Текст книги "The Forgotten Room"

Автор книги: Lincoln Child

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

41

Sorrel’s room at Taunton River was quite large, but as spartan as a monk’s cell. There was a hospital bed with a suite of vital monitors on the wall above it; a spare tank of oxygen; a single window looking out onto the roiling, ever-darkening sky. There was a tray table on wheels, a few magazines arrayed atop it. Logan was surprised to see recent issues of JAMA, The Lancet, and Nature, apparently well thumbed.

Logan moved the wheelchair to a position facing a small couch, then, closing the curtains against the ominous, distracting view, took a seat.

“Show me the letter again,” Sorrel said in his breathy whisper.

Logan complied.

“Tell me about the deaths,” Sorrel asked. “Please.”

“One was a computer scientist, a longtime resident at Lux. He’d been tasked with restoring the West Wing, which has been closed for years. He suddenly became violent, hysterical – completely out of character – raved about voices in his head, some barely articulated threat to his well-being. It was unendurable, and he killed himself.”

Sorrel winced as if in pain himself. “And the other?”

“A descendant of Lux’s original architect.”

“And you say there is a connection between these deaths?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think so.”

“You mentioned that others have been affected.”

Logan nodded. “Hearing voices. Feeling dangerous compulsions.” He took a breath. “Seeing people who weren’t really there.”

The old man looked away for a moment. “Could you get me a glass of water, please?”

Logan nodded, then rose and, exiting the room, headed for the nurse’s station. He returned shortly with a plastic bottle of chilled water, which he opened and placed in a receptacle set into one of the wheelchair’s arms. Sorrel lifted the bottle and took a long drink, hand shaking slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny, withered neck. He replaced the bottle, dabbed primly at his lips with the edge of his robe.

“I came in late to the project,” he said. “Not long before it was shut down. I was very young. We all were, really. But I wasn’t long out of Harvard Medical School, full of new ideas – new at the time, in any case.” He shook his head. “I was brought in to see if there was any neurological or other medical way the…negative effects could be ameliorated.”

“I assume you were unsuccessful,” Logan said gently.

The old man went silent again for a few minutes. “That was many years ago. I’ve kept my oath – I’ve spoken of it to nobody – but of course over the years I kept up with developments in biology and psychology. After all this time it is hard for me to…” He paused. “To extract my later conjectures of what could or should have happened with what actually took place.”

The man might be old, but he was remarkably lucid. “Just tell me about the goal of the project,” Logan said. “In your own words.”

Sorrel nodded once more, and then his gaze went far away, as if he was peering into the distant past – which, Logan realized, was precisely the case. He remained silent, giving the man space to remember. In his own mind’s eye, Logan saw a procession of sepia-toned images: a group of men in seersucker suits and straw hats, standing and laughing on the front lawn of Lux; the same men, huddled together in a lab, engaged in some experiment; the same men yet again, sitting around a table, faces serious.

Finally, the old man shifted in the wheelchair. “It started as an accident, really. Martin had been experimenting with the effects of very high-frequency sound. What today would be called ultrasound.” He looked at Logan. “You probably aren’t aware of the impact certain infrasonic frequencies have on the human body.”

“You mean, like the Coventry Haunting?”

Sorrel nodded in surprise. “Why, yes. Precisely.”

This haunting had been a discovery by researchers at Coventry University: that extremely low-frequency sound, in the vicinity of 19 hertz, caused feelings of disquiet and dread. A side effect of this infrasound was a peculiar ocular vibration that triggered visions of a shadowy, ghostly apparition.

“Our work took place much earlier than that phenomenon, of course. Martin discovered that certain very high-frequency sounds had quite specific effects on human subjects.”

“By ‘Martin,’ I assume you mean Martin Watkins, the physicist.”

Sorrel nodded again.

“What was the frequency of the ultrasound?”

“I don’t recall precisely. Not one that would ever occur in nature. Somewhere in the vicinity of one point five or one point six megahertz, I believe. That was Martin’s bailiwick, not mine. It was a very precise frequency, and the level of sound pressure had to be exact in order for the phenomenon to occur.”

“What phenomenon was that?”

“Unusual sensory manifestations. Odd, unpredictable behavior. Even, in extreme cases, what a psychologist would term ‘dissociation.’ ”

“That sounds like a form of schizophrenia,” Logan said.

“Exactly. Of course, schizophrenia was a relatively new term in the thirties. Many still referred to it as dementia praecox.” Sorrel chuckled mirthlessly. “You know, people aren’t that much closer to understanding schizophrenia today than we were when Roosevelt was president. No known etiology.”

