The Reacher Experiment

by Jude Hardin

  Only he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He couldn’t let it happen. It was too risky. In a few days he would have to leave. He would have to start over with a different name in a different town, and he would never see Kasey again.

  And it wouldn’t be fair to pretend otherwise.

  Not even for one night.

  “I could get used to this too,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s just not possible.”

  “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I heard you talking to Greg. The whole no-paperwork-cash-daily thing.”

  “Yeah. I’m in some kind of trouble.”

  Kasey climbed off of his lap.

  “I’m not going to bug you about it,” she said. “I don’t even want to know. Unless you want to tell me.”

  “I can’t,” Wahlman said.

  The doorbell rang.

  “That must be the pizza,” Kasey said.

  She took a step backward and looked Wahlman directly in the eyes, and then she turned around and exited the bedroom. Poised. Confident. Balanced.

  Wahlman zipped up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.

  It was going to be hard to say goodbye.

  9

  After numerous refills on his coffee, and several trips to the restroom, Mr. Tyler had decided that Wahlman probably wasn’t going to show up for dinner at The Quick Street Inn. It was almost nine o’clock, and there weren’t any other customers in the restaurant, and the waitress named Marta had been sent home, and the pedestrian and vehicular traffic on Main Street had gone from what you might call bustling to what you might call sparse. For the past forty-five minutes, the guy in the apron, the one who cooked the food, had been tending to the counter, and he didn’t seem very pleased that Mr. Tyler had been sitting around drinking coffee for hours without ordering something to eat. Maybe he owned the place, Mr. Tyler thought. That must be it. Otherwise, why would he care?

  The guy in the apron carried one of the glass coffeepots over to where Mr. Tyler was sitting.

  “More?” the guy in the apron asked.

  Rudely.

  Aggravatedly.

  “I’m fine,” Mr. Tyler said. “I need to get going. What time do you close?”

  “Ten. And I lock up early sometimes if the place is dead.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to keep you. I was hoping to see Kasey tonight. I guess she was off, huh?”

  “Yeah. She a friend of yours?”

  “A potential client, actually. I seem to have misplaced the referral card I had on her, and I was trying to remember her last name so I could look her up and give her a call.”

  “What kind of business are you in?” the guy in the apron asked.

  “Insurance,” Mr. Tyler said.

  Which was a lie, of course, but one that Mr. Tyler could have backed up with several forms of identification if he’d been challenged.

  “If you want to leave a business card, I’ll be sure she gets it,” the guy in the apron said.

  “Couldn’t you just tell me her last name?”

  “Sorry. It’s a security issue. Not that I don’t trust you, but—”

  “I understand,” Mr. Tyler said. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

  The guy in the apron nodded. He seemed annoyed. He obviously wanted to finish up and close the place so he could go home.

  He set the coffeepot back on its burner.

  “So you want to leave a number where she can reach you, or what?” he asked.

  Rudely.

  Aggravatedly.

  Mr. Tyler reached for his coat. A special pocket had been sewn into the lining to accommodate his semi-automatic pistol and the sound suppressor attached to the barrel. He thought about pulling the gun out and drilling a nice fat 9mm hole into the guy in the apron’s forehead.

  But he didn’t.

  He hadn’t risen to his current status by being impatient.

  “I just remembered where I left that referral card,” he said. “I’ll give her a call tomorrow. Have a great night.”

  “Thanks,” the man in the apron said. “You too.”

  Mr. Tyler put his coat on and exited the restaurant. As he was leaving, three guys walked inside. One of them was wearing a red hat. Mr. Tyler guessed the guy in the apron wouldn’t be able to close early after all.

  Which meant that there was still a chance that Wahlman might stop in for a bite to eat.

  Mr. Tyler had parked his car in the lot behind the restaurant, but there were plenty of open spots along the curb now. He drove around the block and parked directly across the street from the pharmacy, giving him a nice view of the entrance to the diner.

  He found a radio station that played the kind of soft and soothing music he liked, and then he killed the engine and sat there and waited.

  10

  Kasey was angry.

  But not at Wahlman.

  After dinner, she’d called the friend’s house that her daughter was supposed to be doing something for school at, only her daughter wasn’t there. According to the friend’s mother, the girls had gone out for ice cream and should be back any minute.

  “Where do they usually go for ice cream?” Wahlman asked.

  “There’s a place right up on the corner of Main,” Kasey said. “It’s only a couple of blocks away. But that’s not the point. When she left here to go work on her project, I specifically told her to call me if she was going to go anywhere else. I tell her that every time she leaves the house. She’s supposed to ask permission. I’ve told her that about a million times. She’s fourteen, you know? I need to know exactly where she is twenty-four-seven.”

  “I could go for a caramel sundae,” Wahlman said. “Want to ride up there?”

  Kasey raked her fingers through her hair. “I do, but—”

  “You don’t want her to see me?”

  “I would rather avoid it if possible. She knows I go out with guys sometimes, but I don’t usually do the whole introduction thing unless it’s someone who might be around for a while. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure,” Wahlman said. “I understand completely. I probably still have time to catch a bus out to the campus. You go ahead and take care of your family matters.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s no problem. Really. Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Breakfast shift again. I have to be there at six.”

