A Question of Will Read online

  It was showtime. Paul took a deep breath, steeling himself.

  Then flipped the switch.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER VII: SOUND

  Do not underestimate the efficacy of sonic disruption on the subject, especially in conjunction with other deprivation techniques. While somewhat more subjective than other sensory stimuli - e.g., loud noises may not disturb a city dweller as much a rural subject, or a young rock music enthusiast may not be as susceptible as an elderly subject -- proper use of varied wide spectrum sound and noise can be an important adjunct to overall conditioning.

  The key considerations are frequency, decibel level [see figs. 1a and 1b] and associative influences. Extremely high and low pitched sounds can be utilized to varying effect. Extremely loud noises can jar sleep patterns; in the case of solitary confinement, extremely soft noises - ex.) the sound of rats -- can enhance overall feelings of unease.

  Associative sounds - those which are clearly recognizable to the subject, i.e., the cries of loved ones or sounds of general trauma and chaos - can all be highly effective. Be creative.

  ~ * ~

  Inside the box, the world went shrieking white, as lights recessed into the ceiling suddenly glared to life, hidden speakers simultaneously blasting a recording of a fire alarm, like the world’s loudest alarm clock. Wells screamed and fell off the bunk, trying to shield his ears and eyes. The ringing stopped. Wells scrabbled for cover, disoriented, as Paul opened the door and stepped inside.

  "Wakey, wakey," he said humorlessly, placing the tray of food on the chair. The door hissed shut behind him, closing with a heavy click.

  Wells struggled to his knees, blinded by the sudden onslaught of light. His leg chain rattled against the floor. He looked up at Paul, through dark hair now matted with oil and sweat. It took him a moment to place the face, then Wells’ eyes suddenly widened with fear and loathing.

  "You," he gasped. "Why are you doing this to me?"

  "Why, indeed," Paul admonished, cutting him off. He glanced at his watch. "Feeding time. You’ve got five minutes."

  Wells squinted, saw a dry baloney sandwich, an apple, a little carton of milk. Lockup fare.

  "Fuck you!" the boy spat, and swept the food from the tray. The meager rations flopped onto the floor; the milk carton hit the wall and split open, bleeding white.

  Paul watched impassively. "I read your psyche reports, you know," he said. "I.Q.’s what...one thirty four? You’re a bright boy." His tone was perfectly calm, almost conversational; the look in his eyes decidedly less so. He leaned in. "So who’s fucked here, me or you?"

  Wells glared back, eyes adjusting. "I want my lawyer..." he said. "I got rights..."

  "Rights?" Paul sat on the arm of the chair, feigned looking around. "Sorry," he said. "No rights here. No lawyers, either. Guess it’s just the two of us." He gazed down on the boy.

  "The cops," Wells said defiantly, clearly nervous now. "They’ll be looking for me..."

  "Oh, they’re looking," Paul replied. "You’re a fugitive from justice, Will - mind if I call you Will?"

  "I don’t care what you call me..." Wells hissed.

  Paul shrugged. Whatever. "As I was saying," he continued, "you’re a fugitive. You jumped bail and ran."

  "I didn’t run," Wells countered. He struggled to get up, fell backwards weakly. "You fucking brought me here. You did this to me..."

  Paul brought a mocking finger to his lips. "Shhh," he whispered, then added, "Our little secret. Right now, they’re looking for you everywhere." Paul smiled grimly. "Everywhere but here."

  He paused, let the reality of it sink in. "See, as far as the world is concerned, this place doesn’t exist," he gestured to the box. "And since you’re here, that means you don’t exist. You’re out there somewhere," Paul gestured to the world outside the box. "You’re a rumor. And what happens next, is up to you."

  The boy glared at him, slit-eyed and wary. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "I’m talking about, you killed my daughter, shithead," Paul hissed. "And you have to answer for it. To me."

  The boy’s eyes widened; his dark hair was matted with sweat and distress. "You’re crazy..." he said.

  "Maybe so," Paul shrugged. "But then, where does that leave you?" He glanced at his watch. "Time’s up," Paul said. "We’ll talk more later."

