Nightmare Academy Read online

  The audience members groaned with dismay at every scene.

  “No, no, be encouraged,” said Bingham. “It's all data, useful in future research. For example . . .”

  The technician cued another recording, and there, on the big screen, was a video of Elijah and Alex having their terrible fight, and a few instant replays of Elijah finally decking Alex with a high kick. The audience loved that.

  “You'll notice how even a reasonable person can be reduced to brute force when truth and reason are no longer available.”

  “Ahh,” said the audience, feeling better.

  “But this is why we brought them here. Let's face it: Children of this type will always be our greatest challenge. They're difficult to deceive, they can't be programmed, they don't believe something if it isn't true, they don't put their own comfort before their sense of right and wrong, and worst of all, they actually think things through. As we have seen, discussion groups and consensus conditioning couldn't undermine this mentality, nor could peer pressure, nor could intimidation and fear. However . . .”

  Bingham came closer to Elisha, eyeing her as if she were a rat in an experiment. “We have both of them in place for the final phase, and we're ready.”

  “But . . . ,” Stern asked, jotting on his clipboard. “How do we factor in the fact that they—”

  “Are undercover investigators?” Bingham asked. The audience rustled and murmured with alarm, but Bingham held up his hand. “It only sweetens the pie. That call she made will actually be to our advantage, bringing all the birds into one snare, so to speak.” He leaned on a control panel, looking gleefully at the young lady in the chair. “And judging from the condition of her brother . . .” He chuckled reassuringly. “In just a matter of hours, neither of them will be anything to worry about.”

  Bingham came closer to Elisha,

  eyeing her as if she were a rat in

  an experiment.

  14

  THE MIND MAZE

  NORTH IDAHO WAS VERY SCENIC , but very frustrating if you wanted to get anywhere in a hurry—such as the tiny town of Stony Bend, deep in the St. Joe National Forest. The highway followed the St. Joe River, which meant it wandered, wiggled, and wound for mile after mile, with hills, curves, and blind corners that could not be driven too briskly if you wanted to arrive at all. Nate drove, Sarah slept, and then they traded, and finally, just before night turned to gray morning, they pulled into the town—what there was of it.

  Stony Bend was still asleep. The local cafe was closed and dark. A few of the small, metal-roofed houses had porch lights on, but that was all. Some logging trucks were parked along the highway, loaded but going nowhere at the moment.

  “Let's try that all-night gas station,” said Nate, still waking up.

  Sarah pulled in next to the pumps. “I'll fill the tank, if you want to go inside.”

  It was a typical quick-stop, a place to buy gas and a little bit of everything else. A ponderous woman was sitting behind the counter amid the beef jerky and chewing tobacco, smoking a cigarette and listening to a country music station.

  “Good morning,” said Nate.

  “Hi there,” she replied, crushing out her cigarette.

  “I wonder if you could help me . . .”

  Sarah used her credit card and started pumping the gas, watching Nate conversing with the big woman inside. The woman was listening, but now she was shaking her head, looking like she didn't know anything. Nate and Sarah had seen that response a lot since arriving in Idaho.

  A pickup truck pulled in on the other side of the pumps, between Sarah and the store. Sarah had to move a little to one side to see how Nate was doing. He must have asked directions. The woman was pointing up the highway, scratching her head, reaching for a pen . . .

  The driver of the pickup started pumping gas into his truck, leaning against the side of his truck, his eyes staring into the distance at nothing in particular. Sarah glanced at him—and moved quickly behind the pumping station, turning her back, stroking her forehead to conceal her face. Hang on, girl. Don't freak out. Steady. Steady.

  Carefully, discretely, she edged around the pumping station just enough to catch a good look at the man's face. He was still staring off into the distance, waiting for his tank to fill. He was a little man with a round head and thin, black hair.

  The clerk from the Dartmoor Hotel.

  Get out here, Nate. Come on, get out here.