“At least it’s treatable. With drugs like Thorazine. Clozaril.”

“Yes. Thorazine was the first.” Sorrel seemed to slip into old memories again for a moment. “The basic idea of the research was that if certain specific ultrasonic frequencies could induce such reactions – if the sound waves influenced the brain in a certain way – then logically there should be other sound waves – perhaps harmonic, perhaps derivative – that would have the opposite effect.”

It was as if a huge piece of an invisible jigsaw puzzle abruptly slid into place. “Of course,” Logan said. “If sound could be used to trigger schizoid behavior in a normal brain…why couldn’t it be used to suppress such behavior in a schizoid brain?”

“That’s it in a nutshell, young man – that was the start of what was initially called Project S. For obvious reasons, the research was kept secret – the last thing Lux wanted was for word to leak out that they’d found a way to reproduce schizophrenic behavior. But nevertheless, spirits ran high. Martin and his partner, Edwin Ramsey, thought they could find a way to cure, or at least treat with great efficacy, a disease that had baffled mankind for ages. All they had to do was reverse Martin’s initial work.”

As he’d spoken, the light in the old man’s eyes had grown brighter, and he’d become more animated. Now, however, he sank back in his wheelchair. “They tried everything. Different frequencies and amplitudes. Sound masking. Interference. They all but invented a revolutionary method of antiphasing – noise cancellation. Ultimately, they made some progress at mitigating schizoid behavior in afflicted people – but they were never able to eliminate the negative effects on everyone else.” The man’s eyes slid closed, and his head nodded. Then he started. “Did I say ‘they’? I meant we. I was brought in, as a last resort.”

“What did they hope you could bring to the table?” Logan asked.

“Some kind of medical key. Some biological answer to the problem.”

“How did the sound waves work, exactly?”

“Exactly? I can’t tell you that, any more than I can tell you what causes schizophrenia. That’s the central problem. Believe me, I’ve spent more than my share of time thinking about it. Researching the possibilities – for my own amusement, of course.” He nodded toward the magazines on the tray table. “As best I can tell, the high-frequency sound waves stimulated – in today’s terms – serotonin receptors in the frontal cortex of the brain. Perhaps they acted on the raphe nuclei, as well.” He sighed. “Ironically, the more Martin refined his machinery – the electromagnetic emitters, amplifiers and compressors, and transmission equipment – the more extreme the effects became. The hallucinations grew more bizarre, the behavior more erratic. Synesthesia became a common side effect. Toward the end, in fact, the work became known as Project Synesthesia. They were hoping, you see, that if nothing else, we’d be able to learn more about the inner workings of conditions like synesthesia and schizophrenia. But…” And Sorrel lapsed into another silence.

“You were closed down in 1935,” Logan said.

Sorrel nodded. “Ransom, the director, became increasingly concerned that a device such as ours, which created hallucinations and unpredictable responses, could effectively short-circuit minds. My term, not his. He worried about the device being used to force people to see things that weren’t real, hear voices that weren’t actually speaking. Do things they didn’t want to do. The last straw was when other scientists, working in the vicinity of our lab, began seeing and hearing things, acting oddly. Ransom said it went against the charter. Nevertheless he felt it had sufficient promise to be mothballed rather than scrapped. Sealed up the lab and everything with it. Equipment, books, box upon box of files – the works.”

“How did the others take it?”

“You mean, Martin and Edwin? About as you’d expect. It hit Martin especially hard. Even though Edwin pioneered much of the technology that made the work possible, Martin was the one who first stumbled onto the process. We parted ways immediately. None of us wanted to talk about it – even if we’d been allowed to. I moved back to Massachusetts, found work in a local hospital. Martin eventually killed himself.”

A brief silence settled over the room. Logan glanced up at the curtained windows. “Let me ask you just a few more specific questions about the equipment. We found several bulky suits hanging in one corner of the room. I’m assuming those were used by the operators of the machinery to shield them from negative effects.”

“If we’d been successful, those suits would no longer have been necessary.”

“The central device has two settings: beam and field.”

“The therapy was meant to be administered in two distinct ways. The first way would be to have several patients assembled together, so that they could be treated as a group.”

“I see. That would explain the roman numerals on the floor. So that would be the field setting?”

Sorrel nodded.

“And beam?”

“That allowed people to be treated individually, in remote locations. A radio wave would be sent out at a particular frequency to one of several small devices we constructed. When one of the devices received a signal, it would in turn emit an ultrasonic wave.”

“These small devices you mention. Were they stored in a recessed drawer on the central machine?”

“Yes.”

“How were they powered?”

