The Experiment of Dreams (21 page)

B
en walked to the corner of Shepard and Pratt where he got on a bus going up North Charles. He then waited for a train at Baltimore Penn Station, which took him all the way to New York Penn Station, and from there he bought two tickets going farther upstate.

He exchanged glances with the conductors and passengers when they saw him sitting next to an empty seat, and he was mindful to remain silent to Emily, who sat beside him. She led him from bus to bus, and station to station. It was much easier dealing with insanity now that he
knew
he was crazy.
Just don’t talk to her—don’t talk to anybody.

Ben heard the seat cushion creak as she sat down, saw the chair move back on its hinges ever so slightly when she pressed her back against it. She, too, was mindful not to speak, not wanting her Bennie to start talking to an empty chair and wind up in a psychiatric hospital.

The hours of quiet offered Ben time to reflect on a scale that was terrifying.

If you’re not really here,
he thought
, if you’re only a figment of my imagination, then could we speak through our thoughts alone? Can you hear me?

Emily did not respond. She just sat on the seat beside him with a pleasant grin and a straightforward gaze on her face, as if she could see the end of it all, wherever this crazy trip was taking them.

If you’re not real—if this is all a dream, a delusion—then how do I determine what’s real and what’s fake? Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I’m in a coma and can’t wake up. I could be lying in a hospital bed, or strapped to a gurney in Dr. Wulfric’s office, being experimented on.

Ben’s thoughts entered the realm of the macabre:

Maybe the doctor is fiddling around inside my brain, with the crown of my skull neatly cut off and resting on a metal tray, and the dura mater cut neatly from around my brain and draped over my eyes like wet leather. Or maybe I’m dead. This could be purgatory. Everything is fake, a figment of my imagination. Everyone I ever met, everyone around me—my entire life—it never happened …

Emily reached over and took Ben’s hand in her own, squeezing it. His mind slowed and his heart rate dropped back below panic levels.

He rested his head on the headrest, gazing outside the window at the blur of scenery as it raced by. It reminded him of when he was a boy, sitting in the back seat as his foster father drove him for weekend trips and vacations to Lake Placid, and sometimes Vermont. He loved staring outside the window, watching towns race by in dizzying speed—like rapids on a stream. It put him in a trance and calmed his nerves. The absence of people and buildings outside the window, and the increase of trees and wilderness indicated they were now far outside New York City, farther upstate.

He closed his eyes, but when he did, a jumble of words—random and in no logical order—went racing through his mind:
Carbon, carbon copy, absolutely, the significance of maybe tomorrow, and mother, my mother, no, the deadline is whenever.
The words rambled into his consciousness in voices that were not his own, talking all at once, indecipherable.

It was best to keep his eyes open.

He longed to talk to Emily—an overwhelming urge. He had so many questions for her. He had to know what was going on, and he needed to keep the voices he was hearing out of his head. Some sort of reassurance that he was doing the right thing was needed—although he wasn’t quite sure what it was that he was doing or where he was going.

It sounded perfectly sane when Emily told him to follow her out of the apartment and directed him to buy the train and bus tickets. When she spoke, when she looked him in the eyes, he was powerless. A fog enveloped his brain that cut off his rational thoughts. It was almost better this way—not having control, just experiencing the flow of bliss as it flooded his body. He would follow her off the edge of a cliff and fly if that’s what she wanted him to do.

This silence, these long stretches of being alone with his thoughts, brought trickles of doubt, confusion, and intense fear. He was quite possibly going insane, completely bat-shit crazy. The air in the bus grew thick and hot, and it felt as if the metal walls were closing in on him.

Several miles later, the bus pulled into a gas station and came to a full stop. Ben stood, walked down the aisle with the rest of the passengers, passed the small group gathered at the door to stretch their legs and light cigarettes, and crossed the street. He didn’t realize he was leaving; there was never a plan, and he didn’t know where he was going, but one thing was for sure: he needed to be far from civilization. If he was close to cracking, he’d rather do it far from where people could see him.

They approached an old diner on the corner, its large plate glass window displaying aged tables and chairs behind dusty sun-beaten curtains. They could see the well-worn breakfast bar with its splintering stools. A few people sat at the counter sipping coffee and eating eggs and pancakes from chipped white plates. The scene was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.