  Even though her tank wasn't full, she hung up the nozzle, screwed on the gas cap, and jumped into the car, ready and waiting behind the wheel.

  Clunk! The little man's tank was full. He hung up the nozzle and climbed into his cab.

  Nate!

  The pickup pulled out of the station. Nate was walking back, looking at some scribbled notes and looking around.

  Sarah put the heel of her hand to the car horn and left it there. That got his attention. She gestured at him madly, and he ran.

  Mr. Bingham turned toward the big screens. “The Maze.”

  All four screens combined to form one huge image, that of a tiny figure stumbling, staggering, arms covering his head, surrounded by a mad swirling of shapes, surfaces, colors, sounds, swept and tossed like a particle of lint in a cosmic washing machine.

  Elisha bolted to her feet. “Elijah!”

  The thin tech with the ponytail stepped in, gently touching her shoulder. “Please. Sit down. It'll be all right.”

  Elisha sat, her eyes glued to the big screens. Her brother fell, got up again, turned several circles, clamped his hands over his ears. “Stop it! STOP IT! What are you doing to him?”

  Bingham nodded to a technician, who went to work at his console.

  The horrible bedlam subsided. The colors faded. The noise quieted down. Elijah was now in a white fog, with nothing visible around him. He was standing still, dazed, staring, half-conscious—like Alvin Rogers.

  Bingham began explaining to his audience, “This is a continuation of a previous experiment. As you recall, a breach in the system allowed our last subject to escape—most unfortunate!—but that problem was quickly contained, and now we have a replacement volunteer. The question before us: Can the human psyche really function in the absence of truth? How far can the mind go when nothing, nothing at all, can be known for certain?”

  He looked at Elisha, checking her over, and then nodded to the techs sitting at all those consoles.

  Lights came on around Elisha, making her jump.

  Suddenly, she saw herself on the big screen, sitting in the same chair, except . . . she looked great. She was wearing a white blouse, a clean pair of jeans, some cool western jewelry, and a pair of boots beyond a Springfield budget. Her face was clean, her hair was neat, and she wasn't sitting in a strange little green alcove surrounded by lights—she was sitting quite comfortably in the family room of a huge log home. There was a large, stone fireplace behind her, soft living room furniture around her, a deep, wool rug on the floor. There was a weird, white fog in the room, but it was quickly dissolving away.

  “. . . The question before us: Can

  the human psyche really function

  in the absence of truth?. . .”

  Elijah's ears were ringing and his head was spinning, but for now, for this one brief moment, the ride was over. He was weak and trembling, hunched over. His hands were shaking. He'd already thrown up a third time and his stomach felt like it would never hold food again, but at least the floor, the ground, the haze, the bog, the water, the sand, whatever it was under his feet, had stopped moving. The white fog around him was clearing. He thought he saw a wool rug below him, and then . . . a wall made of logs . . . a soft couch . . . a crackling fire in a stone fireplace.

  Was he still alive? It was so hard to think, to place one thought after another.

  “Elijah,” came a lovely voice, like an angel. He knew that voice. “Elijah.”

  He saw his sister, seated in a comfortable chair, smiling at him.

  “Sis?” he asked, his v
oice hoarse from screaming.

  “It's all right, Elijah,” she said. “Come and sit down. Take a load off.”

  He hobbled forward, comforted by her smiling, serene face, by the warmth of the lovely room. This had to be real. He wanted very much for it to be real. “Is this heaven?”

  “It's anything you want it to be.”

  He sank onto the couch, then reclined, his head sinking into the soft pillows.

  “It feels great to finally rest, doesn't it?”

  He could only sigh a deep, tired sigh and nod his head.

  “So just . . . just let go.”

  Even with his mind mangled, Elijah still found a tiny spark of curiosity. “Let go of what?”

  “The struggle. Trying to know. That's where all the pain comes from, Elijah: trying to believe that some things are true. Life is so much easier when you don't have to worry about truth.”

