Chapter 19

My head hurt.

I tried to keep calm, and assess the damage. I was seated, and my arms were definitely constrained, and I had no idea where I was.

The intruder in my room had placed me "in the position," up against the wall, and I had time to register that the uniform was Federal Protective Service, which I knew was the civilian uniformed force that guards federal buildings. This had given me a brief spate of confidence and I had pulled my arms down and begun to turn towards him. I saw his hand moving towards my head and then an explosion in my head brought blackness.

Now I was back, and my head hurt. Without opening my eyes or lifting my head, I tried testing whatever held my arms, but it was solid. My legs felt free, but I couldn't do much unless I left my arms behind, and I was too fond of them to consider that just yet.

Not having anything left to do, and not seeing any value in playing possum, I opened my eyes and looked around.

I was in a small room, concrete, with metal shelves lining the walls. Both my wrists were secured with nylon ties to the chair I was in. The shelves were stocked with what looked like computer equipment — circuit boards in anti-static bags, power supplies, a shelf labeled "PC3200 ONLY!!" that appeared to have some kind of internal computer part, and the like. To my left was a stack of white boxes with the word Raritan on them that I supposed were computer-related as well.

And seated, facing me, was the man who had been in my hotel room and who had presumably brought me here. Even seated, I could tell he was powerfully built, with a frame that showed some devotion to the gym. He was watching me, but with a curiously vacant expression on his face, as though I were a show he'd seen several times before and was watching against out of sheer boredom.

I blinked once or twice and shook my head to try to clear it. Shaking my head was a mistake, as it brought a wave of dizziness and nausea to me. I concluded that I'd been sapped — hit on the head with a blackjack, most likely, I guessed, the one I saw stuck into the Sam Browne belt my captor was wearing.

I stared at him, and when he didn't respond, I tried, "Hey."

He looked at me some more. "Why am I here?" I asked carefully. He continued to stare, a look that frankly was beginning to creep me out a bit. I tried again. "Look, pal, I'll take the concussion and the free ride, but I think some answers wouldn't be out of line. What's going on?"

He grunted, and then hawked up a wad of phlegm and casually spit to the side. "Boss'll be here soon. He'll tell you."

"Why don't you give me a preview?" I asked.

"Can't do that," he said flatly, "I'm too dumb to do that. I'm just a dumb jock." In the same monotone he continued, "She shouldn't have married me because I'm just a dumb jock."

I kept a neutral expression on my face, but inwardly I felt like it would be nice to be screaming in terror about now. That neutral, monotonic recitation of that extra line, a complete non sequiter, was very worrisome to me.

"Um... who shouldn't have married you?" I asked carefully, feeling like I was walking over a minefield.

"Meg," he said listlessly. "I am too dumb to keep her happy. Just a dumb jock, that's all."

"Ummm... I don't think I know Meg," I said.

"She works here," he said in his dead voice. "In the labs. With Doctor ben Ami."

"And is Dr. ben Ami the boss?" I asked.

For the first time since I started talking to him, he showed a bit of emotion: surprise. "No, no, no," he said emphatically. "Mr. Romero is the boss."

"OK," I said calmly, trying to feel how the conversation should move. "And Meg works for Mr. Romero?"

"Yeah." Back to the dead voice. "She likes him. I can't give her what she needs. I'm just a dumb jock. She shouldn't have married me because I'm just a dumb jock."

This was not only repetitive, but pretty scary. I doubted this guy went through his whole life like this, because no one would have hired him to guard an outhouse, much less anything more valuable. And did I know someone who got his jollies adjusting people's thoughts? Why, yes, I did.

"And you work here too?" I asked, trying for friendly and upbeat.

"Yeah."

"What do you do here?"

"Security."

"Well, that's an important job, uhhh... What's your name?"

"Chip. Charles Keller, I mean, but everyone calls me Chip."

"Well, Chip, listen. I'm a lawyer, and I can tell you that security is a very important job. I'm sure it's not a job they'd give to a dum... eh, to anyone that they didn't think could handle it. Right?"

"Nah. I'm a dumb jock. He told me so. Couldn't give Meg what she needs."

"Who told you?"

"Boss."

"Well, Chip, maybe he's wrong." I said carefully. "Maybe he's..."

"Nah. He's right. He showed me."

"I'm sure he didn't..."

"Yeah. He showed me. Meg just married me 'cause she felt sorry for me. Big dumb jock. He told me. She's with him now. I'm too dumb."

"Chip," I said, "maybe she's not with him by choice. Did you ever hear her talk about a machine that could..."

"Yes she is," he said in his corpse's voice. "He knew her in college. She's smart. But she didn't date him then. Dated me. But I was a big dumb jock."

"Chip," I tried again, "listen to me. I think it's not real, what Meg is doing..."

"It is," he said. "But he told me. If I get you and bring you here, maybe she'll like me a little again. So I found you."

"How?" I had to ask.

"Credit card."

"You tracked my credit card?"

"Yeah."

"You found me because I used my credit card to check into the hotel?"

"Yeah."

"See, Chip?" I said. "That's smart. I didn't think of that." Looking at his uniform, I saw a pair of silver bars on each collar, and continued, "And you're a captain. They don't make captains in the FPS out of dummies. Listen to me," I continued urgently, "it's just that Victor has used a machine that can..."

I stopped speaking suddenly because I heard a door opening behind me. Soft footfalls were followed by the door's closing, and then two figures came into view. The short, swarthy man I had last seen buck naked on an underground platform in Ithaca was in the lead, thankfully now clothed. He was wearing a white lab coat over a tie and white dress shirt with tan slacks. He had an ID badge clipped to his breast pocket that had his name and picture, smiling toothily. It was with no surprise that I saw the name Romero, Victor. Behind him was an auburn-haired woman of about thirty, also in a white lab coat. She was cute in a girl-next-door way, but my feeling of unease wasn't dampened at all seeing her ID badge read Keller, Margaret.

"Well, well," Victor said happily. "My friend the lawyer!"

"Good to see you again, Vic," I said evenly.

"You know," he said genially, "you have really fucked up things for me. Did you know that?"

I swallowed. "In all fairness, you had something to do with what hap..."

"Shut up!" he suddenly roared, going from jolly to furious in an instant. It crossed my mind that he could benefit from some anger management therapy, and a part of my mind that I was trying to keep at bay wondered idly if I would be alive to see that happen.