  Paul picked up the tray and moved toward the door. As he did, Wells suddenly lunged, clawing at Paul’s leg. Paul wheeled and smacked Wells in the head with the tray. The boy collapsed, head banging against the floor. As he crumpled, Paul pulled a key attached to a thin metal chain from his pocket, inserted it into a slot in the door. The door unlocked; Paul stepped outside.

  "Hey!" Wells cried out. Paul turned. "I’m hungry!" the boy said plaintively.

  Paul looked at the food scattered and squashed on the floor. "So, eat," he said, then added. "Pity about the milk, but there’s always water, if you get thirsty enough."

  Wells looked at him questioningly, then followed his gaze to the toilet. He looked back at Paul, shocked.

  "Bon appetit," Paul told him.

  Then closed and locked the door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  "Daddy...?"

  The house was burning, thick clouds of smoke choking off all light, all life, all escape. The girl’s voice rang out, beseeching. Paul fought his way through the blackness of the hallway, searching.

  "DADDY!"

  She was crying now, terrified. Paul tried to call out to her, his own voice muffled in the heavy SCBA gear. He couldn’t see her, but she was close. Very close.

  Fire crackled unseen before him, lost in roiling smoke. He could feel its lethal power, blistering heat baking his skin beneath the heavy canvas gear. Paul fought his way forward inch by tortured inch, checking doors. Desperately he pulled his face mask up, smoke searing his eyes. "HANG ON!" he cried. "I’M COMING!!!"

  "DADDEEEEEEE!!"

  The girl was somewhere just ahead: trapped. Doomed. Paul moved faster, pressing forward. The fire roared hungrily above him. Paint bubbled on the ceiling, timbers crackling overhead. Paul reached the last door, pushed. The door would not yield; it was jammed, warped. Distorted.

  Paul reared back, ploughed into it with all his might. The door cracked and gave way...

  ...and Paul suddenly stumbled into his daughter’s bedroom, saw Kyra, standing before the mirror, flames all around her. She looked at him and screamed, hands outstretched, as the mirror cracked and shattered and the flames raced up, engulfing her ...

  And Paul woke up, sweating, terrified. Alone.

  His heart pounded as subconscious flames abated. He was lying in his bed in his bedroom in his home, pre-dawn light rendering shadows coolest blue. A stab of yellow light emanated from the bathroom door, which was ajar. Beyond it he heard a tiny sound of glass breaking, and Julie cursing quietly.

  Paul got up on shaking legs, made his way to the door.

  "Jule?" he called out. "You okay?"

  He pushed open the door, found Julie seated on the fuzzy covered oak toilet seat, barefoot, in a thin cotton nightgown. The box containing her medical supplies was open on the sink; two glass ampules of insulin lay broken at her feet, liquid oozing on tile.

  "I’m all right," she said quietly, grabbing another ampule, trying to load the hypo. Paul knelt and scooped up thin shards of glass, disposing of them in the trash. As he stood he saw her hands trembling. "Shit," she cursed and blinked once, twice, trying to focus. She was palpitating, looking like she was going to faint.

  "Here," Paul said. He took the insulin pen from her hand, then lifted one side of her nightgown until her hip was exposed. As she leaned back he grabbed a cotton ball from the jar on the sink, doused it with isopropyl alcohol and swabbed her skin, then stuck the little 29 gauge needle in.

  Julie breathed hard for a moment, then gradually brought it under control. Paul felt her forehead. "You need to eat something," he said. "What’s your blood sugar?"

  Julie shrugged listles
sly. Wrong answer. Years of experience had taught them both that a pre-meal "take action" level should be no more than one-forty, with a hemoglobin A-IC count not above eight; hers had lately been cruising the one-seventy to one eighty range, with an A-IC pushing double digits. Not good.

  Paul reached into the medicine cabinet, withdrew her blood glucose meter: a little blue and white digital device that looked like a fancy stopwatch with an EZ read LCD screen, and little a little zippy logo that read Accu-check. He checked her out, waited for the meter to register.

  "One ninety-seven," he murmured, reading the meter. "Shit." Paul felt her forehead - she wasn’t feverish, which was good. The insulin would stave off immediate disaster. "Why don’t you get cleaned up," he said gently. "I’ll make us some breakfast."

  As Paul tidied up the mess, Julie looked at him with tired eyes. "You were dreaming," she said.