“The usual way – by electricity. They had wall plugs, solenoids, vacuum tubes.”

Logan thought a moment. “The displays on the faceplate of the Machine. They were graduated from one to ten.”

“That’s right.”

“What was the standard medicated dose you administered?”

“Normally, two. Sometimes, as high as five – but those were only in the cases of the most floridly psychotic.”

“This was in the field setting, I assume.”

“Correct.”

“What would happen if you redlined it?”

Sorrel frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Turned it all the way to ten.”

“Ah. I understand.” Sorrel passed a trembling hand over his lips. “We never ‘redlined’ it.”

Logan hesitated before asking the final question. “In a few decades, the quarantine will be lifted. A small panel will be convened to discuss whether Project Sin should be revived – whether technology has advanced sufficiently so that your work could never be used against humanity. Do you think that will prove to be the case?”

The old man looked at him a moment. Then he shook his head. “I’ve wanted to think so. All this time, I’ve wanted that. But no – I don’t think it will ever happen. Project S is a Pandora’s box. I hate to say it, but they were right to close it down. And if you’re right, young man: if someone has secretly opened it again…they’ll be opening a window into hell.”

A window into hell. Logan stood up. “Thank you, Dr. Sorrel – for your time, and your candor.”

“Good luck.” And Sorrel raised a withered hand in farewell. “Sounds like you’re going to need it.”

42

As evening fell, and heavy rain lashed the gables, parapets, and spires of the Lux mansion, a cell phone rang in the small set of rooms in the far section of the second floor.

It was picked up on the third ring. “Hello.”

“Abrams,” came the voice from northern Virginia.

“I know who it is.”

“Logan’s up in Fall River, Massachusetts.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“He went to a retirement community. He visited with the last of the three still aboveground.”

The person on the second floor did not reply.

“We think he knows everything,” the man named Abrams said.

“That old scientist is probably in his dotage. The likelihood is Logan just heard a lot of rambling.”

“Our information suggests the old scientist’s memory is just fine.”

“Even if that’s true, all Logan would learn is the backstory. He doesn’t know about me. About us.”

“He’ll learn soon enough. It’s only a matter of time. We’re going to handle this.”

“Like you ‘handled’ the architect?”

“Yes. Time is of the essence now. We’ve waited long enough. We can’t afford any more delays.”

“I told you, I’ll deal with Logan.”

“You had your chance,” said Abrams. “It’s out of your hands now.”

“No. That’s not the way. People will get suspicious—”

“With this hurricane bearing down on Newport? You must be joking. It’s perfect. Logan’s on the way back there now. Are people leaving the mansion?”

“The evacuation is voluntary. But, yes, many have left already.”

“All the better. After the hurricane passes, they’ll find Logan’s battered body washed up on shore. They’ll be saddened – but they won’t be suspicious.”

“It’s dangerous to kill him.”

“It’s more dangerous to let him live. And he’s not the only one who knows too much. You’d be surprised how much collateral damage this storm may cause.” There was the briefest of pauses. “You wait. We’re going to take care of this, once and for all.”

43

Two hours later, around eight thirty p.m., Kim Mykolos was sitting cross-legged on her bed, typing industriously on a laptop. A sudden slam caused her to look up abruptly.

She glanced in the direction of the bathroom she shared with Leslie Jackson. It was unoccupied, and Leslie’s own room, beyond the bathroom, was also dark and empty – she’d left that afternoon to ride out the hurricane with relatives inland. Kim had no relatives within easy driving distance, and she’d turned down an offer from a friend to stay with his parents in Hartford. Despite the hurricane, the huge stone mansion seemed as safe a place as any…and besides, she was onto something interesting.

Another slam. This time, she realized it was a wooden shutter banging against a nearby casement, shaking the butterfly cases that sat on her bedside table. Earlier in the afternoon, maintenance had come by to make sure all windows were secured against the blast. One of the shutters must have come loose in the wind.

The phone on her pillow began to vibrate. She picked it up, glanced at the number of the incoming call. “Yes?”

“Kim. It’s Jeremy.”

“Where are you?”

“At a gas station, just north of Roger Williams University.”

“I thought you’d be back here hours ago.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But the Sakonnet bridge is out, so I had to take the long way, via Warren and Bristol. And with this weather, traffic on 103 and 136 is crawling. I guess you’re not leaving?”

“No. I’m here for the duration.”

“In that case, you can do something for me.”

“What?”

“You know those two small devices we found, stored in the Machine?”

“Know them? I’ve been slaving over one for what seems like days now.”

“I want you to hide them away someplace. Someplace safe. And get the one from inside the radio in Strachey’s rooms, please. Hide it as well.”

