watered his plants. When they reached the end of the row, McCarthy said, “I'm concerned about Swag. What if he suffers from the same disillusionment as the Rogue? With what he knows about A.I…”
Boland held up the watering can, silencing him. “Swag is only a man. Just like the Rogue. Had we known about the Rogue we might have saved him. We'll monitor Swag.”
“And you think that'll be enough?”
Boland smiled. “Well, it's that and prayer.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bennett slept until noon on Saturday, the latest he'd stayed in bed since before he lost his family. During those days he'd also kept crazy Sunday to Sunday hours, making it near impossible for him and Elise to simultaneously share the same bed for any significant amount of time. He'd always believed that most women probably wouldn't have put up with their husbands' hectic workload, particularly if there wasn't a huge pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And though ICE was noble and worthwhile and the flavor of the month following the 9/11 terror attacks, it wasn't a path to early retirement riches. Few government jobs were. But he'd also understood that Elise hadn't been like most women. She'd known that his job was demanding and she'd also understood that not only was he good at it, but he loved it. So despite the fact that whatever family time he carved out was mostly doled out amongst his two daughters, she never once put any pressure on him to look for greener pastures, or at the very least, a pasture with more family-friendly hours. In fact, whenever he got the occasional weekend off and would literally pass out from sheer exhaustion the minute he got home, she'd never once awakened him, not that night, and not the next morning, even though he was usually woefully behind on his honey-do list. She'd preferred for him to get up as she'd repeated often, “When the very last ounce of sleep has left your body on its own accord.”
Bennett sat up in bed, casting a scornful glare at the alarm clock. He'd had no intentions of sleeping this late into the day. “Thanks Helen,” he muttered. She'd made it perfectly clear to him that his stay in her home would indeed be a vacation for him, which she'd determined meant, “No clock staring. No time keeping.” And in the two days since he'd been here, she made good on her promise to try to get him to relax and enjoy 'having no work to do.’ The two of them had stayed up each night until the wee hours, talking and laughing about old times and eating whatever suited their fancy. And despite himself, he'd begun to feel the first pangs of relaxation. Yet each morning, in an unconscious defiant gesture, he continued to rise with the roosters as if he'd had somewhere to go and something to do once he got there. But this morning it was apparent that his sister's skills in keeping him up, gabbing the nights away had eventually worn down his wall of resistance. And as he stood up to head to the bathroom, he realized that he wasn't the least bit upset about it. The sad truth was that he'd been on self-imposed uptime so long that he'd forgotten what to do with downtime. He'd forgotten how to relax. “Thanks Helen,” he said again.
After he washed up, he went downstairs where he heard the surprising and pleasant sound of voices coming from the kitchen. Inside the kitchen, he was immediately drawn to the back of the head of the person sitting at the kitchen table. His sister stood at the stove, talking animatedly with her hands. She stopped midsentence when she spotted him standing in the entrance. “Good morning sleepyhead, or should I say good afternoon?” she said cheerfully.
“No thanks to you,” he said. He was still staring intently at the back of the head at the table when it suddenly turned toward him, revealing his niece. A smile erupted across his face. “Veronica, I thought that was you.”
She stood and glided laughingly into his embrace. “Why so formal? Whatever happened to Roni?”
“Oh, now you have amnesia. I think it was your fourteenth or fifteenth birthday when you forbid me to ever again call you Roni.”
“That was then. This is now. I'd love for you to call me Roni again.” She kissed him on the cheek before returning to her chair.
“Consider it done,” he said. He sat across from her at the table.
“Oh, those wondrous teenage years,” Helen said, and then turned back to the stove where she was scrambling eggs. He could also see a big bubbling pot of grits on the stove. The sweet aroma of bacon permeated throughout the kitchen. The sights, sounds, and smells of breakfast made his stomach growl.
“It sure smells good in here,” Bennett said as he watched a slice of bacon disappear into his niece's mouth.
“Your plate's coming right up,” Helen said.
“Good, good,” he said. “Breakfast at lunchtime, you gotta love it.” To Veronica he said, “What time did you get in?”
“About an hour ago. I was actually in town for a little while yesterday. But I had to go back to campus.”
Bennett said, “You drove all the way back to campus?”
“It's just an hour’s drive,” Veronica said.
Helen placed a plate of food in front of him. He said grace quickly and then shoved a piece of bacon into his mouth. Between chomps he asked, “Why didn't you stop by here first? Didn't your mother tell you I was here?”
“She did. But I wanted to surprise you this morning. I thought you of all people would enjoy that.”
“Touché,” he said, winking at Helen. “So, what were you in town for?”
“We took one of our test subjects for a MRI scan over at Piedmont Imaging in North Dale.”
“MRI scan?” Bennett said.
“Yeah, it's part of a class project,” Veronica said.
Helen slid cups of coffee in front of him and Veronica, and then joined them at the table with her own cup. “I've always been fascinated by the brain.
”
Bennett scooped up a forkful of eggs. “It's full of mysteries, that's for sure.”
Veronica sipped her coffee, and then said, “That's why MRI imaging is so valuable in mapping the brain. We're trying to solve some of the mysteries.”
Bennett said. “Have you found out anything interesting?”
“Well, I'm biased,” Veronica said. “I believe everything about the brain is interesting. But my group's main research area is memory. We're currently working on a project to see how déjà vu sensations relate to it.”
“Déjà vu?” Bennett said.
“Yeah,” Veronica said. “You know the 'been there, done that' feeling you get, although you haven't actually 'been there' or 'done that.'”
“It's been years since I've had one of those sensations,” Helen said. “As a child I used to get them every once and a while.”
“I think I had a couple of sensations before, too. But, it's been years ago,” Bennett said.
Veronica said, “Our research seems to indicate that it's just a false memory experience anyway.”
“False memory experience?” Bennett said. “What's that?”
“Basically, it's when a person has a strong recollection of something that didn't actually happen.”
“How do you know that something hadn't actually happened and you just can't remember it completely?” Helen asked.
Rememberers Page 10
