Someone tapped Maddy on the arm. It was the waiter.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You can go.”
“What?”
“You can go. The man he pay your bill.”
“What? Who?”
“Him.”
Maddy looked behind her, toward the dim alcove with the EXIT sign. At first she didn’t understand who she was looking at, only that he was familiar. Then her whole body reeled like a calving glacier—a million tons of falling ice that left her weightless. Shooting skyward.
“No,” she said, lips trembling. Then: “Ben?”
Ben Blevin, her former stepbrother and the first boy she had ever kissed, nodded back at her.
TWENTY-TWO
BEN AGAIN
BEN Blevin was alive.
There he was, unshaven, older, and even more good-looking than she remembered him, cowboy-rugged in jeans and a sheepskin coat.
It was impossible—or was it her memories that were all wrong? Maybe Ben’s death was just one more thing she had dreamed. Between Ben’s resurrection and Moses the Talking Raccoon, Maddy was terrified she had gone mad. But the raccoon was gone; Ben wasn’t.
She went to him. There was no joyous embrace, no tearful reunion—Maddy was too much in shock to feel anything. Ben must have sensed it wouldn’t have taken much of a nudge to start her screaming hysterically, so he wisely refrained from touching her.
Eyes round as two pale moons, Maddy said, “Ben?”
He nodded somberly. “I know. It’s okay. Come on, you want to take a walk?”
She nodded, and they left the restaurant. It was getting dark outside. They strolled aimlessly across the plaza.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish I could have told you.”
“Told me what? What is this?”
“It’s part of the research. I’m part of the research—just like you.”
“I don’t get it, Ben, and it’s really, really scaring me.” She hugged herself to quiet the shaking.
“We’re both part of the same study. The only difference is, you lived, and I died.”
“But you’re not dead!”
“I am—legally, I don’t exist. I never woke up from the carnival accident. After two weeks in a ‘profound vegetative state,’ I was determined to be brain-dead. My parents signed a DNR order, and the hospital pulled the plug. Then they donated my body to science and went back home. I heard it was a hell of a funeral—I wish I coulda been there.”
Maddy covered her ears. “Stop! Stop it before you make me crazy!”
“You’re not crazy, Maddy. That’s what I thought, too, when they woke me up. Recovery’s been a long process. But you’ve had it way tougher than me, having to go back home and deal with everybody’s bullshit. I had the luxury of being dead. No awkward questions. No expectations.”
“But how?”
“I was just chillin’. Literally. As soon as I was pronounced dead, the hospital froze me stone cold and shipped my body to the Institute. The cold protected what was left of my brain. It was theirs—they had all the rights to it. Then they operated, gave me an implant just like they did you. Shocked my heart back to life. The rest is history.”
“But that’s a miracle! Why keep it a secret?”
“Are you serious? There are whole organizations whose only purpose is to find things to scream about. Litigate about. Create a crisis, make everybody panic, so then the lawyers swoop in, and the religious groups and the politicians and the media. Everybody all muddled over who lives and who dies. Soon it’s a feeding frenzy. And by the time the last investigation ends, the last lawsuit is resolved, we can all turn the clock back on science another twenty years.”
“I don’t know …”
“It sounds messed up, I know, but think about it. This kind of experiment is very controversial. There are privacy questions, human-rights questions, questions about how you define life and death, matters of informed consent. The law hasn’t caught up with the technology, and people are dying while the courts work it out. So the Institute has two choices: Either move forward with their work in secrecy or do nothing. They’re moving forward. But it’s a temporary situation. As soon as the ethical issues are resolved, we’ll all be able to go public. In the meantime, the work is more important than the risk of a lawsuit. They saved my life, Maddy—I’m in no position to question it. I’m a wholly owned subsidiary of Braintree, Inc.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“No, I’m joking. But I do believe in what they’re doing. It’s all about saving lives. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.”
“Sounds like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean it sounds like you’ve worked this all out in your head, and it’s all very reasonable. The problem I’m having, Ben, is that I don’t trust my head anymore. None of what you’ve just said explains what’s been happening to me these last few days. And I’m very worried. In fact, I’m scared to death.”
“About what? Maddy, you have to give yourself time. You’re still adjusting. Healing.”
“No.”
“It’s normal to feel—”
“No. That’s what they told me, and that’s what I keep telling myself, but it’s a fucking lie! There are times when I’m not me, when there’s somebody else pulling the strings, and it’s like they’re deliberately making me do things I would never do, just to prove they can. And it keeps getting worse, like I’m possessed or something.”
“Oh, come on.”
“And the worst part is, I love what they make me do! It feels good. But that’s not really me either, because afterward, I just want to curl up and die. That’s what just happened in that restaurant! You were there! I would have gotten arrested if you hadn’t come along.” Maddy stopped. “How did you happen to come along just then, anyway?”
