Death Dream (3 page)

Thinking that rank has its privileges, Dan eased his Honda into the slot next to the empty place for the handicapped, wondering where all the other ParaReality employees were. They can't all be out at lunch. Maybe—

"How do!" called a voice from the shade of the front doorway. Dan saw a burly man in a blue security uniform limping toward him. "Ye moughtn't be Dr. Damon Santorini, moughtn't ye?"

"Mr. Santorini," said Dan as he got out of his car. "Dan."

"How do," the security officer repeated. He had only one arm. His face was round, apple-cheeked. The cap atop his thick mop of sandy hair did not fit well; it perched up there like a kid on a haystack. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. He put out his left hand, the only one he had.

"Ol' Jace tole me you was comin' today. Been lookin' out fer ye all mornin'."

Feeling inhumanly awkward, Dan took the guard's left hand in his own right. "I had a problem with my car," he mumbled.

"Joe Rucker's the name," said the guard, grinning good-naturedly. "And any friend o' Jace's is a friend o' mine."

Jason Lowrey had been Dan's partner, team-mate, almost his brother when they had both worked for the Air Force in Dayton. Jace was the genius, the man with the flair for dramatic new ideas and stunning breakthroughs in the field of virtual reality. Dan was the quiet steady guy in the background, the one who made Jace's brilliant ideas work. Jace did not make friends easily, Dan knew, yet this hillbilly guard seemed think the world of him. or maybe it was just the kid's manner.

"C'mon," said Joe Rucker, "I'll escort ye in."

It was barely twenty paces to the front door and Dan could have made it faster without the limping kid at his side. But he pulled his jacket from the backrest, carefully locked the Honda, and went with Rucker. "You and Jace are pals?" Dan asked.

"Shoot, if 'tweren't fer Jace I wouldn't even be here." He pronounced it
heah
. "Who's gonna hire a North Carolina redneck that's lost an arm an' a leg?"

"Jace got you this job?"

"He shorely did, bless his heart."

"How did you . . . get hurt?"

"Motorsickle. Some ol' grandmaw in a big camper ran rat over me. Purty near died. I only got one lung." They had reached the smoked glass double doors of the front entrance. It looked cool and quiet inside.

"Well, thanks a lot, Joe," said Dan as he put on his navy blue blazer.

The guard plucked at Dan's sleeve. "One thang ye better know: all the folks workin' here hafta park their cars out back."

"Oh! I didn't know."

Before Dan could turn back toward his car, Joe said, "Dontcha worry none. I'll watch yer car for ye. T'morrow, though, ye'd best park it out back." He smiled broadly.

"Well, thanks again, Joe."

"Nothin' to it, Dr. Dan. Anythin' ye need, ye just ax me. Any friend o' Jace's is a friend o' mine."

Marveling that Jace would even say hello to a self-admitted redneck who obviously had no education, Dan hesitated a fraction of a second to check his reflection in the dark glass door.
Tie straight, hair combed. Jacket looks all right. Can't see how badly the shirt's wrinkled with the jacket over it. Okay.
He took a deep breath, then pushed through the tinted glass door and stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of the ParaReality lobby.

A couple of men were sitting on the couches along one side of the lobby. Salesmen, from the look of their suits. One of them was leafing through a brochure; the other puffed tensely on a cigarette even though there were no ashtrays in sight and a red No Smoking sign on the wall. The receptionist behind the curved walnut desk smiled up at him. She was a plump grandmotherly type: gray hair, skin the color of mocha, plain dress of dark purple accented only by a thin silver necklace. Dan saw that she was sitting in a wheelchair.
Muncrief hires the handicapped
, he guessed. "I'm Dan Santorini—"

"Oh yes, Mr. Santorini. Vickie Kessel is expecting you." Dan knew that Victoria Kessel was the head of ParaReality's personnel department. He had spoken to her a dozen times on the telephone; she had even helped them to find the house they had bought, long-distance. But he had never met her. The receptionist pointed him through the double doors behind her desk. "Vickie's office is the first door on the left-hand side of the corridor."