Emily said, “Reminds you of Pat’s, doesn’t it?”

Ben nodded. Just about every town, both large and small, had its own mom-and-pop diner or restaurant. Pat’s Diner was Ben and Emily’s regular breakfast stop when they lived upstate.

As they passed the old diner on the corner, the air grew fragrant with the smell of fried bacon, and a sweet, smoky smell like maple syrup. Ben’s stomach ached, and his mouth watered.

When was the last time I ate? What … day is it?

“Where are we going, Emma?”

“You know where we’re going, Ben. You’re the one walking.”

“I’ve been following you. I don’t know where we’re going.” But his legs were moving, somewhere. Onward.

The street came to a dead end, and just beyond, in a cluster of trees, flowed a rushing stream. The swells of water foamed white as the waves crashed among the rocks and flowed in swirls among the rapids. They followed the water holding hands, feeling the coolness of water vapor in the air.

“I think I should call Dr. Wulfric.”

“We’ve been over this, Ben. You know you can’t do that.”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, rubbing his temple with his free hand. “I’m going insane; I think—I think I’m crazy.”

“No, Ben, you’re not crazy.”

“I am. I have to be. I mean, this is … you … you’re not real.”

“Ben!” Her lip curled, and he knew he’d pissed her off.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You know you can’t trust them. If you call Dr. Wulfric, Iain Marcus will come find you, and you don’t want that to happen.”

“Why? Why would I care if Iain Marcus finds me?”

She shook her head and exhaled a deep air of disappointment.

“What? Why would I care?”

“Oh, Bennie. You really don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“The dream you’re having. It’s all there; it’s in your head. You just need to remember.”

“Which dream?”

“Drapery Falls, Ben.”

He thought about the dream. It was true, now that he thought about it. Dr. Wulfric seemed to act a bit strange when he told him the details. What was it about that dream? As strange as the dream was, it was only a dream. Nothing to be hung up about.

What he
did
remember was vivid: the car driving at night, the sign for Drapery Falls, the cold rain, the man on his knees …

“It’s all in your mind, Ben. Just remember.”

He played it over and over, repeating each scene. Then, very slowly, the fuzzy gaps began to fill in. He saw himself struggle with the man on the ground, saw and felt his own hand push a syringe into the man’s arm. He smelled the smoke as it rose from the pizza box and thought he could even feel the warmth of the fire as it grew.

He became aware that he was not doing these things; he was not in his own body—it was Iain Marcus. He could feel and sense the emotions Iain felt as the events unfolded—the unpleasantness of the cold rain, the rush of adrenaline during the struggle, and the anxiety as he quickly left the scene of the crime. And something else: enjoyment, a sense of pleasure at the thrill of it all.

“Holy shit!” he shouted louder than he anticipated. “I killed someone. I mean, Iain killed someone!”

“What else?”

“I, um …” He let the dream play out repeatedly. “I remember the place going up in flames, and Mr. Kalispell was there with Iain. But Iain is calling him Michael.”

Emily nodded. “Well, that’s a start.”

“Dr. Wulfric, he was involved, too. I don’t know how, but he was.”

“Yes, Ben, he was. They are murderers. All of them. They are bad people. You can’t trust them. We’re on our own from here on out. It’s just you and me. I’m going to keep you safe, away from these people who want to hurt you. Do you trust me, Ben? Can you trust me?”

He looked into her eyes. Any questions he may have had or feelings of dismay fizzled out of his thoughts. He was mindless—a zombie.

“Of course, my Emma.” His eyes felt lethargic. “I trust you.”

“They killed that boy while he was working on Lucy. He was doing what you’ve been doing—testing the serum.”

“Are we going to Drapery Falls?”

“We’re going somewhere safe. Somewhere far from Iain Marcus and Mr. Kalispell. They are aware that you know too much. They killed that boy without the slightest show of remorse or regret. Murder is nothing to them, just part of the job. Tell me, what was Iain thinking about when he killed that man?”

“Nothing really. He kind of thought he was doing him a favor.”

“He felt justified. He thinks murder is justifiable. That makes him a very dangerous man. They know you’re having this little, well, this little episode …”

“Crazy. I’m going crazy.”