“Your name is registered with the police. They called Dr. Stevens, and Dr. Stevens called me. She thought I should talk to you.”
“I see. And it’s your job to feed me the company line?”
“No. I came as a friend.”
“Friend. Is that what we are now? Friends?”
“I hope so. I’d like to think so, yeah.”
“Okay. Well, Ben old buddy, did you ever find yourself doing things against your will? Like, compulsively? Things you’ve never done before? Did you ever have euphoric feelings about laundry detergent? Or how about an imaginary conversation with a raccoon? Or murder? Did you ever kill anyone in cold blood? And feel great while you were doing it? Here’s what I think: I think everyone here is a prisoner. I think we’re all part of some big mind-control experiment, which if it works, will be the beginning of a new kind of society—a human ant farm where there won’t be any need for prisons or police, and where nobody will ever even know they’re slaves.”
Maddy was crying, quickly going to pieces. She hadn’t believed any of this when Moses the Raccoon said it, and she certainly didn’t expect Ben to believe it either, but for her it suddenly seemed all too plausible. She was so preoccupied with this disturbing realization that she didn’t notice that Ben had frozen in his steps.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “In the beginning, I used to have thoughts like that. Episodes. But not anymore.”
“How do you know they were just episodes?”
“Because they weren’t real! They were just temporary delusions, anxiety attacks. It’s normal after having the kind of brain trauma we’ve had. We’re lucky that’s the worst thing we have to deal with.”
“Are you sure?”
Ben grabbed her shoulder and looked straight at her. She saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before the accident. A depth that only real sorrow could provide. “Yes,” he told her.
“Okay. Well … I’m not so sure, okay? I think there’s something else going on here, something not right, and I don’t want any part of it. I have to get out of here, Ben—that’s all there is to it. I feel like somebody’s playing with my
head, and if I don’t get out of here soon, I swear I will go nuts.”
“Where do you think you’re gonna go?”
“I don’t care, as long as I’m far away from here. Out of range of that modem and the clinic and this whole fricking town.”
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll help you.”
“You—you will?”
“Yeah. Maybe you’re right. Only one way to find out. Either they’ll let you walk out of here, or they won’t. And that’ll at least prove your theory one way or the other, which should have a certain … therapeutic value. Right?”
“I guess.”
“Okay, then. When do you want to leave?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight it is, then. Here’s a hundred bucks to get you started—I can’t get any more cash until tomorrow morning. You sure you don’t want to wait till then?”
“No.”
“Okay. Suit yourself.”
“Thanks, Ben.” Maddy didn’t quite know what to make of his easy acquiescence.
“Don’t thank me. I’m probably being the worst kind of enabler. That’s why I’m coming along to make sure nothing bad happens to you—I’d never forgive myself.”
“Really? Well, then, maybe you should hold on to the money.”
“No, you keep it.”
“How come?”
“Peace of mind.”
TWENTY-THREE
VAN GO
AS she packed, Maddy pictured a future where billions of people lived in peace and happiness, without crime or conflict or hate. Where every person took pride in their labor, and never asked for a raise, or health benefits, or days off, but was available at all hours, any day of the week, including holidays, and could be moved to a new job at the drop of a hat without one word of complaint. And when they were old or sick or otherwise too expensive to maintain, they would willingly jump into mass graves. She pictured gorgeous palaces and parklands inhabited by the wireless rich, who could finally revel in ostentation without fear of resentment or rebellion from the multitudes of implantees slaving away in their teeming, polluted slums. No need for walls or guards—the poor would no more trespass on the privacy of the privileged class than they would eat their own children. Far less so, since they would gladly eat their own children if such a message were imparted through the agency of their glorious and infallible implants. They would eat shit and think it was roast beef. They would gleefully hand their children’s skulls over to be screwed with and mindfucked, then celebrate the trepanation with cakes and punch, so that generations ad infinitum would kill for their masters and die for their masters and think themselves free. Rich and poor alike would be happy, and for all their short, blissful lives, Heaven would reign on Earth, forever and ever, amen.
Looking over her room, Ben said, “Man, this place hasn’t changed. I remember when I first got here.”
“You lived here, too?”
“At the motel? Oh yeah. But first paycheck I got, I was outta here. Now I share a house with two other guys outside of town. We have our issues, but it’s still a big improvement over this crap-hole. What happened to your medicine cabinet?”
“Ben?”
“Huh?”
“How much do you remember about that night?”
“You mean—?”
“The kiss.”
“Oh … yeah. That.”
“I just wondered. You know, it was my first kiss. From a boy, I mean.”
“Oh no—really? I hope it was good.”
“You don’t remember?”
“No, I do … it’s just, I didn’t realize …”
“It was good. It was the best—one of the best things that ever happened to me.”
“Wow.”
“Not to be all weird or anything.”
“No, I know.”
