The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) (18 page)

As Cap waited for the elevator to bring him down, his mood flipped between the despair that had been like a growing tumor these last few months, and fury. The anger was split in several directions. He still held a reserve of hatred for Richie Lyons, bubbling away in his gut. There was some self-loathing in there too, for his own inability to bring his broken family back together.

When the elevator bell dinged, he realized a significant portion of his rage was alloted to the smooth-talking psychiatrist who had convinced him to take part in this messed up experiment.

Richardson had his hand on the door into his office when Cap appeared in the hallway.

“Richardson!” he shouted, half running down to meet him. “Wait a minute, we need to talk.”

The doctor sighed, and let his hand swing back down to his side.

“What is it, Captain?”

“You lied to me. We agreed that I could keep her on until the case had been solved, and then she would get treatment. You took her early.”

“Circumstances change, Captain Slade. Our program’s goals are more important than my little arrangement with you. An arrangement I made as a favor to your department. I
—
We
, were under no obligation to let her work with you as long as she did. Just count your blessings that we did it discreetly. I don’t believe that it would paint you or your department in a flattering light to have allowed a person with Ms. Nox’s mental issues to be a part of a murder investigation.”

“You’re a fucking quack,” Cap said, almost growling. “Your people were the ones who put me on to those killings in the first place! I don’t know what you people are doing here, but I bet it’s a nasty bit of work. I want her out of here.”

“It’s out of your hands, Slade. This is bigger than you, or your sorry excuse for a police department, or this podunk city. If you have a problem with that, just remember you allowed a now-certified mental patient into your chicken coop, and used her to keep a murder investigation secret. I don't think you or your colleagues could weather another scandal, do you? Now if you’ll excuse me,” Richardson said and pushed on his office door.

Cap caught his arm and swung him around so they were almost nose-to-nose.

“Listen to me, you fucking animal. I’m not leaving without her.”

Before Richardson could respond, Cap heard a gun being cocked behind him, and turned his head to see a black-shirted man pointing an automatic pistol at his head.

“Don't worry, Captain. She's in safe hands. Believe me, we wish for no harm to come to her.”

Cap looked Richardson in the eye for another few seconds and then let him go, pushing him back as he released his grip.

“This isn't over.”

He turned on his heel and stormed out the way he had come, the black shirt keeping his gun trained on him until he was out of sight.

Richardson sighed again and entered his office.

*****

Just as he sat down in his leather chair at his desk, the phone rang. He picked it up and heard a robotic voice asking him if he wanted to take a call from a Sandra Mortimer. Richardson passed a hand over his eyes and told the voice that he didn’t want to but he would anyway.

“Mrs. Mortimer,” he said, audibly weary.

“Doctor,” Sandra said, her tone cool and clipped. “How is my son?”

Richardson looked at the report on his desk, his finger circling the scribbled note Samuel had left on one page. The note ranted about unforeseen parameter changes and unexpected outcomes.

“By all accounts, he is doing fine. Everything is normal.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take you at your word, Doctor. Normal is a word that rarely gets used when speaking about Francis. Have you made any progress with his, ah… tendencies?”

“As we discussed, Mrs. Mortimer, these things take time. The methods we use here are for a long-term,  and lasting improvement, and as such, patience is required. From everyone.”

“Have it your way. Just keep in mind who is helping to fund your little side project.”

Richardson wanted to mention that the Mortimers also looked to profit from his ‘little side project,’ but decided against it.

“Surely, Mrs. Mortimer. I could never forget the help you and your family have provided. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really must get back to work.”

“Fine,” she said, and hung up.

Richardson looked at the small drinks cabinet in the corner of the office with an expression of longing, and pressed a button on the phone.

“Get me Dr. Samuel.”

*****

“Give me a status update on the subject,” Richardson said into the phone in a sharp voice.

“Apart from some minor fluctuations in the readouts,” Samuel replied, “he remains the same as before. From what I can extrapolate from the data, his consciousness has indeed successfully migrated to a non-initiated host, or possibly hosts. However, all attempts to wake him have failed.”

“Hosts? As in multiple?”

“Yes, he has somehow gained the ability to transfer on his own, without returning to his body in the lab. It’s something that we theorized might happen, but not so soon…”

Richardson sat back in his chair and chewed on his bottom lip.

“I don’t know how to feel about that, Doctor,” he said. “I’m not a huge fan of surprises, even if there is a positive aspect.”

“What would you like to do about it?”

“We could terminate him. Start again. But I’m hesitant to throw away so much work, and I imagine you feel similarly. Besides, he is an ideal candidate. Comparable tendencies to the future subjects that will no doubt end up in the program. What does the good Doctor Sylvia Ryan have to say?”

Samuel snorted into the phone.

“Last thing she said before she left is that she’s all for pushing forward. All data is good data to her, and her superiors at the Project. I don’t think collateral damage worries them too much.”

“All right. Continue as you see fit, Doctor.”

“Certainly. There is one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“The senator wishes to come down to the site and experience the program first-hand. I said I’d have to clear it with you, but his lapdog insisted.”