Muttering his thanks, Dan pushed through the double doors. It felt odd just walking into the place without a security escort or a badge or any of the precautions that had been a way of life at the air force lab in Dayton. The receptionist had not asked for any identification; she had not even bothered to phone Ms. Kessel to tell her that he was on his way to see her.
What if she's not in her office?

The first door on his left was wide open. The room inside made Dan wonder if he had heard the receptionist correctly. It was small but plush and furnished more like a sitting room than a business office. There was no desk, no filing cabinet in sight. Beneath an oriental painting of two birds on a tree branch stood a comfortable chintz-covered wing chair. To one side of it was a small sofa, delicately curved and upholstered in some slightly fuzzy material the color of burgundy wine. An expensive-looking carpet covered the floor: Persian or Indian or something like that, Dan thought, glancing at its intricate patterns of vivid color.

Beside the armchair was a small table that bore a simple gray keypad. There were no windows in this interior room, but a big display screen covered one of the walls, featureless smooth gray like the giant television screens that saloons put up to show sports events for their customers.

"Damon Santorini?"

Dan turned in the doorway to see a woman striding smartly down the corridor toward him. Victoria Kessel looked as if she had just stepped out of a magazine advertisement. She was wearing a stylish suit of mustard yellow, the long jacket curving around her hips almost down to the hem of her miniskirt, the color complementing her deep Florida tan. Plenty of jewelry: big earrings, several gold necklaces and clattering bracelets.

She stuck out her hand and smiled brightly. "I'm Vickie Kessel and you're Damon Santorini, right?"

"Dan," he said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, the kind that took practice.

"It's good to meet you in the flesh after all our telephone conversations. Come on into my boudoir," Vickie said, gesturing toward her office door.

He stepped back and let her go in first. Vickie settled herself in the armchair, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her legs under her. Good legs, Dan noticed. She was not what he would call pretty, her features were too sharp and intense for his taste, her voice a little too cutting, but her face was strong and expressive and her dark hair was clipped short and curled in the latest fashion. He wondered how old she was; older than Sue, he was pretty sure.

"Kyle told me you had some problems with your car. I'm glad you could make it in this afternoon."

Her accent said New York to Dan, and he understood her high-voltage appearance. Vickie was the take-charge type, the kind who parleyed smarts and hustle and style into an upwardly-mobile career. She pulled her keyboard over and called up Dan's personnel file. On the oversized display screen the words looked enormous, like a bigger-than-life statue of some hero. Maybe she's nearsighted, Dan thought. Vickie asked Dan to check the file over, make any corrections or additions he felt necessary. He added Philip's Social Security number to the data.

She smiled slightly. "Thinking of getting him a job soon?"

"He's only six months old."

"So I see."

"They make you get a Social Security number right away."

"I know," she said. "I was only joking."

She wormed her feet back into her shoes and got up from the chair. Dan followed her down the corridor to the security office, where a guy in the same blue uniform as Joe Rucker took his photograph and a few minutes later presented Dan with a laminated badge. Dan remembered the old joke about ID badges from his earliest days as an Air Force employee in Dayton. The photos on the badges were called holy pictures because whenever somebody looked at one he would say, "Jesus Christ, is that you?"

But he said nothing as he accepted the badge from the security officer's hand and solemnly clipped it to the breast pocket of his blazer. This is more like it, he thought. For the next half-hour Vickie toured Dan through the building. Mostly business offices up front, all occupied by quietly aggressive men and women, making telephone calls, poring over computer screens, talking earnestly into phones or to one another. A few good-looking young men. but most of the business staff seemed to be women. Vickie introduced him to several of the department heads—all male. Dan forgot their names as soon as he heard them.

Victoria watched Dan as he walked beside her, thinking, the photo in his file doesn't do him any justice at all. He's not handsome, exactly, but by God is he attractive! That soft bedroomy voice, like a purr. She smiled to herself and noted the way he moved through the corridors. He prowls like a cat, up on the balls of his feet as if he's ready to pounce. Or run away.

