The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) (11 page)

Robert pulled into a church parking lot, near to the agreed meeting spot with Don. He got out and walked over to the shadow of a drooping tree to wait for Don to appear. The name of the tree wouldn’t come to him, but he remembered ones like it from his childhood.

A man shuffled over to Robert from a spot near to the crumbling brick wall that encircled the lot. The man was a shambles by Robert’s reckoning. Hair thinning on top, while the matted remains stuck out from the side of his head. His dirty, yellow-gray coat had holes in the shoulders, and covered a torn red-and-white wool jumper. His boots were stained with paint and other unknown substances, and he wore a pair of thick, black-framed glasses with the middle wrapped in white tape.

“Need a light, bud?” the man asked Robert after his arduous approach. They were the only two left in the vicinity, and the man was looking down at Robert’s feet.

“I don’t smoke anymore,” Robert replied. “Didn’t agree with me.”

The man nodded, as if he had heard a great and common truth. “You’re the guy who wants to talk about things that should be left alone.” He looked up and Robert saw a pair of dark, shielded eyes on either side of that white bit of tape holding the glasses together. “You were supposed to say, ‘I
used
to smoke, but not anymore. It didn’t agree with me.’”

“Right. So you’re Don, then?”

The man coughed into the crook of his arm. “That name will do. Let’s take a walk.”

Robert followed him out of the parking area and up a steep road that went around the church and on through what seemed like an abandoned residential area. Windows were boarded up in a lot of buildings, while some were empty black squares looking into dust and discarded building materials.

“First things first,” Don said after they had walked in silence for a while, “I’m not giving out anyone’s name that I worked with or anything like that. You can threaten me, try to expose me, but I’m still not saying anything. Some of those people are dead, others aren’t. I’d like to stay in the second group.”

Robert nodded. “I only want to know about one guy. A client, not a member of your crew, or whatever it was.”

Don’s eyes met Robert’s as they stopped at the rusted gate of an overgrown playground. There was a bench just beside it, made of wood that had darkened but hadn’t aged well. Ghosts of graffiti and crisscrossed scratches covered the back and the seat. The bench looked onto the little playground. A spot for parents whose children would be mostly grown now, Robert supposed. Don invited him to sit with a gesture, and then took the place beside him.

“Whatever it was,” Don said softly. He then looked at his hands, loosely clasped together in his lap. “I guess you have your own ideas about what it was we did.”

A bird cried out overhead as it fluttered to land on a drooping telephone line. Robert looked up at its tiny eyes, which seemed to look back down at the two of them.

“I heard you used to be in the shipping business.”

Don laughed once, a joyless bark, and sat back on the bench. “That’s one way you can put it. Unofficial stevedores, even.” He turned to Robert. “We handled goods coming in. No questions asked, as long as the danger was minimal to us. Cargo would come in, we’d liberate it from the ships and bring it to a neutral spot for collection. We’d get our money, wave goodbye and take separate routes home. It was a good team, we did all right for ourselves.”

“So you had no problem with whatever might be in the containers?”

“Look, that stuff’s coming in either way. It was going to be us, or some other group of enterprising people. We figured it may as well be us then. There was no violence, no murders, so we slept okay at night.” Don looked back down at his hands.

“Still sleep okay now?” Robert asked, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

Don breathed a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping in his ragged jacket.

“I thought it was drugs, maybe guns at the worst. A lot of the time it was probably just stolen merchandise. That’s what it all was, merchandise. I never thought they would...” He trailed off, looking ahead of him at the forsaken playground. Robert looked and saw the rust gleaming bright on the slide, reflecting the setting sun. A wind stirred the tall grass and bushes that had grown up around the swings, and the remaining chain that still hung there.

“Thought they would what, Don?”

Don sighed again. “Our boss, he was one of those connected types. Stories always floating around of how he disappeared this guy and that guy, sometimes just for disobeying him. Scary guy, big presence, you know the type?”

Robert nodded.