Richardson sighed, and looked again at the bottles of expensive liquor in the corner of the office.

“Yes, it’s fine. I suppose the man is useful in some ways, twisted as he is. He’ll be in high office soon enough, it can’t hurt to have him in our corner. Besides, he all but hand-delivered one of our subjects to us. Let him use the auxiliary connection for now.”

“Very good, Doctor.” Samuel hung up, leaving Richardson free to quench his growing thirst and drown the irritation that was growing in tandem.

Robert sat on the end of the cot in his cell, rubbing his chin and looking at the folder in his lap. He hadn’t opened it since he had been brought back hours earlier after the weird therapy session with that Doctor Richardson.

He looked at the folder, thoughts jumbling and flipping over themselves in his mind. Was he crazy? Had he imagined some or all it? He was swimming in cold, dark doubt at the back of his mind. Maybe he had created the story about Frey and the photo. He had been drinking a lot, and there were blanks in his memory. His mother dying, the revelations about him being adopted, or rescued, they were definitely big events, possibly big enough to eat away at his sanity. Could he trust his own memories, his own mind?

He considered just sliding the folder back out through the slim gap at the bottom of the door. Just push it out there before he made things worse by believing in another illusion of his own making. Who was to say that he didn’t write those pages himself?

Instead, he flipped it open. He leafed through the sketches he had seen earlier, and came to the scribbled notes. Some of it was almost impossible to decipher, filled with shorthand and jargon, but some phrases stood out.

Preliminary studies show that ideal candidates for both transfer and hosting exhibit a ‘golden trifecta’ of traits: past or current traumatic experiences, a predisposition towards substance abuse (especially alcohol) and a tendency towards aberrant behavior and attitudes;

Richardson’s work is both groundbreaking and terrifying in its implications;

Application of the device causes permanent changes to the make-up of the brain, down to the synaptic level…

Robert pondered over what these sentences could be referring to and then flipped to the last page in the folder.

I write this now with the selfish intention of absolving myself of my sins. Blinded by the rigorous pursuit of scientific advancement, I have allowed Pandora’s Box to be smashed open. Of course our benefactors will use the technology for nefarious purposes. Faceless government always does, as the end goal is always more efficient murder and mightier military potential, whether by force of numbers or force of influence.

I want no more part in this. They will surely disappear me, lock me away or some other horrible fate. My biggest regret is that I will never see my wife and beloved son, Robert, again. To hold them, and tell them they were everything to me, even after I returned to help these monsters. After I returned to carve the keys to the downfall of humanity—

A banging on his door startled him and he stuffed the folder back under his mattress.

“Rob!”

Robert moved to the door and saw Jimmy’s face outside the window. The hall behind him was dark, apart from the circle of light from Andrea’s door across the hall.

“Jimmy,” Robert whispered, “tell me what the hell is happening here. Am I crazy or what?”

“Yeah, you’re crazy, but only as much as the next guy.”

“Enough jokes. I’m locked in a fucking cell and I’ve been told I made up my memories. I’m not in the mood.”

“Yeah, sorry. Look, I don’t know the complete story, but this place? It’s been purpose built. And you two were scooped up by these shady fucks to be part of one of their experiments. I can’t tell you how much of what’s in your head is real, but I know that Richardson and the rest are lying to you. They’re part of something bigger.”

“What about my father’s journals? And where did you go when I picked them up?”

Jimmy looked down and then glanced at either side of him.

“Look Rob, I… I do work for them. I was told to bring you in, and help to find your dad’s stuff.”

“You what?”

“It wasn’t my choice! They threatened me! I had to get you to find his journals, and then get you back to the hotel. They said they would take care of the rest. But I only gave them that box we brought out, nothing else! I didn’t tell them about the storage box or the rest of the stuff we saw there, I swear.”

Robert put his hands on the door and his forehead against the glass. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, until the panic went back down to a manageable level. He looked back up at Jimmy’s pained expression.

“So why are you helping me now?”

“I don't know. Just, let me do it, alright? I've done some bad shit, so I think it's time I did something to make up for it.”

Robert stared at him through the glass.

“Get me out of here.”

“I can't. I couldn't get you past the guards if I tried. I'm sorry.”

“Just go. If you can't get me out, you can't help me. Fuck off before your bosses see you.”

Jimmy nodded, crestfallen, and walked back down the hall.

*****

Andrea listened to the whispers coming from across the hall and wondered if they were real or in her head. It was a useless thought process, but it helped to keep her from going over the last few days in her mind and pointing out all the illogical and inexplicable things that had happened.

She put her hands on either side of her head and closed her eyes tightly. Images of empty streets and disemboweled men flashed behind her eyelids. These were replaced by the ruined eye sockets of a blond-haired girl, her mouth open and tongue-less, screaming silently. She shook her head and the face shifted into that of her mother and then her father, pale and dead as they had been on the slab at the morgue when she was a girl. More faces came now, faces of her friends and colleagues on the force, their expressions of sympathy and sorrow and pity. Andrea grunted, the sound of a sob locked in her throat.