“They know that their secrets are compromised, and that
you
are compromised, and they will do whatever is in their power to keep you and those secrets suppressed. That’s why we left the apartment, Ben. That’s why we left the city, and that’s why we have to keep moving.”

“Jesus Christ. Where are we going?”

“A place where we can be alone. You would like that, Bennie, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes …” The words came out of his mouth, but he had no control over them. “I’ll follow you … anywhere.”

I
ain Marcus and Michael Bennet sat in the back of the cramped comms van, pouring over every second of sound and background noise taped from Ben’s apartment prior to his disappearance. The air inside the van was rank with body odor and fast food, a disgusting combination that infuriated Iain even further. Still, he kept himself cool and rational. He’d been cramped in tanks that smelled worse.

They were joined by a technician named Aaron Tyler, who actively replayed a blip of sound over and over again, a mumble of words too low and quiet to be easily deciphered. Aaron slowed the recording to a fraction of the normal speed, but it was still incomprehensible. The microphone over Ben’s window was badly damaged, and the quality of the recording was compromised. Iain, however, identified a barely audible squeaking sound as the front door.

“Move on.” Iain instructed.

Aaron fast-forwarded the recording, focusing on the next blip of sound. Iain took off the heavy earphones and turned to Michael.

“We’re missing something.”

Michael nodded, removing his own headphones. There was nothing on the tapes. They had listened to each second of the recording maybe a dozen times. It was getting them nowhere.

“We need to think like him, find out where he would go, and why he would go there. What was so pressing that he would disappear early in the morning, without a trace, without his keys?”

“Without his phone,” Michael added.

Iain nodded. They’d called his cell phone several times, leaving voice messages in cheerful tones: “Hey, Ben, this is Iain. Listen, we have to meet up. Mr. Kalispell has some good news for you. Call me back when you get this. I’ll be in your neck of the woods today, so I can stop by whenever. It will only take a second. Thanks.”

It was not until Michael watched the live feed from the apartment, while Iain was calling Ben, that he noticed an illumination from the edge of the couch. Ben left his phone at home, tucked halfway between the couch cushions.

“Do you still think he left for Paris?” Michael asked.

“No, I don’t.”

They tapped into his bank account and charge cards. Nothing had been purchased. Even if he bought a plane ticket with cash, the comms team would find out. They had every major airline flying out of Philadelphia, New York, and New Jersey cross-referencing his name.

“Where else would he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think he went there? You know, to Drapery Falls?”

Iain shot Michael a glance, looking at Aaron who was listening intently to the recordings. He hissed, “Why would he go there?”

“I don’t know, maybe he remembered more of his dream. Or maybe he wants to remember more of his dream.”

“Without his car? I doubt it.” But it wasn’t out of the question. It was a possibility they mulled over, but after tapping into Ben’s computer and going through his internet history, nothing about Drapery Falls came up. The last conversation they had with Ben, Drapery Falls was still nothing more than only a dream. A phantom town. He had no idea the implications the dream carried. The idea was put aside, especially since his car was parked a block away, and his keys were left on the kitchen counter.

But they were running out of ideas, and possibly time. If Ben was currently experiencing dementia and hallucinations—if he was going crazy—in public, they had to find him soon. Before the police did.

“I guess it makes the most sense.” Iain stood in the van, hunched over, and opened the back door. Michael followed. “Aaron, patch the video feed from the apartment to my phone, and don’t stop listening to the tapes and checking his charge cards. You hear
anything
, if he buys a fucking cup of coffee in Calcutta, I need to know. Immediately.”

Aaron nodded, shielding his eyes from the sun pouring in through the open door.

Michael and Iain jumped to the ground, slamming the door shut behind them. They walked around the block to their car and started the engine.

“Should we get a map?” Michael asked. They wouldn’t dare look up the directions on their phones. Digital paper trails were harder to burn.

“I remember how to get there.”

In the back of Iain’s anxious mind, the image of Ben’s phone flashing on the couch, loaded with missed calls and voice messages, gave him concern. If Ben did not return to his apartment—if they found him in Drapery Falls, or anywhere else—he would have to break into his apartment again and destroy the phone.

