But it was too late. He had launched himself forward between the seat, pulling the steering wheel sharply to the right. Jessica watched placidly as the car veered to the right, missing her by inches. Her damp hair didn’t even rustle in the breeze.
The car fishtailed, sliding perpendicular to its vector of motion. Agent Hill tried to correct, but the Lincoln’s mass fought against him. The car’s right tires left the ground and the vehicle rolled. The next thing Benjamin knew, he was lying crumpled against the roof of the car.
Taking a moment to get his bearings, he realized that Hill and Kassel were still in their seats, hanging upside down from their seatbelts. Both front airbags had deployed. The rear windshield had spider-webbed into a thousand pieces, and it only took a couple of kicks for Benjamin to detach it from the frame. He crawled onto the street and stood up. He was shaking with fear and adrenaline, but other than a few scuffs and bruises, he was unhurt.
Several other cars had stopped, and a ring of onlookers had formed. Benjamin was vaguely aware of people asking him if he was hurt, but he ignored them. He was straining to see beyond the ranks of onlookers to get a glimpse of Jessica. Was she an illusion? Maybe. But she had appeared to him for a reason, and he wasn’t going to let her get away this time.
“My daughter,” he mumbled. “Jessica.”
The people let him pass. In the distance he heard sirens. Hopefully Hill and Kassel weren’t seriously injured, but Benjamin couldn’t worry about them right now. He needed to find Jessica.
Benjamin strode past the gawkers and gridlocked traffic to the section of road where Jessica had appeared, but she was nowhere to be found. Once again, the apparition had vanished. Benjamin looked around frantically, but there was no sign of her.
There was no longer any doubt that he was losing his sanity. He could no longer tell what was real and what was an illusion. Maybe he’d been deluded to think he ever could. And yet, it had been his perception that had interested Glazier. He was the only one who saw Jessica’s ghost, just as he had been the only one to see the flaw in the account of Spiegel’s death.
No, not the only one. There was one other: Felipe. Somehow, Felipe had known about the flaw as well. He’d incorporated it into his model. But how? Benjamin was convinced that if he could find the answer to that question, he’d be able to figure out what was happening in Sunnyview. Somehow Felipe had seen the truth, and it had driven him mad, just as it was now threatening to drive Benjamin mad. Maybe if Benjamin could determine precisely what had happened to Felipe, he could find the cure for his own insanity before it was too late.
Benjamin made his way toward downtown, where he flagged a cab. He had the driver drop him off back at Lentz’s house. The house was quiet; hopefully Lentz had taken Sofia and Lucia to Sabbia as he’d asked. Part of him wanted to go there and make sure they were okay, but there was nothing he could do for them, and Lucia was convinced that everything that was happening with Sofia was somehow Benjamin’s fault. Maybe she was right. In any case, they were better off without him.
He got in the Buick, drove back to Lucia’s house and parked on the street in front. He got out, walked to the front door and knocked several times. There was no response, as he expected. He turned the knob and the door opened. He walked inside. The house was quiet.
Benjamin walked down the hall to Felipe’s room, and knocked on the door. Again, there was no answer. He opened the door.
Inside, Felipe sat motionless in front of his model. Benjamin approached slowly, not wanting to spook him again. This time, he wouldn’t point out the flaw. He would do his best to approach Felipe on his own terms. If he was right about Felipe, he knew something important about Sunnyview—something that perhaps in his own way, he’d been trying to communicate. Benjamin just had to figure out what that was.
“Felipe,” said Benjamin.
Felipe met Benjamin’s gaze, the expression on his face peaceful. “Felipe,” he said. Then he was silent, as if waiting for a cue from Benjamin.
“Felipe, is there something…” Benjamin started.
“Felipe, is there something…” Felipe repeated, echoing Benjamin’s uncertain tone.
Benjamin found himself fighting irritation. Why was Felipe doing this? Was he teasing Benjamin, or did he simply lack the ability to engage in a normal conversation? Was this sort of mindless repetition the closest he could come?