“But I’m in the middle of…” She hesitated. “Got it.”

“And then I’d like you to search my bedroom for another device, just like those others. It would most likely be hidden somewhere along my common wall with Wilcox, maybe behind a dresser or a bookcase. If you find one, put it with the others. I’d do it myself, only I don’t know when I’ll get there – and I don’t want to leave this to chance.”

“What is all of this about, exactly?”

“I told you why I went up to Fall River, who I was hoping to see. Well, Sorrel revealed a lot about Project Sin. It seems they were working on a way to treat schizophrenia using high-frequency sound waves.”

Mykolos caught her breath. No wonder…

“They’d managed to reproduce schizophrenia-like symptoms in normal people, using a particular sound frequency, and hoped a different frequency would have the opposite effect in actual schizophrenics. But they never succeeded. In fact, modifying their experiment only made the effects worse. So the project was mothballed.”

“And the small devices you want me to stash?”

“I think you were right. They’re tone generators – built to emit the ultrasonic wave Project Sin was studying.”

“That makes sense,” Kim said. “Because I’ve analyzed the Machine further, and as best I can make out it’s some kind of amplifier. A primitive, yet nevertheless very complex, amplifier.” She paused a moment, thinking. “But why do you want me to hide those things away?”

“So they can’t be used to hurt anybody else.”

Kim froze as the meaning of Logan’s words hit home. “Are you saying—”

“I’m saying that whoever found the forgotten room and resurrected the research is using those devices – first on Strachey, and then, I suspect, on me.”

“So he, or they, intentionally drove Strachey crazy?”

“In order to halt work on the West Wing.”

“Then why didn’t…sorry, but I have to ask: why didn’t it have the same effect on you?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question. I think it has to do with our, ah, ‘ghost catchers.’ ”

“Those necklace things we’re wearing?”

“Yes. The hemishell of a nautilus is the central component. I’m no acoustical engineer, but I’ll bet the logarithmic design of the shells’ chambers breaks up, distorts the sound waves, reducing their effect. Reducing, but not nullifying – because I’ve been feeling rather unstable myself these last few days.”

“And you suspect I’ll find that device along the wall you share with Wilcox because he had no such…protection.”

“Exactly. Instead of me being incapacitated, Wilcox ended up in the ICU.” There was a pause. “Kim, I just didn’t see it. I was convinced the Machine was a device for detecting, maybe communicating with spectral entities. Given my line of work, I guess that’s the kind of assumption I’d easily slip into.”

“Well, I’d say the Machine is a device for communication – just not the kind you initially thought.”

“All those materials I found in Lux’s files about ‘ectenic force.’ No doubt somebody was looking into paranormal phenomena – but it wasn’t those three.” Another pause. “Look, I’d better get back on the road. Traffic’s looking a little lighter and the storm’s growing worse – I don’t want to risk a closure of Route 114. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Kim. And please – be careful. Don’t take any chances.” There was a click as Logan hung up.

As Kim placed the phone back on the pillow, she heard another noise. But this was no slam of a shutter – it sounded like a footstep, coming from the direction of Leslie Jackson’s room.

“Leslie?” Kim called out. “What, you decided not to go after all?”

No reply.

Frowning, Kim rose from the bed and walked to the middle of the room, peering through the common bathroom and into the room beyond.

“Leslie?” she called again.

Was that movement, black upon black, amid the woven shadows of Leslie’s room? If Leslie was there, why wasn’t she answering? Why hadn’t she turned on the light?

Had somebody been there all along, in the darkness, listening in on her phone call?

Suddenly, and for the first time, Kim felt, understood, the full weight of the danger she and Jeremy Logan were now in. If somebody had resurrected the work of Project Sin, and was willing to let Willard Strachey die to protect their secret…what would happen if her own role was discovered?

Be careful, Logan had said. Don’t take any chances.

Was that more movement in the deep shadows? The cold gleam of metal?

Instinctively, Kim wheeled toward the door. As she did so, her feet slipped on the carpet; falling, her skull impacted the wainscoting of the nearby wall with an ugly sound of bone against wood; and her body dropped to the floor.

A moment passed. And then a tall, thin man emerged from the darkness of Leslie Jackson’s room. His expressionless eyes surveyed the scene. Then he slipped a heavy blackjack back into a pocket of his tweed jacket and dragged Kim’s body into a nearby closet. And then, plucking the pillow from the bed, he dabbed away the blood and tossed the pillow into the closet, as well.

“I’ll be back for you shortly,” he murmured, then slipped once again into the shadows.