“That's a mirror,” Smith grunts.
“Because if there are, I invite you to strip search me right here. Do a body cavity search. I don't care. You won't find anything. I'm not doing anything. If something is happening it isn't my fault.”
“Maybe the device is implanted somewhere inside your body,” Scruggs says. “Or maybe it isn't a device at all.”
“What do you think it is, then?”
“I've encountered some pretty unbelievable things since I joined the Bureau,” Scruggs says. “Although I will admit this is the strangest.”
“Maybe you have. But that doesn't mean I committed any crime. This isn't
The X-Files
.”
What a ridiculous thing to say. This is exactly like
The X-Files
. A moment of silence drifts by, directionless, like a White Star ocean liner.
“You're right,” Scruggs says. “You haven't committed any crime, other than the DUI.”
“So let me go, then.”
“Fine,” Scruggs says. “You're free to go.”
“Are you serious?”
“You'll be discharged after you've been at the station a total of three hours. Do you have a way to get home?”
“Yeah.”
“Here's my card,” Scruggs says, handing me a business card with the name “George Scruggs” printed next to the FBI seal. “Our investigation is ongoing, and we will be in touch.”
The confusion on my face must be obvious, because as I take the card Scruggs adds:
“I would appreciate a call if you decide to leave town. Surely you understand our interest in you remains high.”
“I know you're going to follow me.”
“Please,” he says. “Call me if you decide to leave town.”
THIRTY-FOUR
O
n the way back to my cell I notice most of the drunk tank prisoners are gone. I cross my fingers and hope Runciter is still there, but he isn't. Scruggs tells me to expect an officer to return within the hour to process and discharge me from custody, and once they're gone I am alone.
It's very quiet in the cell, so quiet the ringing in my ears is pronounced again, almost deafening. After standing there for a few moments I lie down on the fiber optic cot and close my eyes. I wonder if Gloria will answer, if she would be willing to pick me up. The thought of seeing her face is almost enough to bring me to tears, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I call her. If she agrees to pick me up, there are going to be consequences. For instance she will suggest that I seek helpâpsychological helpâand I'll only drive her further away if I refuse. But I don't want to seek treatment. A therapist is never going to believe me. No one is. Even if I showed them
VALIS
and went through all the unlikely details, everyone is going to think I'm crazy.
Let's for a moment stop thinking about my life as a plot and consider it more as the existence of a real human being. What should I do next? I need a way to get to my car. I need rest. My ears aren't just ringingâ¦they are roaring from a hangover that is slowly but steadily consuming me. My eyes sting. I can barely hold them open. My hands are shaking. My entire body feels wrung dry, as if there is not a single molecule of water to be found in any tissue, anywhere. The jail cell spins vaguely, as if orbiting around me. And right now it seems like none of these things, not one, will ever get better. How could anything get better? My whole life has been turned upside down, and at this point the existence of the universe itself is dubious at best.
To be honest, I'm not sure I ever want to leave this fiber-optic cot. It's more comfortable than you might think. In a perfect world the clear filaments would eventually work their way into my skin, and at some point they would begin to stimulate my nervous system with information that is surely passed from a computer. The filaments only appear to be a cushion, but are really cables that pass data and energy, enabling me to lie here in a vegetative state, being fed stimuli and dreams and fantasies and memoriesâ¦
After the night of the concert and the Whataburger incident, Gloria and I still saw each other in computer lab, but we didn't speak very much. She would often leave early or arrive late, and sometimes I did the same. But that didn't stop us from chatting on ICQ when we were supposed to be studying. It was mainly surface conversation, like what the weather was like or how classes were going. I knew I shouldn't talk to her anymore. For one thing it hurt to be social when I really wanted to be close to her, but I also guessed, if I left her alone completely, she might miss me. And maybe if she missed me she would change her mind. I've never been good at playing games like that, though, so I didn't.
A couple of weeks later, toward the end of the second summer session, Gloria didn't show up on Tuesday for computer lab. It wasn't unusual to miss a session, even in the summer, but when she also missed on Thursday I became concerned. Summer sessions move quickly because there are just as many assignments but not nearly as many days in which to complete them. I hoped she hadn't dropped the course. I hoped she was okay.
She called me the following Sunday around noon. I could immediately tell from her voice that something was wrong.
“Thomas,” she said. “My mom is sick. She has breast cancer.”
“Oh, no, Gloria. I'm so sorry. How is she doing?”
We talked for a while about her mother's prognosis, which wasn't good. She'd begun chemotherapy and was already so weak she couldn't get out of bed. Gloria had been with her all week, and didn't want to leave, but her mother insisted. She would have to drop her classes if she missed another week.
“The problem is, my dad came down last week to pick me up. He told me in the car. Now I need to come back, and I don't want him to leave my mom alone again. And Jack is in Big Shell on a fishing trip. He has that cell phone in his truck, but there's no service out there.”
“I'll come pick you up.”
“Thomas, it's four hours each way. I don't want you to miss your entire Sunday. Iâ”
“Tell me where to go and I'll be there in four hours.”
“Thomas, are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure. Now where do I go?”
I'm not going to lie. I felt like a hero going to pick her up, and this time I honestly thought things would be different. It wasn't Jack's fault he was unreachable, but nevertheless he was. I longed for the chance to spend four hours cooped up in a car with her. For all I cared we could drive all the way to California.
When I arrived, she was home alone. Her parents were both at the hospital. She had made a couple of hamburgers, and we sat in the breakfast room to eat. The house was quiet and lonely without its regular tenants. I wanted to lighten the mood, make Gloria laugh, but the situation seemed to demand more respect than that.
“I really appreciate this, Thomas. A lot.”
“I'm happy to help.”