  "What?" Paul replied, busying himself.

  "Just now," she said. "I heard you. You were mumbling something over and over... ‘hang on, just hang on’..."

  Paul shrugged it off. "Just a bad dream," he said.

  Julie smiled wanly, the irony in her voice as deep as the shadows under her eyes.

  "Are there any other kinds?" she asked.

  ~ * ~

  Paul went downstairs, started preparing food. He wasn’t hungry, but made enough for two anyway. Paul made coffee, toast, filled a pot with water and set eggs to boil.

  She’s got to take better care of herself, he thought as he worked. Diabetes is nothing to screw around with. Left unchecked, the litany of horrors was impressive: heart disease, blindness, kidney failure, and more. Beyond the daily regimen, exercise was good - but Julie’s aerobics had gone out the proverbial window. Weight loss was no longer an issue; it was all she could do to keep the weight she had, and had easily dropped five pounds from the stress. Stress was bad - and that they had in abundance.

  Huevos boiling, Paul went back upstairs and started to make the bed. Julie appeared in the doorway, showered now and wrapped in a towel, looking gaunt and frail. She leaned against the frame, watching him. Paul pretended not to notice, kept working, diligently erasing all traces of sleep. Finally, she spoke, her voice curiously flat, like the verbal equivalent of a thousand yard stare.

  "How do you do it?" she asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Remain so invulnerable," she replied. Paul paused in mid-tuck, then continued.

  "I’m not," he said, adding quietly, "...invulnerable."

  "Aren’t you?" she countered. "Making the bed, making breakfast, working at the station, working here, working at that damned house. Kyra’s gone, and that little bastard is out there somewhere, and I have to keep reminding myself that one breath follows another, and you just keep working like nothing’s wrong. So how do you do it, Paul? What’s your secret?"

  Paul bristled at the word secret, tried not to show it. He didn’t know what to say. Saying anything felt dangerous, like unleashing something inside himself, and as much as he wanted to go over and hold her, he wanted to push her away. He kept his distance, masking wariness as weariness.

  "Maybe I don’t have the luxury of falling apart," he told her. "Maybe I’m afraid if I stop, it will." It was only after he said it that he realized how wrong it sounded, how easily it could be misconstrued. It was.

  Julie shook her head. "Typical," she murmured, then moved toward the rocker, picking up her robe and slipping it on.

  "Typical?" Paul said incredulously. "What’s that supposed to mean"?

  "It means sometimes I think I know you," she answered, "then sometimes I look at you and I don’t know you at all. But by then, you’re usually off trying to save the world."

  "I’m not trying to save the world," he muttered. "I’m just trying to make some sense of it."

  "But what if it doesn’t make sense, Paul?" Julie replied. "What if it just... doesn’t?"

  Their eyes met again -- Paul didn’t have an answer for that. At least, not one he felt comfortable, or capable, of sharing. Julie looked at him -- she seemed incredibly tired, incredibly fragile. He desperately wished he could open himself to her, instinctively sensed he couldn’t. In their almost twenty years together, the ability to talk to each other was, in his estimation, one of their greatest gifts. Paul and Julie could always talk about anything, from metaphysics to Mystery Science Theater 3000 and with equal aplomb. It was the heart and soul of their intimate rhythm, and it kept them solid, kept them tight.

  This, too, had been taken.

  Paul said nothing, but went to her and hugged her, wrapping her slender form in his arms. She hesitated a moment, then buried her head against his chest, hands coming up to clutch at his back. There were tears in her eyes, tears in his, and though neither cried, they stood, hearts beating within inches of each other, yet light years apart.

  Paul held her as close as he possibly could.

  And never felt farther away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The doors to Mercy Emergency burst open.

  "Got a fourteen-year old G.S.W. to the head," Paul called out as they maneuvered the cart down crowded hallway. Strapped to the sheets was an adolescent boy in brightly-colored sweats and hundred and fifty dollar Nikes, blood seeping from under the bulky white pressure bandages obscuring his features. It was their fourth time in tonight, and it was only nine-thirty.

  The ER team scrambled as Paul and Dondi rattled off stats. "Pulse one sixty, b.p. one-thirty over palp, rear entry wound..." Paul said. Dondi concurred, adding "... small bore, maybe twenty-five caliber, left frontal lobe. No exit wound. The bullet’s still inside..."

