The Blue Ridge Project: A Dark Suspense Novel (The Project Book 1) (6 page)

“Aloha.”

Jimmy had picked up on the second ring, catching Robert unprepared. Robert cleared his throat. “Hi, uh, Jimmy? This is Robert. From the hospital.”

“Robert from the hospital. Bobby, Bob, Robbie....” A slight pause. “Oh, yeah! The faithful son, visiting dear old mammy! How are ye both?” Robert imagined he could hear Jimmy’s smile in his voice.

“To be honest, not so well.”

“Oh? What’s going on, squire?”

Robert hesitated. “My mother passed away at about the same time we were talking.”

Another pause on the other end of the line. “Jesus, man, sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

Robert couldn’t hear the smile any more, if it had ever been there.

“Look, I don’t know why I called you—”

“Sure you do. You wanted to talk to someone. Perfectly normal, or close to it.”

“Well, it’s just that I don’t know anyone in town; I haven’t been around since I was a kid.” He looked at his hand, and was surprised to see it was shaking slightly. The scenario reminded him of calling up girls to ask them out when he was a shy young teen, terrified of hearing laughter followed by a click and the sound of a dead line. “I could do with getting out of the house, so I was wondering—”

“Say no more, lad. You tell me the time and the place, and I’ll get the first round in.” Jimmy’s voice was serious now, all business. The voice of a man who had been drafted into service as a drinking partner more than a few times in his life.

“I’ve still got a room at the Regent. I could go back there. There’s a decent bar in the lobby.”

“The Crowne. I know it well. Fine drinking establishment, if you don’t mind the neighborhood. Shame about the circumstances.”

“Let’s say about half an hour?”

“Grand so. I’ll see you in the lobby, Robbie. And again, sorry for your loss.”

Robert’s mouth twitched upward in a little smile. “Thanks, Jimmy, I’ll see you shortly.”

“Good luck.”

Robert hung up and was happy to see his hand had stopped shaking. He had the feeling that he had made the right choice in calling Jimmy. A few drinks with what his mother would have called a “character” would clear the darkening clouds from around his head. As he headed out the door, he noted that even the rain had stopped falling.

*****

The lobby of the Regent was a throwback to older styles of hotels, a style reminiscent of what people thought fancy big city hotels used to look like before the first time everyone’s money disappeared into speculative disaster. Plush red carpets, a gold-tinged chandelier over an oval-shaped reception area with a black-marble counter for the receptionist. Two fern plants stood behind the counter, safeguarded against breakages and falls caused by people exiting the bar worse for wear. To the immediate left of the lobby was the entrance to the Crowne, as indicated by the intricate gold lettering above the solid wood door.

Robert and Jimmy arrived at the same time, and walked up the steps of the hotel entrance together after a greeting and a firm handshake. The receptionist looked up at the two of them as they approached the counter and smiled when Robert produced his key card.

“Mr. Duncan, it appears you’re leaving us tomorrow, is that correct?”

“It is, indeed. I think I’m just going to relax and have some drinks in the bar here for my last night.”

The receptionist nodded, and handed back the card. He hadn’t even looked at Jimmy during the exchange.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your stay, and we look forward to seeing you again, I’m sure,” he said, and was already looking back down at the book open in front of him by the time Robert picked up the card.

“Lovely sort, aren’t they?” Jimmy asked as they pushed open the heavy door into the bar.

The Crowne continued with the same dark wood and red carpet theme as the lobby. Polished tables and huge leather seats were scattered in an organized way around a central island bar made of the same black marble as the reception desk. Stools with leather backs circled the bar, all of them empty. The only other people in the bar were two old couples, who sat with plenty of table space between them. The place smelled of class, with the right mix of clean carpets and hints of the real flowers arranged on the tables.

Robert and Jimmy took a seat at the bar, and Robert slid his card across the counter to the waistcoat-wearing bartender.

“Whiskey, please.”

“A bottle,” Jimmy added quickly.

The bartender nodded and placed a bottle of whiskey with two glasses and a small bucket of ice on the bar. He then left and went to the other side of the bar.

“Now that’s a consummate professional if I ever saw one,” Jimmy said as he poured them both a long measure. “Ice?”

Robert shook his head. “Just whiskey tonight, no water.”

Jimmy grinned his cheeky grin. “Good man, yourself. Here,” he said as he raised his glass, “what was your mother’s name?”

“Leanne.”

“To Leanne, so.” They clinked glasses and took a large sip each. The whiskey tasted expensive, and Jimmy said so. “But,” he continued, “if there was ever an occasion for it, I can’t think of one more appropriate.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Robert said, draining his glass and pouring another for both of them. He was already starting to feel a little heat in his face from the drinks he had taken at the family house.

“So tell me, Robert, son of Leanne”—Jimmy waved his glass at Robert—“what has you ringing up strangers in the middle of the night to make sure you don’t sink to the bottom while you’re drowning your sorrows? And don’t tell me it’s your recent bereavement, as much as you want me to believe that.”

Robert looked at him over his glass. “What makes you think there’s more to it than there is?”

