Deadlock Page 8

  “Then he calls you.” She sipped from her wineglass. “What did he do at Outis?”

  “I found a bio from a lecture he gave about a year ago. Said he worked with software designers and military training specialists to maximize the effectiveness of tactical drills. Stuff like that.”

  “Software designers?”

  “That’s part of Page’s voodoo, how he makes such efficient soldiers in months instead of years. You know how the military uses video games to train pilots and now even ground forces?”

  “I’ve heard something about it.”

  Hutch nodded. “Apparently, Page has taken video-simulation training to a new level. He’s got at least four concrete things going on. I don’t know how they fit together, but I suspect they do.” He held up his index finger. “He’s been recruiting the best video game and virtual reality programmers from other companies. Right now, his video game company puts out only two games a year, but he’s staffed to produce four times that number. What are all those programmers doing?”

  He held up a second finger. “Outis soldiers are growing increasingly aggressive. Remember hearing about the soldiers who tore through Fallujah, shooting at civilians they claimed opened fire on them? New Outis soldiers. Twenty-one dead. Several women, children. The soldiers kept driving until they were back at their base. One investigator noted that they displayed a marked indifference for their victims. There have been mounting reports of similar violence by Outis soldiers. How does that happen, that one company churns out such ruthless people?”

  Finger number three: “The ages of Outis’s recruits and the contractors it puts into the field has plummeted. It’s not unusual for kids to go there right out of high school and hit the battlegrounds by nineteen or twenty. Used to be, Outis would recruit only seasoned military men in their late twenties, early thirties.

  “And four, Dr. Nichols’s degree is in child psychology. Years ago, he published studies on the effects of war and violence on adolescents. Then his emphasis seemed to skew toward how young soldiers psychologically handled being in battle. The last reference to his work I found addressed how boot camps could adjust their regimens to more effectively prepare young soldiers to handle the warrior life, including killing. That’s about the time he began working for Outis. I haven’t been able to get numbers or even anecdotal evidence, but I’ll bet Outis has a good number of people like Dr. Nichols on the payroll.”

  He polished off his wine.

  Laura thought about it. She said, “So you think Outis is recruiting young people because-what?-they’re more open to psychological manipulation?”

  “There may be moral considerations as well,” Hutch said. “Their ideas of right and wrong are still developing at that age. I think, too, young people are more susceptible to the influence of video games. They know how to play them, and they readily accept them as part of life. Dr. Nichols added something else to the equation, something that I had considered, but thought, Nah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Xĭ năo,” Hutch said. “It’s one of the terms he told me to research. It refers to Chinese methods of coercive persuasion. It literally means ‘to wash the brain.’”

  Laura flinched. “What?”

  “I’m not saying Jim Jones or David Koresh. This is something more sophisticated, less . . . I don’t know, less obvious. Subtle. But think about it: child psychologists who specialize in training soldiers, video games, more aggression-which some people will tell you equates to a better warrior.”

  Laura held her palm to her forehead. “My head hurts.”

  “Tell me about it,” Hutch said.

  THIRTEEN

  The doorbell chimed.

  Hutch scowled at Laura. Checked his watch. “After eleven.”

  It rang again and Hutch went for it, convinced now it was Janet, back for round two. Whatever she said, he wasn’t giving up Logan and Macie this week. No way.

  He pulled the door open. His boss from the newspaper stood outside, a strange expression on his already unusual face. Larry was fifty years old but had the wrinkle-free, hairless face of a fifteen-year-old. He had a child’s large eyes and the hint of buckteeth. The glow of the porch light gave him a jaundiced appearance.

  “Larry?”

  “I wanted to tell you in person,” Larry said, striding past Hutch. “I don’t know how I feel about it, so how could you know what to do?”

  “Feel about what? Larry?”

  Spotting Laura, Larry stopped in midstride. A big grin pushed his cheeks into rosy balls. “Laura Fuller. I forgot you were coming.”