  “That lying little imp!” Elisha said to herself as she watched herself on the screen. “Elijah, don't believe her!”

  So the whole thing was a hologram, an incredibly realistic, three-dimensional projection! That explained the mysterious image of her brother that lured her into this place. She looked around her, above her. For the first time, she noticed a camera lens pointing down at her from the ceiling. These clever people were recording her image as she sat in the chair, enhancing it with all their fancy computers, and reassembling it in front of her maze-dazed brother, making it tell the most outrageous lies.

  I've got to get through to him!

  Nate and Sarah followed the pickup to a slightly sagging little cabin off a side road. By now, they were more than ready for a direct approach. Sarah walked right up on the front porch and gave the front door several sharp raps.

  The little man opened the door, plainly curious and annoyed. “Yes?”

  “Hi. Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning. I was wondering, have you seen a boy and a girl around here, both sixteen, good looking, like their mother?”

  He started to shake his head. “No, I haven't—” But then he got a good look at her.

  She confirmed it for him. “You're right! You know me from somewhere!”

  “I, I don't think so.”

  “Sure. The Dartmoor Hotel in Seattle. You were the desk clerk, remember?”

  He started to close the door. “I'm busy—”

  She kicked the door, hurling it open and hurling him a good distance, too. “Or maybe it was the Light of Day Youth Shelter. I get the two confused.”

  He was about to argue further, but there was an angry mama bear coming into his house, and while she was not overly hefty, she was not petite, either. He turned and ran through the cabin and out the back door—where Nate was waiting for him and quickly slammed him face-first against the back wall, holding him there in an inescapable armlock. “Now we can make this really simple. You have our kids and we want them.” He gave the little man another slam against the wall. “Your turn.”

  She confirmed it for him.

  "You're right! You know me from

  somewhere!”

  “I don't know what you're talking about!”

  Another slam. “Wrong answer.”

  A voice behind them ordered, “Let him go, Springfield.”

  There was a tall, imposing man standing in the backyard, one hand tucked inside his suit jacket.

  Sarah and Nate froze, but Nate didn't let go.

  “Easy now,” said the man. “We're on the same side.” He pulled some ID from his jacket pocket and showed it to them. “The name's Nelson Farmer. I'm with the Bureau for Missing Children. I've been on this case since your children disappeared.”

  “Nelson Farmer,” Sarah repeated thoughtfully.

  “So who's this guy?” Nate demanded.

  “One of the people we're after. You're right. He's a front man for the Knight-Moore project, and we're in the same boat as you are: There are kids missing and we want to know what he knows. Now just take it easy and let him go.”

  There was a wooden bench on the back porch. Nate put the man there, keeping an eye on him.

  Sarah approached Nelson Farmer. “What do you know about our kids? Where are they?”

  Farmer stepped forward, reaching inside his jacket again. “We're clearing up the details right now—”

  “NOOO!” Sarah grabbed his arm, forcing it skyward.

  His hand was holding a gun.

  Nate was there in an instant, but Sarah already had Farmer in a very painful armhold, and with a skillful judo move she threw him to the ground. In less than a second, Farmer was looking up into the barrel of his own gun, now in Sarah's hand.

  Nate smiled and gave a little nod. He never doubted.

  “I've had someone pull a gun on me before,” Sarah told Farmer, “and that's what it looked like.”

  Nate caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

  The little man was gone; the bush at the corner of the cabin was still wiggling where he'd passed.

  “Be right back.” Nate took off after him. He cleared the corner of the cabin and saw the man disappearing around the front. Close enough to catch, Nate figured, pouring on the speed. He heard a cry of pain and a scuffle as he came around the front of the cabin, then came face-to-face with four big guys in green jackets with big yellow letters on the front: U.S. MARSHAL. The little man was dangling from their strong arms.