“Well, first, that politician’s question-as-an-answer you just gave me. Second,” he paused to take a sip, “you don’t strike me as a man who would seek out strange company after a death in the family. Seems more like something you would grieve on your own, no?”

Robert shrugged, then smiled a little. “You’re sharper than you look, Jimmy. Or act. Or speak.” His smile broke into a full grin.

Jimmy smiled right back. “So all the girlies say, right as they’re walking out the door on me. Go on, spill your guts. What’s the real reason we’re here?”

Robert looked at the bottle on the counter for a couple of seconds and then poured them both another measure.

“There were some things my mother left me. Papers, letters, and such. There were some... revelations. And to be perfectly honest, I have no one to talk to about it.”

Jimmy raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Robert recognized the move for what it was, the practiced silence of the sounding board. Robert knew a great way to learn about people was to just let them talk. He didn’t care, and was glad to be able to get it off his chest. The weight of the knowledge was heavy, even though it was only a short time since he had learned it.

“My parents weren’t my parents. They found me, or rescued me, and adopted me as their own.”

Jimmy leaned back with his eyebrows raised, a low whistle escaping his lips. “‘Found or rescued,’ he says. That's a fairly hearty revelation to be dropping on someone, all right.”

“Surely is,” Robert agreed. The whiskey heat was now at full blast. He could imagine the red that was seeping into his cheeks now, and he felt the buzz lurking somewhere in the back of his head, ready to take the wheel. As it was, his tongue was already looser. He thought of how strange it was that he was opening up to this stranger, this oddball that he met right at the moment his mother was busy dying. Then the booze washed away the concern and he kept talking. “Rescued, I think was the implication. My father, it seems he worked for some shady group back then. He left when I was pretty young, so I don’t know what he did exactly.”

Jimmy’s eyes were bright and interested. “Was he a gangster, do you think?”

Robert laughed, a good, deep belly laugh. It had been so long he had almost forgotten what it felt like. The older couple closest to them turned in the direction of the bar and stared. Jimmy stared back with wide eyes and a finger on his lips until they looked away.

“Not at all,” Robert said when the laugh had subsided to a chuckle, and he wiped one eye. “He was some sort of doctor, a scientist, maybe. We didn’t talk much about him after he left.”

Jimmy nodded sagely. Then his face lit up again. “So you’re some sort of test tube baby, then? A mutant, maybe, or some sort of super-powered experimental human weapon!”

Chuckling again, Robert shook his head. “I doubt it, I’ve never done anything super, not really.” He frowned at the memories that came as he said that.

“Is there a way to”—Jimmy hiccuped, then poured them both another measure—“s’cuse me. Is there any way to find out where you came from?”

“There might be. I have a key to a storage box that’s got my father’s personal effects inside.”

Robert called for a glass of water. He sipped at it, putting a hand up to Jimmy, who shook his head in disapproval. “I know, I said I wouldn't.”

“You shouldn’t be mixing your drinks,” he said in a somber voice. “So tell me, are you going to go have a look at this box and what’s inside? Clear up the mystery, like?”

Robert shrugged. “I’m not sure. I guess I’ll get around to it eventually. I have my own shit to sort out first, though.”

“That’s right, you said you lost your job and all. Shite luck, Rob. What did you do?”

Now Robert hiccuped. “I’m a journalist,” he said, slurring the last word.

“Really? Well, off the record, what happened there, then?”

“I’ll only be bending your ear. Besides, I’m not really in the mood to talk about it.”

Jimmy shook his head, a disappointed look on his face. “Now Bob, you were doing so well there. I even believe I saw you laugh once or twice. Go on, tell me your story.”

Robert looked at the almost empty bottle of whiskey on the bar in front of them and nodded slowly.

“Fuck it. But you get the next round.”

Jimmy saluted, and when Robert had finished pouring, he began to speak.

When Frank came to, the first thing he noticed was that the light was different. The last he remembered, there had been a circular bulb set in the ceiling above him, medical white and blindingly bright. Now there were only three bars of soft yellow light, with a fan in the center spinning in lazy circles, dipping to one side at the end of each revolution. Or maybe it was the beginning? It was impossible to tell.

Be careful
. The words came like a voice through headphones, yet from inside his head. It didn’t sound like the voice he used for his own thoughts, and he began to be afraid.

Don’t worry,
the voice in his head that wasn’t his continued,
I can get you through this. You just have to be calm and listen. When you sit up, things are going to be weird. Just go with it.

Frank sat up, and saw that he was in some sort of recreational room, and there were about fifteen other people in there with him. They were all dressed alike, in pale blue pants, white t-shirts, and pale-blue bathrobes. He looked down and saw he was wearing the same.

Some were shuffling about, making their way in between small tables that were scattered around. Some of the tables had card games and board games set up, while others were empty, apart from folded arms. Other people in blue were just standing on their own beside the cream wall.

One man was dancing a waltz on his own, every so often enlisting one of the shufflers to stand in as his partner. His bathrobe made small arcs around his knees as he twirled and spun. Another fellow stood off on his own, over by a door with two panes of frosted glass. He had on a white shirt and pant
s―
orderlies’ whites
, his mind told hi
m―
and stood with his arms folded, leaning back against the wall.