  Uncertain, Laura smiled and hooked her hair over one ear. She set her glass on the coffee table and stood.

  Larry moved in, extending his hand. “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Laura,” Hutch said behind them, “this is Larry Waters, a good friend.”

  “And his editor,” Larry said. “Sometimes I think he forgets that part.”

  Hutch said, “Larry, what are you doing here this late?”

  Larry pulled off his overcoat and dropped into the La-Z-Boy.

  Hutch and Laura sat on the couch facing him.

  Larry folded his coat neatly on his lap. He patted it down, then said, “Okay, I got a call. Brendan Page’s assistant, secretary, somebody. He’s agreed to meet with you.”

  “When?”

  “Right away. Tomorrow. At his headquarters in Washington state. But only tomorrow, she was very clear about that. What did you do? What magic button did you push?”

  Hutch gaped at Laura. He said, “Nichols.” Had to be. The same call that had sent Hutch to his office for half the afternoon, and had gotten Laura and Hutch talking about his investigation . . . Page had somehow found out about it. Page’s sudden interest in him could not be a coincidence.

  Maybe the trigger had been Hutch conducting Internet research on the other term Nichols had given him: Genjuros. Or one of the people Hutch had called about it, including a few of Nichols’s former colleagues. He hoped for the doctor’s sake it hadn’t been his call to Hutch that had caught Page’s attention-that would mean Page had a bead on Nichols’s location.

  Larry said, “This is it, buddy. You’ve been trying to get a sit-down with him for a year.”

  Hutch stood and paced away from the sofa. He looked at the darkened hallway leading to the bedrooms. “I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got the kids this week.” He turned back to Laura. “You and Dillon. I can’t just leave.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Hutch,” Laura said. “Do what you have to do. Maybe Janet could take the kids back.”

  Hutch shook his head. “It took me six months to get joint custody. Something like this . . . taking off for work-not even work-she’ll find a way to use it against me, try to get sole custody again.”

  “So don’t tell her,” Larry said. He looked from Hutch’s gaping expression to Laura’s and back. “It’s one day, up and back. Laura can watch them for one day. Right?”

  “Uh . . .” Laura said. “I guess.”

  “Parents have babysitters,” Larry continued. “It’s not like you’re leaving them alone. Hutch, we’re talking Brendan Page here. Faceto-face.”

  “I can watch them,” Laura said. “That’s not a problem. But, Hutch, isn’t your whole point that the man is dangerous?”

  “I thought of that,” Larry said. “That’s what had me going back and forth. But the more I think about it, if Page wanted to get Hutch, he wouldn’t do it this way, calling me, asking Hutch to meet him there.”

  Hutch nodded. “He’d do something like rig my brakes. Make it look like an accident.”

  Laura said, “I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t like it. That guy really, really scares me.”

  Hutch retrieved his wineglass from the table, saw it was empty, and set it back down. He looked pleadingly at Laura and said, “I can’t not do this. It’s my chance to see his headquarters with my own eyes. To get a read on the man, maybe draw him out some, get him to
say something that will help me put the rest of the puzzle together.”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Then do it. Dillon will understand. And Larry’s right, I’ll just be the babysitter for a day.”

  Hutch frowned. “It couldn’t come at a worse time.”

  “But it came,” Larry said. “You never thought it would. But listen, don’t give him any clues about what you know. Nothing. Guy like that, prone to violence? You never know where his tipping point is. What will be the one person you talk to, the one thing you say that makes him decide that his life would be easier dealing with your disappearance than dealing with you?”

  FOURTEEN

  Lying in the darkness of his bedroom, Michael thought he might be going crazy. He could not stop his mind from reeling out snippet after snippet of memory—all of them seeming random, none of them lasting more than a few seconds. Here he was meeting Ben, his team leader, for the first time. The elation he felt upon breezing through the video game Outis recruiters had asked him to play. Tearing open a Christmas present, then giving his dad a bear hug for scraping together enough to buy a used Xbox 360.