“You are a really good friend. You are very sweet to me.”
Those words hurt, but I ignored the pain. There was a study adjacent to the breakfast room, and in the evening light I could see a banjo propped against a computer desk.
“Your dad plays the banjo?”
“He tries. He's been on this bluegrass kick lately. But mainly he plays guitar.”
“Now I know why you like guitar players.”
Gloria laughed a little a that. “Maybe so. My dad was in a band once, but it was before I was born. He doesn't play very much these days. On holidays, when we're all together, or if he gets a good buzz going.”
“What does he play?”
“He loves the Doors, the Beatles. His all-time-favorite song is “Sweet Home Alabama.” He loves to play that. And, like I said, lately he's been trying to learn bluegrass.”
“That's cool.”
“Yeah,” she said. “My dad is cool. I just wish I had been able to see him play live, you know? But he says he's too old for that anymore.”
On the way back Gloria talked at length about her mom. What she liked to cook. How she was a hawk for grammar and spelling. Gloria had struggled with phonetics at a young age, but her mom kept after her, and in fifth grade she won the school spelling bee.
“I made it to the ninth round of the city championships. I misspelled the word
dirigisme
. My mom had specifically identified it as one of her âchallenges' and couldn't believe I had missed it. But I knew she was proud of me, considering how far I had come with my spelling.”
For a while, as we neared home, Gloria fell asleep. Her head tilted and fell to one side. She had pushed her sunglasses over her hair, and they were about to fall off, so I removed them and put them on the center console. She stirred but didn't wake up. Her hair was so smooth and soft, like everything about her, and I turned off the stereo and listened to her breathe. By the time we rolled into town it was dark. Gloria was groggy when she woke up. For a moment she forgot where she was. I stopped in front of her apartment and she thanked me again for coming to get her.
“I really owe you,” she said. She hugged me tightly and then kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”
“You're welcome.”
She opened the door and got out. She didn't turn around or wave as she walked away. I knew she was worried about her mother.
At that point I still didn't know what would happen to us, if I would ever win her over, but that night I decided to accelerate my lessons with the guitar.
A plan took shape in my mind, and I knew it would work. It had to work.
THIRTY-FIVE
“P
hilip.”
The voice drifts toward me from some faraway place, through a fog bank of haze, and I wonder if someone has me confused with a famous science fiction author, or perhaps I
am
a famous science fiction author, and then I realize the voice is not asking for
Philip
but ratherâ
“Phillips.”
My last name.
I open my eyes and light is everywhere, smeared across my vision like a dream, white, fluorescent haze, glass everywhere, reflections of another life, another man in bed, machines everywhere. I don't know where I am.
“Phillips, wake up! It's time to go home.”
I try to respond but my lips are glued together and my throat is a solid tube of tissue.
“Phillips, I'm not going to tell you again.”
“Ahhm awehh.”
“Then get your ass up,” the voice says. “I don't have all day.”
A moment later I'm somehow on my feet, the world spiraling around me as if I'm standing in the center of a large tornado. I look to my right and see the portly officer who escorted me to the cell last night, which could have been a few hours ago or a few years ago, it's all the same to me.
He's laughing.
“What's so funny?”
“Pat,” he says.
“I don't know what that means.”
“My wife's name is Pat. You thought you were so smart last night, asking my wife's name. You thought you could confuse me. But her name is Pat. Pat Conley. So fuck you, Mr. Smart Guy.”
“I wasn't trying to outsmart you,” I say. “I just asked your wife's name.”
“And I know what it is. So there.”
I look at him, at the triumphant look in his eyes, and somehow I know he's lying to me. But rather than challenge him I just nod and stare at the floor, because I'm ready to get out of here.
He leads me out of the cell and back to the post where I saw him last night. I am reunited with my personal effects, like my wallet and my belt and money and keys. Then he escorts me to another office where I am asked to fill out some paperwork, a few photocopied pages with my name and address and phone number. He hands me a slip of paper with the address to the impound lot, which as luck would have it is only a few blocks from my house.
When I am finished with that, the officer walks me toward the front lobby, where he says I will be able to call someone to pick me up. I still haven't decided if I should ask Gloria. Then we reach the front lobby and I see Runciter there, apparently waiting for me.
“Hey,” he says. “They let you go?”
“I think they had the wrong guy.”
Runciter's eyes frown a little, and he looks toward the ground, as if digesting this information.
“I was waiting for you to get out before I called a cab,” he says. “My car is downtown. If you want you can ride with me and call your phone on the way. We can get your car or your phone or whatever. Or I can take you home. Your choice.”
It's almost six o'clock in the morning. I want to see Gloria. I want her to know I'm okay. I want to win her back. But if there's any chance that she might believe meâabout Philip K. Dick and
VALIS
and everythingâit can't begin with her picking me up from the police station. That would only blind her to the truth.
“A cab would be great.”
Runciter places the call, and a few minutes later the two of us squeeze into the back seat. In this cramped space Runciter is bigger than he seemed before. Once we are moving he pulls out his cell phone and hands it to me.
“So call your phone,” he says. “I'm curious to find out where it is.”
I dial my number and the phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Four.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Voicemail.”
“I thought that might happen. You can try again later. At the very least we can get you home. You look as exhausted as I feel.”
I disconnect the phone and then remember it's possible to check voicemail messages from any phone. I call myself again and this time, when I hear the greeting, I push the star button and enter my password. You know the drill.
“You have five unheard messages,” the voicemail greeter informs me.
“First unheard message: âThomas,'
Gloria says.
âIt's me. I'm coming home to get some things. If it's okay, I'd like to talk to you.'
She pauses and then says, âI'll be by around 6:30. Hope to see you then.'”