There was some quiet chatter, a babbling sound that wasn’t quite loud enough to make out the individual conversations, a background noise that was actually quite soothing. There was an occasional burst of laughter, loud and hearty, and one or two good-natured shouts from some of the board-game losers. There was a hospital smell in the air, a bouquet of disinfectant and antiseptic creams mixed with hints of generic shampoo and the slightest touch of body odor.

Frank felt calmer than he should have, and realized that he was probably drugged up. He recognized the dopey but happy feeling from parties when he was younger, back when—

Don’t worry about that now,
the voice said,
just get up slowly and get to the bathroom.

He stood up, and a wave of dizziness came over him. He looked down to steady himself, and saw that he was wearing the same clothes as the rest of the people in the room, complete with comfortable white slippers. He’d definitely had some medication or combination thereof, although he couldn’t say whether he was in the middle of the effect or if this was some sort of hangover. After a couple of seconds the dizziness passed and he thought he was capable of walking in a straight line.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and started toward the door nearest to the man in white, the orderly, according to “the voice.”

“Hey, there, buddy, where you off to?” the orderly asked. The tone was practiced; very calm, even, but authoritative. The man’s stance looked relaxed except for the set of the shoulders.

The can,
the voice whispered to him.

“The can,” Frank said, slurring the words slightly. His voice sounded different, deep and raspy, like it hadn’t been used in a while.

The orderly’s eyes widened, and his mouth hung open. “Wuh, well, right,” he stammered. “You remember the way?”

Frank nodded, and shuffled past him on the smooth tiled floor. He wanted to look back as he got into the empty corridor, sure that the orderly would be looking through the porthole of the swinging door at him, but the voice advised against it.

Been a while,
it said.

“Been a while since what?” Frank asked aloud.

The door on the left,
the voice replied. Frank pushed through another swinging door into a men’s bathroom. A row of sinks lined one blue-and-white-tiled wall, while the other wall was a separator with a row of showers behind. Mirrors were set above the sinks, and as Frank approached, he saw that something was very wrong. Fear crept back into him, crawling up from his belly and up to the back of his skull, lifting the hairs on the back of his neck.

Although now he wasn’t sure if the neck was his.

Relax, just take it easy,
the voice whispered,
it’ll be all right
.

The face that stared back at Frank from the mirror was not his own face. His reflection was of a much older man, who looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. His thin blond hair lay flat on his head, and he had the beginnings of a scruffy beard. The nose and ears were different, but what really rattled Frank were the eyes. They were a bright, piercing blue, staring out at him from where Frank’s brown ones should have been.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Frank moaned at the mirror. The voice was definitely not his. He could hear the difference echoing back to him off the bathroom walls.

I told you, it’s going to be fine. Just breathe, and close your eyes.

Frank did as he was told. After the first few shuddering breaths, the panic that had been bubbling up faded down to a manageable level.

Now, keep your eyes closed. I’m going to show you some of what’s going on.

Frank nodded, his eyes still closed.

Then, it started to happen. Memories started to come to him, memories of things that he had never experienced, of places he had never been, of people that he had never met. It started slowly with some simple images and smells, like cut green grass from a garden he didn’t recognize, to changing a child’s diaper and then vomiting into a wastebasket nearby. More started to come, and quicker, flashing by like a carousel of thoughts and emotions that had more on it every time it completed a turn. A lot of them made no sense, and he sensed there were connections missing. Connotations and secret meanings that belonged to someone else, links and associations he couldn’t possibly understand.

Then he saw something he did recognize. A chair, or more specifically,
the
chair. Same material, similar wires coming out of a familiar circular band of metal near the headrest. The setting was different, though. It was in a small room, a box really. No glass window, no doctors in white coats, no guards with forgettable faces.

Frank opened the eyes that weren’t his and looked at the eyes in the mirror.

“I know that chair,” he said to the reflection.

I should hope so. It’s the result of years of my work.

“So you’re the guy who came up with that. That’s incredible. Really, it’s amazing, I guess I should be thanking you.” His own memories were coming back to him now. Whatever process had taken place had nudged loose recollections that had been trapped under the weight of his subconscious. His previous “excursions” were revealing themselves in his mind’s eye in bloody detail, and he was enjoying it.

He felt the voice, or its owner, recoil in his mind.
Who the hell...? What have you done?

There was a curious feeling of inspection, like fingers riffling through his mind as if it were a file drawer.

Frank then felt a sensation of pain like he had never felt before. It was like his eyes were crossing but farther back in his head, and simultaneously that both sides of his brain were trying to pull away from each other. He screamed out, the noise deafening in the bathroom.

His right hand came up and slapped him in the face, hard. He looked in the mirror and saw a stream of blood trickling from one nostril. He tried to stop himself from doing what he knew to be coming next, but it was no use. Motor functions were no longer under his control. He gripped the sides of the sink and launched himself at the mirror headfirst.

He was still banging his face against the shattered reflection of himself when the orderlies burst in and grabbed him. Frank was still unsuccessfully trying to scream when they finally managed to get a needle into his arm. Darkness swam up from the puncture and his mind gratefully escaped into black nothingness.