Mad Skills (16 page)

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Authors: Walter Greatshell

BOOK: Mad Skills
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“What if I don’t pay? I’m still a minor—what if I just go nuts with the card and party my brains out?”
“That will indicate to us that your impulse-control center is not being properly stimulated. We would have to find out why, and that could require intensive sessions in the fMRI lab—perhaps even more surgery.”
Ugh—Maddy’s worst experiences in the hospital involved that dreaded fMRI machine. Being strapped down in a narrow tube for hours on end, her head held in a vise, as the thing magnetically scoured her brain.
“I get it. No thanks, I’d rather count my pennies.”
“Good. So you’re interested?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do—the program’s purely voluntary.”
“What happens if I don’t do it?”
“A Thorazine drip and indefinite clinical confinement.”
“Where do I sign up?”
EIGHTEEN
 
HARMONY
 
THE next morning, Maddy ate a big breakfast of sausages, eggs, and blueberry pancakes, and was accompanied by Dr. Stevens to a waiting van.
“Where exactly am I going?”
“The town of Harmony. It’s not far—we’re on the outskirts here, about ten miles away I’d say. It used to be an industrial area, but in recent years it was bought up by developers and has been transformed into a very picturesque planned community.”
“Okay, good. Well … bye, then, Dr. Stevens.”
“Bye, Maddy. Have a good trip, and remember to just relax; stay centered. Everything you’ll need to know is on your PDA. We’ll be watching you, so don’t worry.”
“Thanks. I’m fine.”
Dr. Stevens slammed the door and waved as the van took off.
The silver cube of the clinic vanished in the trees as they drove down a long, descending road into the valley. It was a very scenic drive, densely forested on either side. In fact, the road was pretty rugged, unpaved and deeply rutted in spots, more like a logging trail than an actual highway. There were no signs and numerous twists and turns, but the driver seemed to know where he was going. He was a startled-looking man with receding hair and a double chin, though he was neither old nor fat. His name tag read: DR. RUDY MCGURK.
“Is this a shortcut?” Maddy asked.
“Yeah—it’s restricted access. DARPA money. All this back in here is private, government property.”
“Isn’t that an oxymoron?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I know—you think I’m stupid or something. I just didn’t hear you.”
“Private, government? Government generally means public.”
“Not here it don’t, sis.”
The air became hazy, filtering the sunlight and washing out the shadows. There seemed to be a greasy, sooty film over everything—and a
smell
: rotten eggs.
“What’s that smell?” Maddy asked.
“Coal fire,” Rudy said. “Used to be a strip mine around here, until it had to be abandoned.”
“The fire’s still burning?”
“Oh, it’ll probably go for the next thousand years. It’s burning away underground, following the coal seam.”
“Is that safe?”
“Well, every now and again a sinkhole might open up in the fairway, but other than that, you’d never know it was there. Actually, it creates an interesting thermal effect—there’s no snow accumulation, and the valley stays fairly temperate all winter long, so it’s kind of a golfer’s paradise.”
“What about, like, toxic gases?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Oh yeah? Then what about these guys?”
They had come to a fenced checkpoint with concrete barricades and a guard station. Guards in gas masks waved them through.
“Those are just to filter out the dust,” Rudy assured her.
Beyond the fence, it was all smooth sailing, the van carried along on a ribbon of freshly laid asphalt. The trees thinned, becoming first denuded and scrawny, then mere blackened skeletons.
Burnt-over woods gave way to a smoggy vista of gray rubble, a blasted moonscape that abruptly changed to park-land, the rolling green sprawl of a golf course. It still stank. Fumes hung heavy in the air, and here and there were dead zones: staked-off patches of smoldering, scorched earth, with warning signs like orange pirate flags.
Out of nowhere, houses appeared, a pristine residential area. Block after block of identical prefabricated units, with people mowing lawns and washing cars. There was a lot of new construction going on—the place was booming.
“Yeesh,” Maddy said, “who would want to live here?”
“
I
live here,” Rudy said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“We bought one of the last lots, and were lucky to get it. There’s no property tax, plus you’ve got year-round golfing, tennis, shopping—”
“It’s great. Absolutely. I was just being stupid.”
The town center consisted of a large shopping plaza radiating from an old mine complex, with a restored railcar and a huge central structure like a tin-roofed cathedral. The sign on it read, MUSEUM OF INDUSTRY AND CULTURE.
Shiny bright though it appeared, the village was devoid of character, if not actually grim. Maddy thought Rudy McGurk and Chandra Stevens must have a pretty odd notion of the picturesque. Aside from the mine complex, it was all plastic. There had been obvious efforts to make it quaint—plantings and antique streetlights and Norman Rockwell façades for the chain stores—but nothing could disguise the essential hollowness at its core. At least the air was clearer, or maybe she was just getting used to it.
Dr. Stevens had been right about one thing: Downtown was quiet—quiet as a Sunday morning. The shopping plaza looked closed; there was no traffic to speak of and few pedestrians in sight.
The van pulled up in front of a budget motel advertising weekly rates. It wasn’t until the driver set the emergency brake and started getting out that Maddy realized they had arrived.
“Wait—what’s this?”
“We’re here,” Rudy said. “All ashore that’s going ashore.”
“
Here?
This motel?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Slightly unnerved, Maddy allowed herself to be led through the door into the lobby. What was there to say about it? It was a motel lobby, with generic motel-lobby furniture and motel-lobby pictures on the walls. Nothing to suggest it was a halfway house for potentially violent headcases. She couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.
There was a frosted-glass window labeled CHECK IN. Rudy pressed a buzzer, and the glass slid back, revealing a burly Middle-Eastern woman. Smiling, the woman said, “Ah, yes,” and took Maddy’s documents. “Welcome to Harmony Suites. I hope you enjoy your stay with us.” Typing something into the computer, she printed it out and gave it to the driver to sign.
“Well, this is as far as I go,” he said, scribbling. “Good luck.”
Maddy was uncomfortable with the idea of his just leaving her here. Accepting her files back, she asked, “Is someone supposed to meet me here or what?”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A counselor or something. Dr. Stevens said I would be strictly supervised.”
“She meant electronically. Via your implant.”
“Oh yeah.”
Stupid.
“What did you think the external modem was for?”
“Riiight. Robo-chaperone.”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point. Stay within a kilometer of this, and you got a high-speed wireless connection at all times. GPS, Bluetooth, you name it. It also acts as a wireless charger, converting radio frequencies to electricity, so you don’t have to worry about your batteries running low. Nothing can happen to you now without your doctors knowing about it, and we’re just up the hill.”
“I get it. Should have given me one of these before.”
“Well, the technology is so new, there are still major gray areas in terms of state and federal law. Off the reservation, Braintree simply doesn’t have as much authority to protect its proprietary technology in the event of loss or seizure. It’s an unacceptable risk. If anything goes wrong, the clinic needs to know that they’ll have first crack at their property. Not some clumsy first responder. Not some well-meaning doctor or hospital lawyer. Not some judge. You were too vulnerable to unwarranted intrusion before; here, we have reasonable confidence of primacy.”
Primacy. Property. Maddy didn’t like the sound of that. By
first crack
did he mean at the modem … or her skull?
“Well, that’s about it,” he said. “We all set?”
“Yeah … I think so.”
“You’re gonna be fine. Try to enjoy it, and remember that everything you need to know is right up here.” He tapped himself on the head.
“Okay.”
“You take it easy now.”
“I will. Bye.”
“Bye-bye.” He pushed through the door and was gone.
Maddy had a moment of panic, during which she very nearly ran after Rudy and begged not to be left alone. Something had to be terribly wrong—her parents would never have agreed to this! Then something throttled down in her head, the panic subsided, and all was still.
The desk clerk gave her a key and pointed her toward the elevator. As if in a dream, Maddy rode it up to the second floor. Her room number was 207, about halfway down at the narrow hall, on the right. Like the lobby, the corridor was all very cold and impersonal, smelling of fresh paint and without so much as a picture on the wall to break up the monotony. How many of those rooms contained people like her? She would be interested to know.
Opening her door, Maddy wasn’t sure what to expect. A barren cell? A crowded dormitory? But she was gratified to see it was nothing too severe. Just a small, private kitchenette apartment with basic amenities, overlooking the rear parking lot. No phone or TV. With a sense of trepidation, she plugged in the modem’s power adapter and closed her eyes, waiting to see if anything would happen …
Nothing—nothing at all. There was no way to tell if it was even working, no lights or sounds. She would have to ask downstairs about that.
But not yet. First, she plopped down on her hard single bed and wallowed in the weird sensation of freedom. It was spooky. For the first time in her life, there was no one telling her what to do. And it wasn’t just for a day or a week, but for
six months
. All the time in the world. You could live a whole life in six months—get a job, fall in love, get married and divorced …
Then and there, Maddy decided she was not only going to make the most of that time, but that she desperately needed it. Maybe those doctors knew what they were doing putting her there, far away from the pressure of family and friends. How else could she escape from the stale role of Maddy Grant … and find out who she really was?
About time,
she thought, tears streaming into her ears.
About frickin’ time.
NINETEEN
 