  And right when he started to discern a pattern to his churning thoughts, something like learning how to ride a bicycle without training wheels would present itself. Mint chip ice cream on a sugar cone. The dead boy bleeding at his feet. His dad escorting him for the first time to an Outis dorm room—saying, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Mastering the weapon of a video game still in development—and the following week Colonel Bryson handing him that very weapon in real life. Feeling the pressure of a trigger under his finger, the kick of the recoil—how it felt like Hawthorne, his childhood cocker spaniel, scurrying to get out of his arms. The child he’d shot, how—looking like an adult through the visor—he’d crashed against the television. Little-kid cartoons on the screen.

  Each memory felt like a punch: two jabs to his face, one to his gut. Over and over. Even the sweet images—the bicycle, the ice cream—cut him with their innocence. He felt so far removed from them, from their simple joys. And thinking of them now made the harsh memories even harsher.

  He could not stop sobbing. He tried to be quiet, but his tears wanted to scream. His inhalations stuttered with effort. Exhaling, he moaned or cried out, depending on the horror of the memory, the severity of its blow. He was on his side in bed, curled up, hugging himself. His face was wet, as was the pillow under his cheek.

  A noise reached him. He tried to listen but heard only his own wrenching breaths. The noise again: a soft rap on the door.

  He pressed his eyes closed, held his breath. Go away, he thought.

  He heard the latch and looked. Someone had opened the door. A black silhouette appeared against the grayness of the den behind it. Lights-out was some time ago; the only illumination out there was from a dim bulb in the hood over the stove.

  The figure whispered: “Michael?”

  “Go away.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Michael didn’t say anything. If go away wasn’t answer enough, this person was coming in no matter what.

  The door opened wider, then closed.

  “Can I turn on the light?”

  “No.”

  “Turn on your bedside light, then.”

  Michael didn’t move. After what felt like minutes, the voice came again.

  “Michael?”

  Michael sniffed and wiped at his face. He felt for the small reading lamp on the nightstand. He switched it on. Daggers pierced his eyes. His lids refused to open. He held up his hand; he did not want anyone to approach him like this. He sniffed again and pushed a thumb and index finger into his sockets. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he blinked. Behind his eyes, his brain throbbed.

  A figure was standing at the door. Michael blinked away more tears—he remembered his dad called them clouds, after some Elton John song. The figure flickered and became Julian.

  Michael said, “Are you . . . real?”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you want?”

  Julian walked to the bed. He set something on it. It was a roll of toilet paper. Michael tried to laugh but just snorted.

  “I heard you,” the younger boy said.

  “Yeah, well . . .” Michael unraveled some of the TP and wiped his nose with it. “Probably everybody did, but I guess they’re tired of razzing me.”

  “Funny, huh?” Julian said. “They try to make us think of our teammates as family—even insisting we use our first names on missions, instead of handles. They think the tighter we are, the more we’ll fight to protect each other. But do one stupid thing, and the guys come down on you like they hate you.”

  Michael shrugged. “With friends like that . . .”

  “So . . . what’d you do?”

  Michael got more tissue and started drying his eyes. “Nothing.” He studied Julian’s face. “I’ve heard you . . . at night.”

  Julian nodded. He lowered himself onto the bed. He said, “Probably every night.”

  “I didn’t come rushing in to catch you slobbering all over yourself.”

  “Why not?” He smiled.

  Michael dropped the crumpled tissue to the floor. He pushed himself up and leaned his back against the wall. “So you got problems,” Michael said. “It’s none of my business how you handle them.” When Julian didn’t say anything, he continued. “I mean, you’re like a little kid—and you’re here.” He said the word the way he would have said in hell. “You’re Brendan Page’s son—and you’re here. I heard about your brother and what happened.”

