Orphans of Wonderland (12 page)

“Westport originally, but I live in Maine now. I—”

“What's your wife's name?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Your wife! What's her fucking name?”

“Why do you need my wife's name?”

“Answer the question or we're done talking.”

“Taylor.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a reporter.”

“Where?”

Joel told him.

“You doing a story?”

“No, nothing like that. Was hoping we could talk.”

“You calling from a home or cell phone?”

“My cell.”

“I'll call you back.”

The call disconnected.

Stunned to silence, Joel sat there staring at his phone and trying to make sense of what had just happened. His concentration was interrupted seconds later by an insistent knock on the door. His dinner had arrived.

He'd paid the delivery kid, devoured two slices and downed half a can of Coke by the time Fernandez called back.

“It doesn't mean anything yet,” he told Joel in the same harried voice, “but so far your basics check out. If it's really you, Lonnie mentioned you a few times. I knew the name sounded familiar. If it's not, then none of this will matter anyway.”

“It's really me,” Joel assured him. “As I said, was hoping we could talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“What do you think I want to talk about?” Joel said, pushing back a bit.

“I don't talk about anything that means anything on the phone. If you're smart, you don't either.”

“Fine, we can face-to-face it then. Where are you?”

“Where are
you
?”

“A hotel in North Dartmouth. Do you want to meet here?”

“No.” The line crackled. Then he gave Joel an address on Shawmut Avenue in New Bedford, the road that led to the airport. “Come alone.”

“When?” Joel asked, stepping back into his shoes.

“I'm gone and I don't come back or answer any more calls if you're not there in ten minutes, you feel me?”

“I'll be there in five.”

Throwing on his coat, Joel quickly packed everything of value into his case, slung it over his shoulder and headed straight for the coming night.

Chapter Thirteen

Fifty miles south of Boston, the city of New Bedford, famous for its vast whaling history (and of course its ties to Melville's classic
Moby Dick
), was still known as one of the great fishing ports in the United States. But New Bedford had its share of criminal infamy as well, including the 1983 Big Dan's gang rape case (which later became the basis for the Jodie Foster film
The Accused
), the brutal and unsolved highway serial killings of the late 1980s that claimed the lives of at least nine young women, a ritual killing and other atrocities in the nearby Freetown State Forest, and criminal satanic cult activity throughout the area in the 1980s and into the early 1990s. But in recent years much of New Bedford had seen a resurgence and was a place where most residents had put those incidents and times behind them, tucked away in the dark past where they belong, and instead embraced the progress the city had made since.

For Joel, it brought up a tremendous amount of emotions. He'd expected his return to elicit some strong feelings, but he hadn't been ready for what hit him.

Though he only had to cover a small section of the city to reach Shawmut Avenue, he broke out in a cold sweat as visions of the church where Cindy Mello had been murdered flashed in his mind, along with a flood of memories he couldn't control. Hands shaking, he gripped the wheel tight, grateful the church was located on the opposite end of the city. Fighting nausea, he passed a park where he'd once interviewed a heroin-addicted informant, remembering the terror in his eyes and the things he'd told him about the cult activity in the area. A diner where a local prostitute with ties to the dark underworld of the city had talked to him just days before her alleged suicide was now a generic-looking convenience store. A home electronics store, where he'd interviewed the manager regarding the strange visitations he and his staff had experienced from alleged satanic cult members, was now a dentist's office.

Quite a bit had changed in the city in the years since Joel had left. But one thing remained the same. Although it too had morphed, evolved and reinvented itself, as evil often does, a whole other world still existed here, hiding just beneath the one he and everyone else could see. In this historic old city, all those old ghosts were still huddled in the shadows, waiting and watching, stronger and more frightening than ever.

Dusk had settled over the city. Night was on its way.

Joel took a left onto Shawmut Avenue. He checked the mirrors. No tail. In fact, the road abruptly turned rural, and there was no other traffic at all. He drove by a few businesses. Then the tree-lined road turned desolate. There were very few residences here, only a handful of small cottages scattered along the final stretch of road before the airport that were old and looked like they'd been there for decades. Joel found one matching the address Pete had given him, located next to an empty field on a small, mostly dirt lot set back from the road.