“It seems fitting if this comes to an end in Drapery Falls, doesn’t it?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“It’s come full circle.”

They hit traffic as they neared New York, but soon after, the road cleared up and Iain sped along the interstate. He kept his phone on a standing charger, the video feed from Ben’s apartment transmitting bright on the screen. The fisheye lens kept a vigil on the entire living room, from front door to kitchen.

Iain looked from the image on the screen to the road, his eyes darting back and forth. His forehead furrowed.

“Shit!” he shouted, startling Michael who was near sleep.

“Wha-what’s the matter?”

“I can’t believe it! Jesus Christ!”

“What, Iain, what?”

“He’s not going to Drapery Falls!” He smacked the steering wheel. “There, Michael! Right there.” He pointed to the edge of the video feed.

Michael picked up the phone, squinting, and removed a pair of wire-frame glasses from an inner pocket.

Iain snatched the phone away and dialed into the keypad. It rang twice on speakerphone.

“Hello?”

“Aaron, listen to me, this is important. What’s the name of the town Ben used to live in, with Emily?”

“It’s umm …” The muffled sound of movement came over the speakers. “One second, It’s right here … Sutton Lake.”

“Right. That’s where he’s headed. I need you to find every cabin, every little shithole wooden cabin anywhere in the vicinity of Sutton Lake.”

“Yes, sir. But, umm … that’s upstate New York? There’s got to be thousands of cabins up there.”

“Yes, but we’re only looking for one. I’ll have Dr. Wulfric fax you a picture. And Aaron—keep your eye on the camera.”

“Yes, sir.”

Iain hung up.

“Aaron is never going to find it. He’s right; there are thousands of cabins upstate,” Michael went on. “Why are you suddenly certain that’s where he’s going? I don’t see anything to suggest—”

“Look, Michael.” He brought the live feed from Ben’s apartment back on his phone. “That spot on the wall, right there.”

Michael squinted. The wall was blank. “Iain, I don’t see anything.”

“Exactly my point. There on the wall—that’s where he kept that painting of the cabin.” Iain pointed again to the live feed. “Right above the shattered mug and whiskey glass, by the door.”

“The painting is right there, Iain.” Michael pointed to the screen. “On the ground. See it? It’s leaning against the wall.”

Iain shook his head. “That’s not the painting. That’s the copy we made for him at the lab. See, it’s not framed. The real one is gone. Before he left his apartment, he must have taken it off the wall. It’s the only thing he took with him when he left. Not his cell phone, not a jacket, not his keys—nothing. Only the painting. Not only is the painting meaningful to Ben, it’s an obsession. His wife painted it years ago. It’s come up in his dreams during every test. In his dreams we see him standing atop some hill looking down to a clearing in the woods where the cabin sits surrounded by trees.”

“We still can’t rule out Drapery Falls.”

“No, we can’t. However, if Ben did suddenly remember everything that happened in Drapery Falls, and not just the little fragments, he would have gone to the authorities. We would have heard something over the wire; the police would be looking for us. This cabin, that’s where he’s heading. I don’t know why he’s going there, but I’m certain that he is.”

“Okay, okay.” Michael paused to think. “You might be right. Still though, how is Aaron going to find one cabin in all of upstate New York?”

“He may not find anything, but we’re not searching all of upstate New York. There aren’t thousands of cabins in Sutton Lake. Only dozens, maybe.”

“So what’s the plan? We’re going to drive six hours upstate, and if Aaron doesn’t find anything by the time we get there, we’re just going to ask around?”

“Look up Sutton Lake. The population is probably in the hundreds. In a small town like that, we have a better chance asking the locals than finding anything on our own. So yes, that is exactly what we’re going to do, Michael.”

Being mindful of the speed limit, Iain and Michael still made excellent time. The sky grew dark as they drove across miles of broad farmlands and homes amidst acres of heavily wooded terrain, until they arrived in Sutton Lake.

The center of town was nothing more than a strip of old and somewhat dilapidated buildings that might have looked acceptable in the ’60s or ’70s. The popularity of the town plummeted in the late ’80s, after the paper mill just outside of town closed, and the population decreased. Most visitors today describe Sutton Lake as
charming
and
quaint
, but Iain didn’t see anything charming about the peeling paint on the storefronts, or the slabs of sidewalk moved askew or broken by ever-widening tree roots.