He started again: “Is there something about Sunnyview that you…”
“Is there something about Sunnyview that you…” Felipe dutifully repeated.
Benjamin gritted his teeth. Somehow he had to get past this impasse, figure out how to communicate on Felipe’s level. But how? He surveyed the model of Sunnyview, looking for something of significance. But other than the one flaw, it simply looked like a remarkably accurate model of the Sunnyview of Benjamin’s youth. Benjamin was tempted to ask Felipe about the flaw, but that didn’t go so well last time. There had to be some other way to communicate with him. But seconds turned into minutes, and Benjamin still hadn’t a clue. Felipe simply stared at his model, oblivious to Benjamin’s discomfort. Finally Benjamin couldn’t take it anymore.
“Felipe, do you know something about…”
“Felipe, do you know something about…”
“God damn it!”
“God damn it!”
“I’m a fucking moron.”
“I’m a fucking moron.”
Benjamin couldn’t help laughing at Felipe’s deadpan response, but any humor in the situation was quickly negated by the mechanical barking laughter that followed. Overcome with anger, Benjamin gripped the edge of the table, and overturned it. Houses, shops, cars, trees and pedestrians flew everywhere. Hundreds, if not thousands, of hours of work simply destroyed. Felipe’s conception of Sunnyview was no more.
For a moment Benjamin stood, wavering between shame at what he had done and anger—anger at Felipe, at Glazier, at Cameron Payne, at the FBI and their bullshit stories about “national security.” And most of all, at Sunnyview itself. He hated this city. Hated what it had become, hated the fact that a town of real people doing real work had been supplanted by narcissistic assholes blowing sunshine up each other’s asses. If only he could do to the Sunnyview around him what he had done to Felipe’s model.
Felipe seemed strangely unperturbed by the destruction. The table lay on its side, next to a pile of debris, but Felipe continued to stare straight ahead, as if the model was still there. Benjamin couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a smile playing at the corner of Felipe’s mouth.
Benjamin lunged forward, gripping the front of Felipe’s pajamas. “What is it?” Benjamin demanded. “What do you know? Tell me what you know!”
But Felipe now seemed to stare right through Benjamin. He made no response of any kind.
Benjamin pulled back and slapped Felipe across his cheek. Felipe reeled and he blinked several times, but remained silent. His mind seemed to have receded somewhere Benjamin couldn’t reach. Whatever chance Benjamin had of communicating him was lost. Felipe was gone.
Benjamin turned, walked back down the hall and out the front door. He stood for a moment in defeat, staring down the street toward the creek that had claimed his daughter’s life. So this was it. The end. He would never know for sure why his daughter died, would never know the truth about GLARE. He was a fool to think otherwise. The FBI agents didn’t even understand what was going on in this town. Maybe nobody did—including Glazier. Maybe that was the real deep, dark secret of Sunnyview: that the flaw ran all the way through this town, from the 1940s to the present, and if you pressed too hard, looked too deeply, the complex tapestry of lies would unravel, leaving incompatible strands of memory that ultimately signified nothing.
In his career as an investigator, Benjamin had had to accept that some cases were unsolvable, and this certainly felt like one of those times. The only difference here was that he suspected that there was no solution out there, that no matter if he had endless time and unlimited r
esources, he would still never find the truth. It was actually a small consolation: he hadn’t failed as an investigator; he’d been set up, given a question that had no answer. The only thing to do now was to try to move on.
Chapter Twenty-three
Benjamin started the Buick and drove to the freeway exit just east of downtown. There were no answers for him in Sunnyview. It was time to go home. He could fight the FBI for custody of Jessica’s body just as well in Portland as here.
He pushed down a pang of regret as he steered the Buick onto the freeway—whether it was about how he’d handled his investigation or other sins he’d committed long ago. He had plenty to feel regretful about, but none of it was going to do him any good now. He needed to let the past go. And the first step was getting out of this town.