“It’s just that it’s the last thing I really remember, you know? From before.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Then you left. You got out and never came back.”
“Yeah. That was pretty stupid. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t remember anything after that?”
“No—not really. Just getting really dizzy, you know? The cave seemed to spin around, and I fell on my hands and knees. Then I guess I blanked out.”
“Because I thought I remembered somebody in there with me. After you left. You didn’t try to come back?”
“Not that I remember. Maybe it was that carny who died. Wornovski.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t know. Sorry.”
“I was just wondering.”
“Sure. So listen, I was thinking we could drive north until we hit the Canadian border. I’m not really sure how far it is—I’ve hardly left town since I got here.”
“Drive? You have a car?”
“A van. It’s kind of a clunker, but the city gave me a deal on it. I got my driver’s license when I turned eighteen. I needed it for work.”
“What do you do?”
“Handyman stuff around town—light carpentry, painting, whatever. The Visitor’s Bureau keeps a bunch of free-lancers on call for all the minor little emergencies that crop up. Plus I’m taking business classes at night. That’s why I haven’t been able to get away.”
“Won’t you get into trouble?”
“I’ll just call in sick. Besides, I deserve a vacation. Ready?”
“Let’s go. Oh, wait a second.”
She pulled out the cheap digital camera she had bought at the drugstore. Charging the flash, she said, “Wouldn’t hurt to have a little insurance.”
“Insurance for what?”
“You never know. Smile!”
She took several pictures of him alone, then used the flash timer to photograph them together.
“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” he said.
“Relax. I promise not to sell them to the Enquirer. Okay, let’s go.”
“Wait—don’t you need this thing?” He was pointing to her modem, which was plugged into its charger.
Jerking the plug out, she said, “Leave it. Let’s go.”
They went downstairs and across to where Ben’s van was parked. It was easy to find, even in the dark: a scuffed white Econoline with a ladder across the top.
“Your carriage awaits,” Ben said, opening the passenger door with a flourish.
“Fancy.” The back was full of paint cans and spattered canvas. It smelled like turpentine. Maddy climbed aboard and hugged herself for warmth until the heater could kick in.
“You know what’s funny?” she asked as they got under way.
“What?”
“I came here in a van, and now I’m leaving in a van.”
“Hey, that’s just equilibrium. Karma. Balancing the cosmic scales.”
“Deep.”
“Oh, I’m deep. Twinkie?”
“Thanks.”
As they left the lights of downtown behind them, putting distance between her and the modem device, Maddy started to feel a little jittery … then a lot. The darkness beyond the headlights was so total it might have been an empty void, a black hole into which they were being sucked, and if they didn’t turn back right then, they would soon pass a point of no return. It’s the event horizon, she thought, the place from which not even light could escape.
Looking at Ben, his face sinister in the greenish lights from the console, she had the awful realization that he was a stranger to her. He could be taking her God-knows-where for his own heinous purposes. For all she knew, he could be a rapist or a serial killer—weren’t they all handymen who drove unmarked vans?
“It’s not him,” said Moses over her shoulder. “It’s you. You’re a yo-yo. They’ve got you on a string, and it’s pulling tight, making you want to spin the other way. The question is, do you really want to be a yo-yo?”
“Shut up,” she said.
Ben said, “What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking
.”
“Yeah, me too.”
They drove on and shortly came to an orange barricade with a large DETOUR sign. Above it was a large signboard that read: DANGER! SINKHOLE HAZARD—COAL FIRE AREA. There was smoke in the headlight beams. Maddy could smell it.
Ben pulled over and set the brake. “Hey, listen,” he said. “I was wondering if maybe we shouldn’t turn around. I mean, I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“You what? I thought you said you knew.”
“Well, I thought I did, but …”
“Don’t you have a map or something?”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t do any good if I don’t know where we are on it.”
“We just left Harmony. It’s in Idaho … or maybe Montana. Find Idaho on the map and go from there.”
He tossed her a road atlas. “Go ahead. You try it.”
Maddy intently scanned the map for Harmony. She couldn’t find it, not in Idaho or Montana or any other state.
“Don’t waste your time,” he said. “It’s not there.”
“What do you mean, it’s not there?”
“It’s not there. I’ve looked up Harmony in every map and directory I could find, even on the Internet, and it doesn’t seem to exist.”
“That’s ridiculous! What is this, The Twilight Zone? You’re wrong somehow.”
“Maybe. I hope so.”
“Ben, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but you better start being straight with me, or I swear to God—”
“It’s the truth. I’m sorry, Maddy. I should have told you right away, but it just didn’t seem possible. I mean, a town that you can’t leave? But I’ve tried driving out of here a couple of times now, and the roads just don’t jibe with any directions I’ve been able to come up with. After a few miles, I somehow always end up back where I started.”
Mad Skills Page 14