They parked and walked into the first establishment they came to—a dusty old watering hole named Tyson’s. After a quick conversation with the bartender and the single patron sitting at the sour smelling ten-seat bar, they moved on.

There were three bars total in Sutton Lake; a very high number, Iain thought, for such a small town. But he doubted the local residents had very much else to do. They walked a few buildings over to the second bar, looking like tired businessmen, which wasn’t far from the truth. A number of people were gathered around a sand-filled bucket, smoking—a promising sign. They entered.

On a table by the front door were stacks of local business cards, flyers, and newspapers. Iain glanced them over and picked up a card. They took a seat at the battered wood bar. About a dozen or so middle-aged and older men sat hunched over with their elbows on the spill guard rail, sipping beer from thick mugs and watching the ball game. The regulars looked to have claimed their barstools many years ago. It was exactly the kind of place Iain was looking for.

The bartender walked over, resting his hairy forearms and large belly on the counter. “Gentlemen, what can I do you for?” He tossed two coasters on the bar that advertised
Budweiser
on them.

“I’ll have one of those.” Iain pointed at a coaster.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Two Buds.” The bartender walked to the cooler.

They paid, then after a moment turned to the old man sitting beside them.

“Yanks tied it up, huh?” Michael asked. “They were down two, top of the inning last I heard on the radio.”

“Yep, they sure did,” the old man answered.

Iain knew nothing of baseball, so he let Michael steer the conversation. They bought the old man a beer, and they all clinked glasses in cheers.

“Thank you kindly,” The old man said with a genuine air of gratitude.

“You live here, in Sutton Lake?” Michael asked.

The man nodded. “Sure do. Born and raised. Guessing you boys are just passing through? There ain’t much to see in Sutton Lake.”

“How’d you guess?” Michael laughed.

“Actually,” Iain chimed in, “we’re here on business. We’re investors.”

“Investors?” The man laughed. “Investing in what, corn? There ain’t nothing to invest in around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that. We have a meeting with this company tomorrow.” Iain fished the business card he took from the front table out of his pocket. The man squinted to read the fine print:

Iain held his breath. This was the tough part about telling a lie—not getting caught. Did the man work for the company, or did someone else at the bar? Would he know Iain was full of shit? The old man shrugged and looked back at the television. So far so good.

“We buy properties, fix them up, and then put them back on the market.”

“Oh, like house flippers. My brother-in-law flipped a few houses in his day. Made some money doing so, but that was ten years ago.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe you can help us. We’re scheduled to see a cabin tomorrow morning. Got offered a good price. We tried to do a drive-by tonight, but the directions they gave us must be wrong, and there’s no one in the office this late. Even the directions the company gave us to get here, to Sutton Lake, were wrong. We got lost twice. I had to stop at a gas station to get a map. You probably know the local roads better than most.”

Iain removed a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Here, this is the cabin we’re looking for.” Iain called Dr. Wulfric earlier, and had him freeze frame an image of the cabin from one of Ben’s dreams and fax it over the mobile fax machine in the trunk of the car.

The man studied the picture. “Hmm, is that Frank’s? No, not Frank’s.”

Michael and Iain held their breaths.

“You got an address? A street name?”

“Not one that’s right. The address they gave me took us to a dead end.”

“Hey, Jim,” the man called to the bartender. “This place look familiar to you? These boys are set to buy it.”

“Well, we’re just checking it out. No decisions have been made.”

The bartender walked over and glanced at the picture, stroking his chest-length beard. “Nope, sorry.” He shook his head. “Don’t think I know it.” He went back to watching the game.

“Oh well. I’m sure we’ll get there just fine.”

Iain took a sip from his beer. For a moment, things had looked promising. They stood to leave.

“Thank you anyway,” Michael said to the man.

“Nice meeting you, fellas. Good luck with everything. Thanks for the beer.”

The front door opened and another even older man walked in.

“Now wait a minute,” said the man at the bar. “Let Stevie here get a look at that picture. He’s worked on just about every house there is in Sutton Lake.”