His spirits began to rise as the car moved away from Sunnyview. It felt like shaking off a bad dream. Ever since he’d arrived in Sunnyview, he felt like he’d been sinking deeper into a morass of guilt and ambiguity. It would be good to get back home to something that felt more real.
But as he watched for the turnoff to Interstate 680, which would take him through northern California to Oregon, he noticed something was wrong. Somehow he’d missed his exit and made a circle, coming back around to the Sunnyview exit. Must have taken the business loop, he thought. That’s what happened when you weren’t focused on what you were doing.
He passed the Sunnyview exit and kept going, being careful this time to watch for the correct turnoff. But a few minutes later, he found himself once again passing the Sunnyview exit. An disconcerting sensation began to take hold of him. Was he missing time? Had he driven in a circle and then forgotten doing it? If so, then perhaps what he’d assumed was insanity was really some sort of brain damage. Did he have a stroke at some point after coming to Sunnyview? That would explain the headaches and sleepiness, and maybe the hallucinations—if not the rest of the weirdness he’d experienced. Unless the apparent weirdness was also the result of his faulty memory. Again, the solipsistic trap: if he couldn’t trust his own memories, then reasoning his way out of this situation was going to be impossible.
So: assume your memories are accurate, as far as possible. He passed the Sunnyview exit, checking his watch as he did so. It read 3:43. At 3:48, he found himself approaching the Sunnyview exit again. It was impossible. He couldn’t have made a circle around Sunnyview that quickly. And he was absolutely certain he’d never exited the freeway. He’d seen exactly one exit: the one for Sunnyview.
This time, he checked the display on his phone, which read 3:49 as he passed the exit. The phone’s time was synchronized with satellites; maybe it was possible to manually set the time, but Benjamin had no idea how. At 3:54, he approached the Sunnyview exit again.
“What in the hell…” Benjamin murmured to himself. Either he had completely lost his mind, or he was on an endless loop of freeway with only one exit. There was no way off this road except Sunnyview.
He got into the right lane and slowed, pulling onto the shoulder. When the car was stopped, he threw it into park and got out. Cars continued to zip past, their drivers oblivious to the trap they were in. Or was the trap only for Benjamin? Did this loop somehow exist only for him? Were the other drivers speeding merrily to their destinations while Benjamin was doomed to circle Sunnyview for eternity?
He paced back and forth on the shoulder, occasionally casting a glance over at the cars zooming by. He hadn’t really been paying attention, but he didn’t think he was seeing the same cars passing by over and over. No, it was just regular freeway traffic—people going wherever they would normally go at four in the afternoon. What would happen if he flagged down one of the cars? Could he hitch a ride out of here? Or would the psychosis transfer itself to the driver of that car as well? Did the other drivers even exist? Were these cars just phantoms, like the ghost of Jessica he had seen? There was one way to find out, but Benjamin wasn’t sure he was ready to try that yet. The only possible result of that test—whether a car slammed into him or went right through him—would be a confirmation of Benjamin’s insanity: either he was hallucinating or he was suicidal.
He got back in the Buick and made the loop again. This time, though, he took a deep breath and took the exit. This seemed to be what the universe—or his psychosis—wanted from him, and it seemed pointless to resist. Whatever Sunnyview was, it wasn’t done with him yet.
Not knowing where else to go, he returned to the motel. In his hurry to leave town, he hadn’t checked out, so he figured he’d try to get his bearings first. Despite the increasingly bizarre nature of his experiences, he still couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that there wasn’t some sort of rational explanation for it all. If he could just splash some cold water on his face and then just sit and think for a minute, it would all become clear. It was a laughable thought, but he clung to it up to the moment that his hand went through the doorknob. He pulled his hand away, blinked and shook his head. Was his depth perception failing him now? He tried again, and again his hand passed through the doorknob, as if it was just an immaterial projection. Either that or he was.