“Well, one night he calls us up to meet. Says he has a special job for us, for some special clientèle. The special part was, we had to hang around the warehouse and bring the container back when they had gotten what they wanted. Double the risk, but ten times the pay.” Don coughed and spat onto the ground in front of him.

“So, we thought it over, but like always, that money had already made the decision for us. Off we went that next night and took the container away, just like always, and we made our way down to the warehouse.

“We get there, me and two other guys, and as soon as we park these guys in black suits just come out from the building. They’re carrying handguns and machine guns and all kinds, and they surround the cab before I even knew what the fuck was going on. Then this guy steps forward and motions us out of the truck. We get frisked, poked, prodded, and questioned. Wanted to know everything about the route we had taken, what time we had left, all kinds of stuff.

“Naturally, we think we’ve been busted, so we ain’t saying shit. Not even asking for a lawyer. These guys are starting to get pissed off, so one guy has a gun on me and everything. Then, who saunters over to us but our god damned scary gangster boss. He smiles and claps the head suit on the shoulder, gives him some line about ‘Hey, these guys are with me.’ Then they make us take the container and back it up right to the warehouse doors. When we’re done, I climb up on top and slide the door up on the box. There wasn’t much of a gap, and I probably shouldn’t have been looking, but I saw.” Don paused and looked out and over the playground, into the direction of the coming night, still purple in the dying sunlight.

“What did you see?” Rob asked after a prolonged silence, his palms sweating.

“I saw the shoulders and heads of young children, walking out of the container we had driven from the docks. Down the ramp and into the warehouse. They looked clean, from what I could see, but they were skinny. Barefoot, too.” Don took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose for a second then put them back on.

“Did you see anyone inside? Did you see any faces?”

Don peered at Robert, his eyes narrowed. “What are you after, man? What are you trying to do?”

“I’m just trying to find out the truth.”

“That’s a subjective thing, truth. Depends on who’s telling it, and who’s listening.”

“I’m listening, Don. Fuck your philosophy, and your thieves code. You trafficked children, and unless you want me to spread that news around, you’ll tell me who you saw in there.”

Don laughed again, this time sounding more genuine but pained.

“Fair enough. Although it’s not much compared to what will be done to me if they know I’ve been talking. You wonder why I’m down on my luck here? Because I can’t get any dishonest work. I quit the game after that night. Not an easy thing to do and live to tell about it.”

“It cost you,” Robert said.

“My money, my home, my name, yeah, I’d say it did.” Don leaned back again, elbows perched behind him on the bench.

“So did you see anyone?”

Don nodded. “I was climbing down the side of the box, and as I was jumping down I looked. I didn’t intend to, and I don’t know why, but I did.

“I saw a couple of older guys. Good suits, expensive watches, good hair, all that shit. I only saw them for a second, but it was enough to recognize one of them.”

“Who was it, Don?”

Don bit his lip, and breathed deeply through his nose.

“You sure this can’t come back to me?”

Robert nodded. “I swear, I won’t even use your fake name. Just tell me.”

“It was that guy, the politician. The one everyone likes.”

Robert took a photo of Senator Frey from his pocket. It was from an old campaign, Frey's smile beaming out at any potential voter who could see him.

“Is this him?”

Don looked at the smiling face in the picture, and slowly nodded.

“What happened then?”

“We were hustled off to a distance by the rest of the suits with guns. They stood guard around us for about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. Didn’t say a word to us, just stood there smoking or looking around. I think I heard laughter coming from the warehouse once or twice. And screams.

“Afterward, they herded us back to the truck and instructed us to be on our way. The boss, our boss, handed us each a thick stack in brown paper. Each time he handed one over, he looked us right in the eye for a few seconds. We knew that meant: ‘Keep your mouth shut.’ And I did, until now, and fuck you very much for bringing it all up again.”

Robert sat back and put the photo of Frey back in his pocket. He sat in silence with Don for a few seconds, the breeze pulling at his shirt collar and blowing through the small hairs at the back of his neck. The sky looked like it was growing darker by the minute, black clouds seeming to steal the last of the light out of the sky.

