Deadlock (11 page)

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!”

He shoved Julian off the bed.

Julian staggered back. Caught himself against the wall. Concern had found his face again.

Michael spread his arms. “What?”

Julian tugged on the bottom of his shirt, flattening the wrinkles Michael had made with his fists. “I'm just saying . . .”

“What?”

“You're not alone, okay? You don't have to go through this by yourself.”

Michael narrowed his eyes at him. “Through what?”

Julian shook his head. “Whatever . . . you know? You're scared, freaking out. I would be too. If you want a friend, you know where to find me, okay?”

The kid looked sincere, but so what if he was? What was Michael supposed to do with him? He didn't have time for friends, and he certainly wasn't going to cry on anyone's shoulder. All Julian's caring did was make him feel worse. Another flash of ice cream to make the rest of it that much more awful.

Okay, so Julian was a nice guy. Around here, nice guys—and their friends—didn't just finish last, they finished dead.

Julian said, “I'm mean, I'm here, if . . .”

“What?”

“If you stay. I don't think you should.”

Michael lowered his head. “Just go, all right?”

The boy stood quietly for a long time. Finally the door opened and closed, and he was gone.

FIFTEEN

Page Industries was headquartered east of Gold Bar, Washington, ninety minutes from the Sea-Tac Airport by the clock in Hutch's rented Pacifica. At the foot of the Cascade Mountains, the region was heavily forested. From Stevens Pass Highway, Hutch could see sheer cliffs and deep ravines, as if nature had experienced a violent outburst and gouged at the hills with long nails. The topographical map Hutch had picked up in Seattle showed a spattering of lakes, both large and small, as well as a complicated network of rivers and streams. The map also indicated large areas of flatlands hidden among the blanket folds of earth. Toss its isolation into the mix, and it made a perfect place to prepare soldiers for fighting in any terrain.

Hutch knew Outis managed training facilities around the world, but according to reports and its own literature, this was its primary “base of operations,” through which all recruits were processed.

Hutch had reconnoitered the area using Google Earth. Most of the Page Industries campus, with its roads and buildings, was visible on the satellite images. A large square to the west, however, appeared to be replaced with a photograph of the land before construction had begun. No doubt this was where the Outis facilities were located. It was similar to some of the places the government intentionally blotted out for security reasons. It was conceivable Outis would be a terrorist target, but Hutch suspected its censoring had more to do with Page's clout.

The main gate onto the campus resembled the ones guarding military bases: set well back from the main road, the area between cleared of all trees, the better to spot approaching attacks; concrete barriers that required vehicles to slow down and weave between them; a metal-brace vehicle barrier that retracted into the roadway. The guard shack resembled a small stone cottage. As he approached, the shack's glass appeared tinted. Closer, he realized it was the panes' thickness that distorted its clarity. Bulletproof.

The guard took Hutch's driver's license and became a shadowy image behind a sliding window. When he reappeared, he said, “Sorry, Mr. Hutchinson, you're not authorized.”

“I was invited,” Hutch said. “I flew out from Colorado for this meeting.”

“I'm sorry. Reach the exit lane by turning left right here.”

“Look, I didn't come this far to be turned away. Call Page's office. They're expecting me.”

“What time was your appointment, sir?”

“Sometime today. I didn't get a time.”

“Then I'd wait by your phone. Please, sir.” The guard twirled his finger and held it toward the main road.

Hutch drove around the shack and back to Stevens Pass Highway, which here was nothing but a two-lane blacktop.

If this is Page's idea of a joke . . .

But whatever the man was—brilliant, narcissistic, homicidal—Hutch had not run into any anecdotes that hinted at his being juvenile. He remembered an interview in which Page praised William the Conqueror's strategic skills in battle. “He always delayed confrontation,” Page had said, “and in doing so, he let his enemy expend its resources in fruitless attempts to commit him to battle.”

But Page had nothing to worry about on that score: Hutch's bank accounts were running on fumes. He'd had to buy his ticket—especially pricey because of the short notice—with the last of his credit.

Yeah, a billionaire's going to worry about
my
financial resources, even in the best of times.

All Hutch could do was wait. He had wanted to keep the entire day open for Page's meeting. Since all the late-night flights home had been full, he'd scheduled his return for the next day at noon. Any way you cut it, he'd have to stay the night. He'd passed a motel half an hour ago, as good a place as any to wait, he supposed. He turned onto the road.

A few minutes later he spotted a car on the opposite shoulder with its hood up. A man was leaning over the engine. Hutch slowed, then stopped in line with the car, a few-years-old Mustang.

“Need anything?” he said.

“No, thanks,” the man said, without looking up. “Almost got it, I think.”

As Hutch pulled away, the man looked, pushing up his glasses with a finger. He squinted, then scowled. Hutch watched him in the mirror. The man stepped into the center of the road, hands on his hips, watching the Pacifica accelerate away.

SIXTEEN

The Call, as Hutch had starting thinking of it, the way a death row inmate might refer to a hoped-for clemency call from the governor, came at two fifteen. Short and sweet: “Mr. Page will see you at four o'clock.”

When Hutch returned to the gate, the same guard gave him two passes, one for his dashboard, the other to pin to his jacket. The guard handed him a map of the campus, with the route to the Outis facilities marked in red. As he'd suspected, they were located on the west side of the campus, where the satellite photos had been retouched. The map showed five other distinct clusters of buildings. Considering Page Industries' Shiva-like reach into all things war and defense, its compactness spoke to Page's fastidiousness and efficiency—appropriate, Hutch figured, for a paramilitary organization.