He turned in, slowed the car to a crawl and followed the short road to the cottage. The residence appeared vacant and unkempt. There were no other vehicles parked on the property, and although it wasn't completely dark yet, there were no outside or interior lights on. There were dingy curtains in some of the windows, however, signaling someone had lived there recently. In near darkness, there was something creepy about the run-down old cottage all off by itself, but then he was sure it looked just as spooky on the sunniest day. It shared something with Lonnie's apartment. Something troubling. No phantoms in the windows, but there was a feeling of evil here. Joel sensed it immediately, deep in his gut. Fighting the natural flight instinct, he parked out front and waited, but left the car running. Brian Currant had said Fernandez moved out of the cottage a while back, so Joel assumed he was coming from somewhere else and he'd simply beaten him there.

Alternating between watching the cottage and checking his rearview, Joel waited several minutes. Except for a few cars that passed along the road behind him, there was no one else in sight. His eyes slowly scanned the field to his right. Light was becoming scarce. No one. Nothing. Turning, Joel looked over at the property line to his left.

A dark silhouette stood just beyond the trees.

Motionless at first, it started toward him almost as soon as he'd seen it. Joel shut the car off and stepped out just in time to see the silhouette transform into a young man in dark clothing and a black baseball cap worn backward.

“Pete?” he asked, offering his hand. “I'm Joel Walker.”

It was then that Joel saw the gun.

“Don't move,” the man said, leveling a revolver at him. “Don't you— Don't you fucking move!”

“You got it.” Joel raised his hands. “Just take it easy, buddy. Easy now.”

“Put your hands down,” he ordered, glancing around nervously. “You alone?”

“Yes.”

“Give me your driver's license.”

Moving slowly and carefully, Joel removed his wallet from his back pocket, opened it, pulled his license free and handed it to him.

The man held it close to his face in the dying light, then quickly returned it. “You know you're being followed?”

“Yes,” Joel said, “but I don't think I was followed here.”

“You need to pay better attention.” He tilted his head toward the road. “They're out there. Not too close. Not too far.”

“Do you know who they are?”

Fernandez looked as if he hadn't slept in days. Of average height and build, he was dressed entirely in black. His hair was dark and styled in a military-like buzz cut, and his face sported several days of scruff. “More or less.”

“Care to share it with me?”

“Not yet.”

“Think maybe you could do me a favor and at least lower that gun?”

He did. “I'm not gonna be out here long. Whatever you want, better get to it.”

Joel let out a sigh of relief. He hadn't had a gun pointed at him in a long time. “I talked to Brian Currant. He—”

“He's a pussy, a poser. Lives with his mother, thinks he's G.I.-fucking-Joe.”

Now that Joel had a good look at Fernandez, he realized he was younger than he'd expected, late twenties at most, and what he'd mistaken for nervousness was much closer to fear. His emotions were raw, barely within his control, and his body trembled and jerked like a drug addict in need of a fix. Glassy, bloodshot eyes blinked manically.

“Be that as it may,” Joel said, “he told me you left your job, moved out of this place and dropped out of sight not long after Lonnie was killed.”

“You found me pretty easy, right? If I want to be found, I can be.”

Joel stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. The darker it got, the colder it was becoming. “What kind of trouble are you in? Why are you so frightened?”

He grimaced and shook his head, the words there but difficult to voice. “If you knew the things I did, if you had the dreams I have, you'd be frightened too.”

“Why don't you live here anymore?” Joel asked. When he got no response, he said, “Would you be more comfortable if we talked inside?”

His bottom lip trembled. “I don't go in there anymore.”

“Why's that?”

Fernandez shuffled his feet, looked away. “There's something in there.”

As a shiver knifed through him, Joel pretended the cold was to blame, even as he looked back over his shoulder at the dark cottage. “You mean someone?”

“I mean some
thing
.” Fernandez's face contorted into an expression of sheer torture. If it was possible for a human being to come out his skin, he was about to. “I don't…I don't know what they are,” he said softly. “But they're not friendly.”

“I saw something odd in the window of Lonnie's apartment.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” Fernandez whipped around and glared at the field as if he'd seen something from the corner of his eye. “Can't be out here long, we…we can't be out here…long.”

“Where do these…some
things
…come from?”

Fernandez pointed to his temple.

“I don't understand,” Joel said.

“Me either. They don't go away, they…they stay…in my dreams.” A cold wind blew across the field, slicing through them before escaping into the trees on the far side of the lot. “Lonnie thought they were demons. Maybe he was right.”

“What do you know about Lonnie's murder?” Joel asked.

His dark eyes narrowed. “It was an execution.”

“Do you know who did it?”

He nodded.

“Have you spoken to the police?”