Robert stood up and brushed his hands on his pants, almost reaching out to shake Don’s hand then running it through his own hair, instead.

“Thank you for telling me, Don.”

Don nodded, still looking out over the playground. Robert turned and started to walk off.

“He was smiling like that,” Don called after him after he had taken a few steps. “Like in that photo, but worse.”

Robert turned and looked one last time at Don, seated alone on the bench in the gloom. He then turned and walked briskly through the broken homes and empty church grounds to his car.

On his first proper day, Frank had arrived at the site on time and smartly dressed in a shirt and tie, earplugs in his pocket as specifically stated in his acceptance letter. This had been written in red, capitalized and underlined.

A man in a suit driving a black Jeep had picked him up at home. Frank carried one bag only and was ready to move into the cabin as soon as he had finished his first shift. On the drive to the base, he had looked out the window, watching the city give way to the suburbs which gave way eventually to the outside world. They blipped along the in between of intercity, inter-county, interstate roads. His driver had been silent the whole journey, just tapping Frank once on the arm when they arrived at their destination and pointing at his ears. Frank frowned, puzzled, before he remembered the earplugs and put them in.

As Frank stepped out of the Jeep, he looked unhappily up at the building in its stained glory. He saw that most of the windows were broken or missing, not even boarded over. There was no graffiti, but black smudges that looked like the shadows of a fire went around the base of the building. One entrance stood open, a garage-sized door into a small receiving area.

As Frank took a couple of steps toward the building, his driver hopped back into the Jeep and started it up. He had already pulled away before Frank could even get around to the driver’s side door.

“Hey, where the fuck are you going?” Frank shouted after him as the back wheels of the Jeep spun up dust, already obscuring the disappearing vehicle from his view.

He kicked the ground where the Jeep had been parked, grunting in anger. He was now alone in the car park, recognizable as a parking lot only by the faint lines on the tarmac. As far as he could tell, he was alone for as far as he could see in any direction. He had daydreamed a little on the way over, and hadn’t paid full attention to their route. He had a panicky few seconds when he thought about how he would get home.

He put these thoughts away. They had dropped him off, they would pick him up when he was finished.
The man was a driver, he’s an employee, he’ll be back at clocking-out tim
e
.

Frank set his eyes back on the building and walked toward it, at a pace only slightly quicker than normal. He wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted him when he arrived at the open door. He stopped mid-step, his mouth falling open.

A man in brown boots, blue overalls, and a white shirt with a collar sat at a table. The table had been put together with wood and black steel sheets. A section in front of the welcoming side was shielded. There was a battered radio on the table beside an open newspaper and on the other side was a silver thermos. The man also wore a navy cap on his head with
Security
in yellow across the front. He was sat facing Frank from behind the table.

Frank came back to himself, closed his mouth and finished his step. He came across the threshold of the door and immediately the man at the table had a gun pointed at Frank’s face.

“Far enough, fella.”

*****

“Name?” the man who sat at the table asked. He looked comfortable with a gun in his hand. His eyes were unwavering, searching Frank’s face.

“Frank Mortimer. I’m supposed to—”

“I’ll say what you’re supposed to and not supposed to, for now. I would say that this is your last chance to turn around and go, except it’s too late. I’m obliged to tell you that if you leave, I will shoot you in the back and burn your body.”

Frank paled slightly and nodded.

“Good. Now, the protocol here is very simple. You’ll come alone. You’ll wear the earplugs until instructed otherwise. And you will tell no one about the whereabouts or even the existence of this place and the people here. Copy?”

“Yes, I copy. What are the earplugs for?”

Security shook his head. “I’m not the tour guide. This will most likely be the longest conversation we ever have, so listen up and don’t ask stupid questions.”

“All right, sure thing. Whatever you say.”