  "Bangers?" Linda Lopez, the attending physician, asked warily. She was a pretty, overworked woman in her late twenties; her brow creased as she loped alongside the cart, dark hair brushed hastily back, white lab coat already soiled from the evening’s travails. It was more a tactical consideration than anxiety: it was common for gang shooters to finish what they started, even to blowing away rivals while they were still in surgery.

  "Nah," Paul said. "Somebody wanted his shoes."

  "Nice," Lopez mumbled, peeling back the bandage. Blood jetted from the wound, spritzing the corridor tiles. They rounded the corner into Trauma; the orderlies wheeled a fresh cart alongside and scrambled into position. Paul and Dondi stepped back -- they were the grunts to Emergency, who in turn were peons to the OR surgeons and higher-priced specialists. Lopez leaned over the boy, peeled one eyelid back and shined her penlight into the glassy orb. The pupil irised down, stared blankly.

  "Pupils nonfixed but nonresponsive," she said to her team, then, "Call up to OR, tell ‘em to prep for neuro, see if Henderson is in. I need X-rays, CAT-scan, blood-gas and tox screens, intubate him, i.v. saline and a mill of Lidocaine." She paused, looked at Paul and Dondi. "Has anybody notified his family?" Heads shook all around. Lopez shrugged.

  "Okay, on my count," she ordered, "One, two, three... lift!" In unison the Trauma team hoisted the boy up, laid him on the table. One of the orderlies pulled off the victim’s blood-spattered sneakers and tossed them to the floor, then began cutting away the gore-streaked sweats.

  Dondi rolled the cart out into the hall. "No offense," she called out to him. "But you guys don’t have to save the whole world, single-handed."

  "Yeah," Dondi said, rolling his eyes. "Tell him that."

  But Paul was already gone, wheeling the cart back down through the maze of pain, heading for the exit and the waiting rig. Dondi shrugged; Lopez turned back to the waiting abattoir. The door swung shut behind her.

  Paul was standing outside the entrance, staring into the night, as Dondi stepped through the doors. The horizon glowed yellow, courtesy the sprawling Exxon refinery banking the distant Hudson.

  "You ready?" Paul asked.

  "Yeah, sure," Dondi replied sarcastically. "I was just thinking if you have a stress-embolism, we could take a break."

  "Come again?"

  "It’s a joke, son," Dondi grumbled. "A pathetic stab at
humor?"

  "Oh," Paul murmured.

  Then climbed into the rig.

  ~ * ~

  The drug house on Helm Street was an abandoned five story brick structure on the dilapidated waterfront a quarter mile north from the sight of William Wells’ ersatz vanishing act: a defunct shoe factory turned homeless squat, long condemned but popular with transients, addicts and street dealers.

  Though periodically swept in raids, location and consumer demand kept it viable; as tastes changed from ganja to coke to crack to meth, so, too did the caliber of its clientele, going from mellow to twitchy to tweaked in an ever sinking cycle of despair. Finally, a handful of underground entrepreneurs decided that supply and demand need not feature costly imports, especially when five hundred dollars worth of readily available, if highly volatile, chemicals could be cooked into five thousand dollars worth of extremely addictive product. A cottage industry was born. It had been thriving for months.

  At eleven forty-seven that night, it blew itself straight to hell.

  The initial explosion was of teeth-cracking intensity, setting off car alarms and rattling casements for six blocks. By the time Rescue One first deployed some seventeen minutes later, the fire was already licking out shattered windows on floors two, three and four, and the building looked on the verge of an inferno. Toxic smoke billowed skyward, black and gray and ash white. Within the hour, Engine and Ladder companies from Elizabeth, Iselin and Jersey City were called in for backup, along with every available ambulance and Rescue crew in the area. It was still not enough.

  Paul and Dondi descended from the fifth floor in the basket of an Iselin aerial tower truck. Mack engines growled as the articulated boom pivoted like a one hundred and fifty foot steel arm; arcing out to clear the fire streams surging up from the attack teams below, then sweeping down to allow the men to offload their damaged human cargo. As the basket gate opened, Wallace rolled a gurney forward to meet them, looking completely freaked. Paul shot him a look.