  “I’ll probably stop in for a cup of coffee.”

  Kasey’s cell phone trilled. She looked at the caller ID, and a puzzled expression washed across her face.

  “I’m going to take this back in the bedroom,” she said.

  “Want me to leave?” Wahlman asked.

  “No. Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

  Wahlman sat on the couch and waited. About thirty seconds later, Kasey came running back into the living room. She was frantic. She grabbed her jacket and her purse and bolted out the front door.

  Wahlman followed.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “My ex was supposed to be at a meeting this evening,” Kasey said. “He didn’t show up. The last time this happened, he ended up going to San Diego for three days, and he took Natalie with him.”

  “Natalie’s your daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “He kidnapped her?”

  “I have full custody, so technically, yes, he kidnapped her. I dropped the charges, but he still got into trouble for being AWOL. Not as much as you might think, but—”

  “He’s in the military?”

  “He’s in the army. And he’s an idiot. I have to find my daughter. Right now.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Wahlman said.

  “Okay.”

  Kasey’s hands were shaking so badly she was barely able to open the zipper on her purse to get her car keys.

  “Want me to drive?” Wahlman asked.

  “Would you?”

  �
�Sure.”

  Kasey handed him the keys. He clicked the doors locks open with the remote. Kasey ran around to the passenger side and climbed in while Wahlman slid in behind the wheel and adjusted the seat. He started the engine and backed out of the driveway and headed toward Main. When he got to the light, he could see that the police had pulled someone over down at the next block. Two cruisers, blue lights flashing. More than a routine stop. The driver who had been pulled over was sitting on the curb with his hands behind his back while one of the cops searched his car with a flashlight.

  “The ice cream place is right over there,” Kasey said, pointing toward the other side of Main.

  Wahlman waited for the light to turn green, and then he crossed over and found a place to park on the street.

  “Want me to wait here?” he asked.

  “You can come in with me if you want to.”

  Wahlman climbed out of the car and followed Kasey into the ice cream place. There were two young girls sitting at a table by the window. One of them had long blond hair and the other had short brown hair. Wahlman figured they’d been sitting there watching the drama unfold down the street. He figured they’d probably lost track of time.

  “Mom, what are you doing here?” the one with the short brown hair asked.

  Natalie. Kasey’s daughter. Wahlman could see the resemblance.

  “Get up,” Kasey said. “Let’s go.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Now! We’ll talk about this at home.”

  Wahlman walked over and handed Kasey her car keys.

  “I should be going,” he said.

  “Okay. Sorry about all this. It’s just—”

  “No need to apologize. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

  As Wahlman was walking out the door, he heard Natalie say, “Who was that?”

  He didn’t pause to hear Kasey’s explanation. He kept walking.

  He needed to go east on Main, toward the flashing blue lights, but he didn’t. He tried to avoid law enforcement as much as possible. He was a wanted man, after all, and he wasn’t sure his fake ID would hold up under any sort of intense scrutiny. Not that the officers down there would have any reason to stop him, but it was always best to keep a distance.

  So he walked in the opposite direction, up to the next corner, and sat at the bus stop there, instead of the one down by the diner, which would have put him three blocks closer to the campus. No big deal, except that it felt sort of like backtracking, which went against his nature.

  It was chilly, probably in the low forties, and he wished there was somewhere up on this stretch of Main to get a cup of coffee. But there wasn’t. He thought about risking it and walking on down to the diner. But he didn’t. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his old navy watch cap and stretched it over the top of his head and waited for the bus.

  11

  A campus security guard stopped Wahlman on his way to the Social Sciences building.

  “My name’s Tom,” Wahlman said. “I’m here to participate in a research study.”

  “Where’s your lanyard?”

  “My what?”

  “They’re supposed to give you a lanyard with a temporary student ID card.”

  The guard was about six inches shorter than Wahlman. Twenty-two or twenty-three years old. His shoes were scuffed and his uniform was wrinkled and he needed a haircut and a mustache trim. A navy drill instructor would have made him do pushups.

  “It was a last minute thing,” Wahlman said. “Dr. Surrey approved it over the phone.”

  “Can I see your driver’s license?”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Do you have any sort of identification with you, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Wahlman pulled out his wallet and produced the phony state ID card he’d bought in Texas. The officer looked it over, and then he scanned it with a cell phone. Which was one of the things Wahlman had wanted to avoid. Now he was going to be in the university’s security database. Or at least his alias was.

  “You can proceed to Social Sciences,” the officer said. “But make sure they give you a temporary ID card and a lanyard if you plan on returning to campus after hours again.”

  “I’ll make sure,” Wahlman said.

  He followed the signs to the Social Sciences building, entered through the glassed-in atrium and climbed the stairs to the third floor. Dr. Surrey hadn’t told him which room to report to, and he hadn’t thought to ask. He wandered around for a couple of minutes, and then a female voice from behind him said, “Excuse me, are you Tom?”