“
Everything
I say, Frankie. Final bit of protocol: the pass phrase. You will say, ‘From one, from many.’ I’ll reply with ‘From all, from none.’ Exactly those phrases, those words, in that order. Any variation on your end, and you will be shot without hesitation. Any change on my end, and ...well, you’ll probably end up shot in that scenario too. Are we clear?”

Frank nodded fast, his head almost blurring as he did. “From one, from many.”

“Exactly right. Now, you go on ahead behind me, pull the hatch up in the room beyond and follow the tunnel. There’ll be someone there to meet you.”

With that, Security put his gun back in its hiding spot under the table. Frank sighed and felt his knees tremble as he walked to the door at the back of the entrance area. Security didn’t even look up again as Frank passed, taking his earplugs out after reading the sign telling him to do so.

He closed the door behind him and found himself in an empty storage room, with one grimy window high up in the corner. The trapdoor was almost invisible in the center of the floor. The only giveaway was the small, semicircular hole at the top of the lid. Frank squatted down, slipped his fingers into it and pulled hard. The trapdoor stuck for half a second then came up with a loud squeal of metal against stone. Frank made his way down the ladder, choosing his steps carefully and paying attention to each rung.

The tunnel at the bottom was lit every few feet with bulbs fixed into the ceiling, which was about a foot and a half above Frank’s head. The walls and ceiling were gray cement that had been smoothed down to where it met a darker gray and equally smooth floor. The walls were blank, no posters advising people to follow safety procedures, no warning signs, no directions. Frank followed the tunnel down and left as it turned and ended at a steel door.

This door opened into a cube-shaped room with an open elevator shaft in the middle and nothing else. Just as he entered, the elevator car rose up from beneath the ground. The doors opened and two men stepped out. One was dressed in black khaki shirt, pants, and boots, while the other was in a white shirt and pristine white lab coat with beige trousers and white running shoes. The man in black carried a weapon, the other a clipboard.

“Right on time! A good omen, wouldn’t you say, Chief?” the man with the clipboard said, moving forward to greet Frank. “Doctor Samuel, a pleasure, Mister Mortimer,” he said, sticking out his free hand and smiling. Frank took it and shook it, his eyes moving to the silent man in black.

“Don’t worry about him,” Samuel said, grinning and pumping Frank’s hand eagerly before letting it go. “He’s part of our security detail, here to make sure everything and everyone stays safe, isn’t that right, Chief?”

Chief nodded, not taking his eyes from Frank. Frank stared back, not wanting to display how unnerving Chief was. He held his rifle comfortably in front of him, his right hand lightly resting on the stock.

“He’s not much of a talker. You’ve met Security upstairs? Well, he’s the conversationalist of the bunch, to give you an idea. But enough about that, your trip here was okay?”Frank sensed the small talk coming to an end, Samuel’s question a polite formality before they got down to business.

“It was fine, apart from when he drove off and left me here without a warning,” Frank said, trying to keep the petulance out of his voice and almost succeeding.

Samuel laughed. “That’s just their way. Busy men, as we all are. I’m sure he had to be off on another task. Fear not, there will be transport ready to leave when you are. Although I think you might prefer to stay the night tonight. The first day can be ...draining.” Samuel smiled again, and turned to go back in the elevator. Chief followed, and Frank got in after them. The doors slid silently shut after they were all inside the car, and it started its quiet descent.

“We sank the testing area down this far in order to avoid any type of interference that would compromise the machinery we use. It’s very sensitive, you see,” Samuel said, his speech speeding up like he had rehearsed the lines, “and down here we can avoid radio waves, jamming tech, magnetic fields, anything that might trigger an unwanted response. Has the procedure been explained to you?”

Frank shook his head. He had taken the physical tests on the day of his application to the study, as well as the psychoanalysis exams, but he had not been told anything more than he would be administered some experimental new drugs and trying out new technologies that had something to do with the brain. He said as much to Samuel.

“Quite right, it is indeed to do with the human brain. But it’s also so much more than that. We are seeking to enhance cerebral functions that have been mysteries to us ever since the first surgeon cracked open a skull to find the soul, and only found meat.”