The next face to flash in her mind’s eye was that of Richie Lyons, handsome and grinning like a shark. His eyes were bright and black, and the shape of his head started to change. The side of his head started to melt, revealing ruined pieces of brain and skull, thick red blood oozing down his face. His grin grew wider on the other side, as if to make up for the gap, the smile curving up and distorting his scar.

She covered her eyes and let out an anguished roar.

Stand up. Pace the room. Five steps long. Four steps wide. Smooth floor. Run one hand along the wall. Follow the painted line. Cold. Damp. Rough with smooth paint. Reach the door. Metal. Colder than the wall. No handle on this side. Don’t think about it.

Nose close to the round window. Look out in the hall. Bright lights. Other doors. More cells. Only one is lit. Bang on the window. Shout.

No answer.

Turn back around. Sit on the bed. Look at the small desk and chair. Papers on the desk. Rubber cup with crayons. Green. Yellow. Red. Blue.

Pick up the chair. Swing it against the window. Neither breaks. Throw chair in corner of the room. Swear.

Sit back on the bed. Run hands through hair. Squeeze eyes shut. Open them again. Listen to heartbeat. Look up at the light bulbs. Safe behind cages. Out of reach.

Breathe.

Someone’s at the door. Dressed in black. Alone. Looking in at her.

Jump up and bang on the window. Shout. Scream. Threaten. Plead.

The man outside just looks. Says nothing. Does nothing. His eyes are strange. Pupils shrink and grow. After a few minutes he leaves.

Sit back on the bed. Lie down. Put one arm over eyes. Try not to think.

Think.

*****

Robert woke to the sound of footsteps moving away from the door. For a brief moment he couldn't remember where he was. His dreams had been littered with the haunted shouts and screams of a woman, and they still rang in his mind. Sitting up in the bed, memory of his situation returned to him.

The lights were on in the hall outside the cell. Without windows or clocks, it was impossible to tell what time it was. Minutes were abstract concepts, hours theoretical constructs. The only way to mark the passage of time was to concentrate on it at the expense of everything else, rendering it useless except for counting lonely seconds.

He stood up fast from the bed, trying to keep his breathing normal. He banged on the door and looked out.

“Hey! Hey, is anyone out there?”

After a couple of minutes, there was an answer.

“Who's that?” A woman's voice. Muffled, muted.
Must be the other person they have locked up here. The detective.
He searched his memory for her name.

“Is that Andrea?”

Another slight pause.

“Who the fuck are you?” Shouting now, with a ragged quality to her voice.

“I'm the guy in the cell across from you. Robert.”

“How do I know that? You could just be another prick without the white coat, fucking with my head.”

Robert was stumped. “I don't know how to convince you I'm not.” Very faintly, he heard what sounded like a sigh.

“What do you want?”

“The same as you, I'm guessing. To get out of here.”

“I'd love to. I just don't have any idea how we're supposed to do that. These doors are solid, and there are armed guards somewhere out there. Besides, we don't even know if they're listening in or not.”

That shook Robert. He hadn't considered surveillance, although now that Andrea had said it, it made perfect sense. Shaking his head, he snorted once.

“What was that?”

“I was just thinking, they very well might be listening. It seems that wherever I go someone is watching or listening, ready to jump in and fuck up my life.”

Seconds, or maybe minutes passed.

“So,” said Andrea, her voice steady and low, “what did you have in mind?”

There was the sound of an opening door, and footsteps echoing, coming closer. Robert saw the white coat first as Dr. Richardson came into view and stood in front of Andrea's cell.

*****

“Is she secure?” Richardson asked. Jenkins checked the straps that held her to the cot and nodded. A guard in black stood by the door, weapon ready.

“Good, then we'll begin. Andrea, what do you want?”

She looked up at him from her position on the bed. Her legs and arms were restrained, and another strip of leather held her head. After she had been injected with some clear liquid, Richardson had brought in a small light that was now suspended over her face. The bulb was circular and emitted blue light.

“I want to get the fuck out of here.”

Richardson pressed a button on the back of the lamp and the light started to flicker. Waves of nausea and vertigo rolled over her. She moaned.

“What do you want?”

“I don't know! I don't know, what do you want me to say?”

Richardson pressed another button, and the pattern of the light strobes changed. The sick feeling intensified, and piercing pain filled her mind. She cried out.

“Your parents are lucky they died so soon, so they didn't have to witness what a useless and weak thing you've become.” Through the haze of pain and the blinding light, she thought she saw a smile on Jenkins' face at that. “What do you want?”

She screamed, and shouted, “I want to rip your fucking throat out!”

Richardson exhaled, nodded and switched off the light. They packed up their gear, and the guard trained his gun on her while Jenkins undid the straps. He continued pointing the gun until they were all safely in the hall, then closed the door.

Andrea rolled off the bed and vomited, then shook violently for around ten seconds. Tears streamed down her face.

“I'll fucking kill you,” she whispered, and dry heaved.