He reached out to touch the door, but his fingers went through it as well. Am I dead? He wondered. Am I a ghost, like Jessica? Is that why I could see her? Is that what she was trying to tell me? But when did I die? And why am I still here? Have I been cursed to roam this city as a phantom for eternity?
No, that didn’t seem right either. Whatever was happening to him, it was a gradual progression. He’d sensed that something wasn’t quite right about Sunnyview not long after he arrived, and that sense had become a certainty in the past couple of days. The insubstantiality of the door in front of him was unsettling, but somehow not entirely unexpected. But what did it mean?
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took two steps forward. When he opened his eyes, he was inside the motel room. He’d gone right through the door and hadn’t felt a thing. An involuntary shudder passed through him. What was happening to him? Or was it happening to the town of Sunnyview? How could he know?
Benjamin walked right through the bed and continued through the far wall, emerging on the far side of the motel. A few rooms down a maid was wheeling a cart away from him.
“Hello,” Benjamin called. But the woman didn’t respond. She opened the door to a room and went inside, leaving the cart parked outside. Benjamin walked to the cart and peered inside the room. The maid was pulling sheets off the bed. “Excuse me,” he said. Still she didn’t respond. He reached out to touch the cart, and his hand passed through it.
Benjamin felt himself beginning to panic, and forced himself to breathe deeply. Feeling his breath on his hands, and his heart beating in his chest, gave him some measure of reassurance. I am real, he told himself. I am alive. This much I know to be true.
Somehow he had gotten out of phase with the rest of reality. He existed, and the motel existed, and they somehow overlapped in space, but they no longer occupied the same plane of being. This was troubling enough, but there was more to it than that: his world had shrunk to the size of Sunnyview. What did the computer geeks call it? Virtual reality. It was like he was stuck inside a computer simulation, and the computer hosting it only had enough memory to render a single city. But now the computer was going haywire, and the simulation was breaking down. The only problem with this theory was that even with his limited knowledge of technology, Benjamin was certain that no computer in existence could render a simulation anywhere near this size or resolution. And when would he have entered the simulation? When did his false reality begin?
Benjamin walked around the motel, refusing to walk through it in what was probably a vain effort to retain his own sanity. He walked across the empty parking lot to the Buick, half expecting his hand to go through the door handle when he reached out to it. But the door—and evidently the rest of the car—remained solid. He got behind the wheel and started the car. Whatever mysterious physics had taken over the motel had apparently not yet affecte
d his trusty old Buick. Perhaps because the Buick had originated outside the simulation, as Benjamin had? Again, there was no way to know.
As he pulled away from the motel, Benjamin thought he saw the building flicker slightly, becoming almost transparent for a moment. Just my imagination, he thought, and then found himself laughing at the thought. It seemed like just about everything was his imagination these days.
The streets were nearly deserted, as if the effort to maintain the illusion of vehicles and pedestrians on the street had become too much for whoever was running this show. Benjamin guided the Buick toward downtown, noticing the flickering effect on several other buildings as he drove. Imagination or not, the town of Sunnyview seemed to be becoming less real before his eyes. The effect was less pronounced toward the center of town, though; it was as if the whole simulation, or hallucination, or whatever it was, was eroding from the outside in. What was that old poem he read in school?
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the center cannot hold
There was more to it than that, but that was all Benjamin could remember. Figures, he thought. Memory fails me once again.
As he watched the buildings flicker, he realized there was another reason the faltering of the illusion seemed less pronounced downtown: behind the modern façade were the buildings Benjamin remembered from his youth. The Blockbuster reverted momentarily to the Sunnyview Drugstore, and the organic grocery store became Jacks’ Farm Service for a split second. Was this the reality the illusion had been hiding? Somehow he was back in Sunnyview of the forties or fifties, and the image of modern day Sunnyview had been superimposed on it? But how? The technology to do something like that didn’t exist in 2000, much less in the fifties. And just as importantly, why? Was this all for his benefit? What possible reason could there be for subjecting him to such a vast, meticulously detailed illusion? Who would do something like that?
City of Sand Page 17