“Once. Right after it all went down.”

“Did you tell them what you know?”

A burst of maniacal laughter escaped him but he quickly stifled it. “I told them what they wanted to hear, what I'm supposed to tell them. Then I disappeared for my own safety. This is bigger than the cops. They don't give a fuck anyway. They do what they're told just like everybody else. They—they don't have the
dreams
.”

“What happened to you? What happened to Lonnie? Tell me about the dreams, Pete.”

“They put them there,” he whispered, eyes filling with tears. “In my head.”

“Is Tuser Industries connected to this? I know Lonnie worked there doing security part-time.”

“He wasn't doing security,” Fernandez told him. “He was there because they wanted him there.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was too.” Fernandez tapped the gun against the outside of his thigh. “I found out about it through Lonnie. He told me there was this company that wanted people for these pharmaceutical studies they were doing, testing out new drugs they were getting ready to release to the public. Part-time thing, paid good. Nobody was supposed to know about it if you got picked, but Lonnie knew I needed some extra green so he told me about it and I signed up too. Had to take all these written tests and go through a bunch of bullshit psych and personality tests to make sure we were healthy and had the right frame of mind. They said most didn't pass. But Lonnie made it, and so did I. Once we were in, all we had to do was take some pills or drink some liquids or powders, then tell the doctors how we felt. There was no real danger, they said. Might get some minor side effects, but nothing serious, nothing life threatening or anything that would hurt you or even make you sick. Not even anything long-term, they said. Maybe you'd get achy muscles or a nosebleed, a headache or a little rash, they said. They'd give you a cream for it and fix you right up, they said, no big deal. They were all doctors and scientists. They know what they're talking about, right? They made it out like it was easy money.”

“And this took place at Tuser Industries here in the city?”

“Yeah.” Nearby trees swayed in the mounting wind. Something cracked in the distance, perhaps a branch. Fernandez jumped, then continued, talking faster than he had before. “The company has all these military contracts there in other areas of the facility, so everything has to be kept quiet. You aren't allowed to talk about the company or what you do there or even that you work there at all. We had to sign these confidentiality forms and swear under oath we wouldn't talk about anything that happened there. Even though they said the stuff we were involved with wasn't secret, because of their contracts, everything that took place on the premises had to be closely guarded. There were really strict privacy rules and regulations, and all employees—even us guinea pigs—had to adhere to them. At the time it made sense. National security and all that, you know? I'm a good American.” He began to pace frantically in a small space, like he could barely contain himself, eyes still welling with tears. “I love my country. I was a patriot. Did four years in the army, two tours in Iraq. I was a good American, a proud American and they…they…”

“It's okay,” Joel said in the calmest voice he could muster. Fernandez was a powder keg in danger of exploding at any moment. He needed to keep him steady and focused or he'd lose him in the blink of an eye. “I get it, Pete, I do.”
Far more than you realize.
“I'm not the enemy, I promise you.”

“That's the problem, isn't it?” He smiled but it was reflexive, as if he had a sudden gas pain. “We always used to know who the enemy was. Not anymore. These fuckers, they—they lie. Maybe they always did. It's all a front, all of it.”

The more this came together, the more apparent it became that Tuser Industries was the wild card here, and that the police had likely been told to stay away from them and to not involve or tie them in any way to Lonnie's murder. If that weren't the case, surely the company would've already become a focal point of the investigation. The only ones with the power to call off local and state police were the Feds, but why would they? Regardless of how sensitive some contracts at Tuser were, from the sounds Lonnie and Pete had been involved in a basic medical studies and testing program, not higher-level, hush-hush projects cloaked in secrecy for the sake of national security.

“Who is Jerry Simpson?” Joel asked.

“Just another lie.”

“He doesn't exist?”

“I didn't say that.”

“His business card lists him as the head of human resources there.”

“That's not what he does. He's involved in…
other
things.”

“Help me understand, Pete. Explain to me what he or any of this has to do with Lonnie's murder.”

“Everything they told us was a lie.” Fernandez moved a bit closer to the car as a small plane flew overhead, slowly descending toward the nearby airport. He glanced up at it briefly. “The company? Lies. It's a front for a government testing ground, black ops, stuff buried so deep and so top secret they can hide in plain sight because nobody's looking for them. They're ghosts, and so are their programs. They're conspiracy theories, folklore and horror stories that don't exist. Ask anybody and they'll tell you. And if you try to tell someone this shit is all real,
you're
the crazy one.”