  Sarah thought the marines had arrived. More deputy marshals began flooding the backyard, guns ready. “Sarah Springfield?” asked one.

  “Yes.”

  “Sorry we're late.”

  They had Farmer. She handed over Farmer's gun.

  “He was going to kill you just as he killed Alvin Rogers,” said a familiar voice coming around the cabin, “which would have repaired the breach in secrecy—except for the children, of course.” It was Morgan, walking with Nate. “Your little hotel clerk was simply a decoy to lure you here.”

  “To a secluded place with no witnesses,” said Nate.

  “Exactly. You would have disappeared without a trace. Hello, Sarah. As for your red-headed woman, she is actually a Ms. Marian Winger, a longtime confidante and associate of Mr. Farmer there. Once cornered, she was very cooperative, and warned us that Mr. Farmer was following you. Since we knew where you were, we knew where Mr. Farmer would be.” They strode right up to Farmer, now on his stomach as a marshal handcuffed him. Morgan spoke to Nate, but also for Farmer's benefit. “He's been taking advantage of a sacred trust: using his position and the files at the Bureau for Missing Children to screen and recruit runaways for experimentation. Ms. Winger was acting as his field agent, and she gave us all the details.” Morgan knelt beside the handcuffed Farmer. “And now, Mr. Farmer, you will tell us exactly where the children are.”

  “He was going to kill you just as he

  killed Alvin Rogers,” said a familiar voice

  coming around the cabin, “which would

  have repaired the breach in secrecy—

  except for the children, of course.”

  The perfect, heavenly Elisha leaned forward, her eyes intense. “It doesn't mean you can't believe something. No, it's even better than that: You can believe anything, anything you want, because if you believe it, that makes it true.”

  Elijah could only rest his head on the pillow and close his eyes as his sister went on and on.

  “. . . I love being able to create my own reality. I can be what I want, do what I want, believe what I want, and I don't have to worry about what God thinks . . .”

  He was disappointed. After all he'd been through, he was actually hoping this was heaven. He was even hoping this was really his sister. Now his jumbled mind was beginning to put a few pieces together: If there was no reality, then he certainly couldn't count on there being a heaven; if nothing was really true, then even what this girl was saying wasn't true; if this girl really believed what she was saying, she wasn't his sister. All this left him with a discouraging conclusion: He was still in the mid
dle of a waking nightmare and he was probably going crazy.

  Tap, tap, tatap, tap tap . . .

  What was that sound? He cracked one eye open. The pretty girl was still talking, her eyes focused somewhere across the room and not on him. His eye was drawn to her right hand, rest ing on the arm of the chair. Her fingers were drumming out a little rhythm, over and over again.

  Elisha watched the big screen on the wall, trying to look as amazed and distraught as before as she drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. God was answering her prayer: The other Elisha, while droning on and on about there being no truth, was drumming her fingers the very same way. The computer had picked it up as just a mannerism and sent it through to the phony image.

  Mr. Bingham's eyes were glued to the big screen, and his voice squeaked a little with nervous anticipation. “Theoretically, his mind should be adequately erased by this point, ready to receivethe input from what he thinks is his sister. If this works, we will have broken the last barrier to global control.”

  “Theoretically, his mind should be

  adequately erased by this point,

  ready to receive the input from what

  he thinks is his sister. If this works, we

  will have broken the last barrier

  to global control.”

  A man in the audience asked, “And what if it doesn't work?”

  Mr. Bingham kept watching the screen as he answered. “That would be unthinkable. If it is the truth that sets people free, then we can't allow people to have it or even believe in it. They must follow, do, and believe what we say, or we cannot enslave them.”

  “Unthinkable,” the man in the audience agreed.

  Now everyone watched the screen with all the more interest and anxiety.

  And Elisha kept tapping away, sending the same message.

  “Truth is just what you make it, whatever you want it to be, and no matter what you choose, it isn't wrong if you sincerely feel it . . .”