  He turned around. “You must be Belinda,” he said.

  She was petite, not more than five feet tall, with long dark hair and blue eyes and a medium skin tone that might have been Eastern European. She was wearing glasses and a white lab coat, and she was carrying a clipboard in her left hand. She looked very scientific.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “One of the guards stopped me.”

  “Because you don’t have a lanyard. Sorry about that.”

  “He said I should get one for next time.”

  “We’ll only be needing you for one night,” Belinda said. “Did Dr. Surrey tell you anything about the study?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, there’s really not much to tell. I’m going to place a couple of electrodes on your forehead, and then you’ll be on a bed in a room by yourself until you fall asleep. Eight hours later, I’ll wake you up and ask you some questions designed to test your mental acuity. Have you taken any sort of medication in the past twelve hours?”

  “No.”

  “Alcohol?”

  Wahlman thought about the sips of beer he’d taken at Kasey’s.

  “No,” he said.

  “Great. I just need you to sign our agreement form, and then we can proceed.”

  She handed Wahlman the clipboard. He skimmed through the form and signed it at the bottom. He almost signed his real name, but he caught himself in time.

  “You’re not going to hypnotize me and make me do the Watusi or anything, are you?” he asked.

  Belinda laughed. “No, nothing like that. Follow me to the sleep lab and I’ll get you set up.”

  “What if I’m not able to fall asleep?” Wahlman asked.

  “There’s no time limit. So if you fall asleep four hours from now, that’s when the study will begin.”

  “What if I don’t stay asleep for eight hours?”

  “Eight hours is the goal, but anything over five will work for our purposes.”

  “Okay.”

  Belinda pulled a zippered plastic bag out of her lab coat pocket.

  “I’ll need to lock all your valuables in our storage room,” she said.

  Wahlman handed her his wallet.

  “What about my backpack?” he asked.

  “I’ll put that in the storage room too. Are you wearing any jewelry?”

  “Just a watch.”

  She opened the zippered bag and held it out in front of her. Wahlman took his watch off and dropped it into the bag. He followed her down the hallway, and then through a door that led to an office suite. Inside the suite there were a bunch of desks separated by a bunch of three-sided partitions. A couple of guys were sitting at a couple of the desks, staring at computer screens. Probably other grad students working on other projects, Wahlman thought. He stayed behind Belinda as she wove her way through the maze of cubicles. The sleep lab was located at the very back of the suite. The section where the actual sleep took place was a twelve-by-twelve room with thick carpeting on the floor and acoustic tiles on the walls and ceiling. No windows. Everything in there was the same medium shade of blue, including the clock on the wall and the linens on the bed.

  “Did you bring pajamas?” Belinda asked.

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  “Do you normally just sleep in your underwear?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s fine. G
o ahead and take your clothes off and get in bed, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.”

  Belinda exited the room. Wahlman took his clothes off and climbed into the bed. It was a good mattress. Not too soft, not too firm. The sheets were cool and clean and it was quiet in there and Wahlman felt himself getting sleepy right away.

  Belinda came in and tore open a plastic package and pulled out a pair of insulated wires with electrodes attached to one end and USB connections attached to the other. She instructed Wahlman to lie flat on his back, and then she peeled the plastic film off the backs of the electrodes and pressed the sticky little squares onto his forehead.

  She plugged the USB connections into a black metal box about the size of a deck of cards.

  “There’s a bathroom right outside the door if you need it,” she said.

  “I think I’ll be okay.”

  “Great. Well, goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Wahlman glanced up at the clock. It was 10:42. Belinda turned the light off on her way out of the room. Wahlman took a deep breath and closed his eyes and thought about the wonderful afternoon and evening he’d spent with Kasey. He liked her a lot, and he wished he could stick around and get to know her better. Maybe they could stay in touch. He was trying to think of a way for that to happen when he drifted into a dream about Mike Chilton. His best friend. The best friend he’d ever had. The only person in the world he’d ever loved unconditionally. The only person in the world he’d ever trusted unequivocally. In his dream, Mike was sitting across from him at a small round table. They were at a bar. Drinking beer. A jazz trio was playing in the background. Wahlman could see the moon and the stars above, and he could see traffic moving on the street a few stories below. They were outside. Some kind of rooftop bar.

  “It’s my fault,” Wahlman said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I clicked on the SEND button three times.”

  “Yet here I am.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You’ve been watching too much television,” Mike said, and then he started laughing, that crazy infectious laugh of his, as if you’ve been watching too much television was the funniest thing ever uttered by a human being. Wahlman started laughing along with him, because it really was the funniest thing ever, and then the lights went out and there was blackness for a while and the jazz trio got louder and Wahlman was trying to find a classroom and he was late for a test that he hadn’t studied for and he knew he was going to fail and he knew that Mr. Moben at the orphanage was going to be very displeased and he knew that he wouldn’t get any sugar with his cornflakes in the morning for at least a month. More blackness, deeper and deeper, and then Wahlman was at the bar with Mike again but there wasn’t any moon and there weren’t any stars and the traffic was gone.