The elevator slowed to a crawl and stopped smoothly. The doors slid open with a faint sound of rushing air and revealed the testing area.

Blue light flowed from a huge ring suspended over a raised central platform that dominated the room. Computers and cabinets with blinking lights shining from dark recesses lined the walls. There were two tables on either side, the people sitting and standing at them faced away from the center, toward the monitors and paper printers that churned out readings at a rapid clip. He could see a window into another room at the back.

The chair in the center of the platform caught Frank’s immediate attention.

The rest of the room and its four other occupants had been sidelined to the ditch of his vision. It was a whitish-yellow, cream color, and looked like leather but softer. The head rest tilted back slightly from the top of it. There was a circular band of metal at the top of the headrest, with wires attached around the outside. These wires trailed away down the back of the chair, across the floor and into the machines around the room. Two led up toward a slot hidden in the ceiling.

The electric chair
, Frank thought,
dreamed up by a dentist. What the hell is that for?

Samuel looked sidelong at Frank, who was still standing in the elevator. “Ready to give it a test drive, Francis?”

Frank didn’t even notice how Samuel said his name.

“What is it?” he managed to breathe out. He felt strange, a dizziness in his mind messing up his mental processes, his eyes fixed on the chair.

A throne and a crown
, a hot, fevered voice whispered in his head, the thought a bubble of noxious hot gas in tar, rising to the surface and disappearing.

What
? his mind replied, but there was no answer.

“It’s an apparatus we use to achieve things with the human mind that were thought impossible,” said a man who had approached them from one of the tables, “and it seems like you’re going to be our test pilot. I’m Dr. Richardson. Welcome to the Project.”

*****

Frank was introduced to all the people in the room. There was Dr. Samuel who was tall, bearded and spectacled, and seemed to be in charge of the operation, or at least the scientific end of it. Dr. Richardson was older, white-haired and clean-shaven, and also with glasses. According to him, he represented the neuropsychiatric side of things. He had a voice that soothed and calmed, practiced over long years in a psychiatrist’s office behind closed doors. Dr. Jenkins was young, blond, clear-eyed and puppy-faced. He was obviously Samuel’s biggest admirer, not able to take his eyes away from Samuel when he spoke and agreeing vigorously with every point he made. The other person was a technician, some name that began with a J. He hadn’t given his last name, just shook his hand and smiled before going back to whatever he had been doing when Frank had arrived from “top side.”

“We are about two hundred and twenty feet below the earth, Mr. Mortimer. Can I call you Frank?” Dr. Samuel asked.

“Yes, please do, I prefer that. Why is it so important that there is no interference? The machinery doesn’t look that sensitive.” Frank pointed at the cabinets with the wiring hidden inside them behind a couple of inches of steel.

“It’s not that machinery we’re worried about, it’s the more sensitive stuff, up here,” Richardson replied, tapping his temple with one long white finger. “The experiments and processes we run involve very delicate changes in the chemical make up of the brain, which in turn effects the electrical, which at a certain level is susceptible to distortion from other sources.”

Jenkins piped up. “Or manipulation! If someone had similar equipment, hypothetically speaking they could—”

He stopped mid-sentence, sheepishly smiling and looking at his feet. Samuel gave him one look and turned back to Frank, beaming again. “Trust me, Frank, nobody else on the planet has similar equipment. Not even close. This is the height of top secret, in case that hasn’t been made clear to you. I trust you understand the gravity of that, especially when you are off-site.” Samuel’s bushy eyebrows were raised.

Frank nodded, then another thought struck him. “So, why did you make me wear ear plugs on the way here?”

Jenkins chuckled. “That’s the real security system. Anyone who might wander out here without the appropriate ear gear, well—” Jenkins made a little explosion sound with his lips and laughed again before he was silenced with another look, from both Samuel and Richardson this time.

“One day, we’ll forget to remind you to wear them,” Samuel said to Jenkins in a somber tone. Jenkins looked down at his feet and was quiet.