  Julian said, “Then you know why I’m here. And I cry at night because I’m here. What’s your story?”

  “No story, just . . . life.” Michael closed his eyes, tried to take in a breath without his chest hitching, but found it impossible. He clamped his teeth together, willing himself to get control. He felt a fresh tear break free and slide over his cheek. He brushed at it as though it burned. Eyes closed, he waited. Maybe the kid would take a hint and leave. When he didn’t, Michael said, “Why don’t you just go?”

  Julian said, “You just got back from a mission. Did something happen?”

  As much as Michael thought it wasn’t possible, his chest grew even tighter. He opened his eyes. Those clouds again, making Julian’s image shift. He reached out and touched Julian’s arm. “What . . .” Michael cleared his throat. “What color’s your hair?”

  Julian’s brow furrowed. “Dark brown.”

  “Your eyes?”

  “Green-blue.”

  Michael relaxed. “I guess you’re . . .”

  “I’m what?”

  “It’s only that, I don’t know what’s real anymore. I saw things the other day, things that weren’t there.”

  “Like what?”

  “A guy . . . a guy reaching for a gun. Wasn’t even a guy, a man.”

  “An avatar, then,” Julian said. “Outis uses actors and avatars. You know that.”

  “It wasn’t an avatar or an actor.”

  “What then?”

  “A child,” Michael snapped. “I think a little boy. I shot him.”

  “Like, during a simulation or war game?”

  Michael shook his head. “I thought it was a war game, a tactical training mission. I think I thought it was. I don’t know anymore. Sometimes they say, ‘Okay, here’s the operation, and this time it’s for real, so heads up.’ But they’ve done that so many times, then showed us we were engaging actors in a simulacrum. We never know what’s real, what’s not. I knew the VR environment in the helmets added things to reality. But it does more than that. It changes reality.”

  Julian’s eyes wandered away. “If that’s true . . .”

  “If that’s true, we can’t know what’s real and what isn’t. They can make you see an EC, some guy coming at you with a knife. So you shoot him and it turns out to be your mother.”

  The boy said, “I don’t think they can do that.”

  �
�I saw a man. I fought with him. Turned out to be a teenager, about your age.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I took off my helmet. I saw with my own eyes.”

  “And the little boy?”

  Michael stared into Julian’s eyes a long time. “He was real. They made me kill a kid, a real kid. Why would they do that?”

  Julian lowered his head.

  “I’ve been thinking,” Michael continued. “What if they can make you see things they want you to see, even without the helmets, without the visors?”

  “Don’t get paranoid.”

  “Paranoid? I killed people the other night, based on what they wanted me to see. You hear? What they wanted me to see, not reality.” That got Michael thinking about who “they” were and who it was sitting on his bed. “How do I know you’re not here for your dad or Colonel Bryson? Trying to find out if I’ve lost it, snapped?”

  “I’m not here for that,” Julian said simply.

  “Then why?”

  Julian shrugged. “Like I said, I heard you. Michael, if what you’re saying is true, if you believe it’s true, you gotta get out of here, man. Just go. Run. I mean it.”

  “They won’t let me go,” Michael said. “Especially with what I know.” Quietly he added, “What I think I know. They’ll kill me first.”

  Julian’s head came up. The sadness in his eyes went deep, all the way to his soul. He was an eternal spirit who had seen all the world’s tragedies. Then Julian blinked, and he was only a kid again.

  Michael felt uncomfortable under Julian’s gaze. He turned his face away. He sniffed, then wiped a forearm under his nose. He did it again.

  Julian picked up the TP and held it out to him.

  Michael swung his fist around and knocked the roll out of the boy’s hand. He was on Julian in a second, had two fistfuls of his T-shirt. He shook Julian with everything he had. Witnessing his concern and sadness changing to fright was immensely satisfying.

  “I don’t need your pity,” Michael said. “I don’t need anything from a little rich brat like you. Just leave me alone!”