SIGNS
 
AFTER resting awhile, Maddy got bored and ventured back downstairs. It was still morning; she had a whole day ahead of her. She wondered if she had to check in with the lobby every time she went in or out, but when she got there, the window was dark and locked shut. She went outside.
The street was just as empty, but the haze had thinned, and she could see that some of the stores were open. Down the block was a generic-looking chain restaurant with a huge sign: STRUWELPETER’S. Next door on the right was a dry cleaner’s and a Laundromat. On the left was a convenience store and a Middle-Eastern joint—the marquee read, KASHMIR KABOB—ALL-U-CAN-EAT FALAFEL $7.99. Directly across the street were a women’s clothing boutique, a gift shop, and a shoe outlet.
Well, if she was going to look for a job, she would definitely need a new outfit. She had nothing to wear but the clothes on her back—the same things she had worn to school three days ago—and the few things packed in the small overnight bag her parents had brought.
Then again, she was loaded.
Counting her twenties, Maddy realized she had exactly three hundred dollars in cash. That should be plenty.
First, she went into the convenience store seeking a few basic amenities like dish soap, shampoo, toothpaste, and tampons. She intended to stick to the bare necessities, but more and more items kept jumping out at her until suddenly her basket was full. The checker was a swarthy, mustached man who rang her purchases up with undisguised relish.
“Ah! Lemon Brite—good choice! This AquaDent is very good, too, a most beautiful color! Do you by any chance have a RiteDrug Card?”
“Oh, uh, no.”
“No matter! You will fill this out and I will discount your purchases—very simple! Ah, yes—Tampad! The leading brand! Will that do it for you?”
“Yes, please.”

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