Dan noticed that the corridors were paneled and carpeted. Everything cool and quiet. Reproductions of fine paintings and prints hung on the walls. But as Vickie led him deeper into the building, the wood paneling ended and the plasterboard hallways were painted a flat pastel yellow. The floors were covered with vinyl tile here, scuffed and scratched. The corridors were wide enough to trundle sizeable equipment through.

"Mostly offices for the technical staff in this area," Vickie said.

Dan heard voices yammering, a radio playing golden oldies, two men obviously arguing behind a closed door. It even smelled differently from the quietly efficient business section. Engineers and programmers worked here; he could feel the heat of conception.

"Where are the labs?" he asked.

"Toward the rear of the building," said Vickie.

The pictures on these corridor walls were mostly group photographs of people Dan did not recognize. A few bulletin boards scattered about with the usual clutch of notices tacked to them. Some posters proclaiming everything from Earth Day to rock concerts. Vickie pointed out the cafeteria, silent and empty, its stainless steel counters gleaming spotlessly.

"Lavatories at the end of that hall," she said. "And down here is the Pit—the computer center."

Dan looked through the wide windows of the computer center and saw several big mainframes lined up against the walls. He could sense them humming away.

"Those are Crays," he said, feeling almost awed.

Vickie took him around a corner, then stopped in front of an unmarked door.

"And this," she announced with a dramatic flourish, "is your very own office."

Dan opened the door and stuck his head in. A bare desk, a couple of chairs, empty bookshelves. It would do.

"It has a window," Vickie pointed out.

Dan nodded absently. "Where's Jace's office?"

She seemed momentarily disappointed, but then she pointed, "Around the corner, there." Dan noticed that her fingernails were lacquered gold.

Feeling a sudden eagerness, Dan headed down the corridor without waiting for Vickie to guide him.

"He's never there," said Vickie, trailing behind him. "He's almost always in his lab. Or in Wonderland."

"Wonderland?"

"The VR simulations chamber."

"Where's that?"

"I'll show you," she said.

Dan stepped aside to let her lead the way again, impatient to get to his old friend, to start his new job, to sink his teeth into the work he had come here to do.

"That's his office," Vickie commented as they passed a closed door marked J. LOWREY. Dan saw that Jace had placed a hand-lettered sign beneath his nameplate:
Do Not Enter! High Hazard Area! Creative Work Underway!
He grinned, remembering the nuclear radiation sign that Jace had pilfered from one of the other Wright-Patterson labs and plastered on his office door in Dayton.

Vickie stopped in front of a blank door. This one was metal, rather than wood. A red light blinked over the doorframe. Dan noticed a small printed sign beneath it:
Do not enter when red tight is on
. Simulation in progress. Someone had pasted other signs beside the door:

Welcome to the Emerald City

Down the rabbit hole.

Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here.

Vickie tapped at the door with the back of her knuckles. The door swung outward a crack and a suspicious-faced technician peeked out at them. He was young but obese, his skin waxy and his face pimpled from junk food.

"This is Damon Santorini," said Vickie before the guy could say a word. "He's going to be working with Jace."

The technician grunted and pushed the door open a bit more.

"I'll leave you here," Vickie told Dan with an almost sly smile on her lips. "This is your territory now. I'm going back to my neck of the woods."

"Uh, thanks for everything," Dan said to her retreating back. Then he slipped through the partially open doorway.

The control room was small, dark, cramped and hot. Just like the ones at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base that Dan was accustomed to. It smelled of fried circuit boards and old pizzas. Two technicians were seated at consoles with their backs to him, facing a square window of one-way glass. Neither of them acknowledged Dan's presence in any way at all. They were hunched over their consoles, studying the display screens that flickered in the shadows.

The third tech, the heavyset one who had opened the door for Dan, pulled it shut and took the only other chair in the narrow, sweaty chamber.

It was close and steamy in the dimly-lit control booth. Dan wormed his arms out of his jacket. There was no place to put it, so he folded it over one arm. Pulling his tie loose and unbuttoning his collar, Dan leaned in between the other two technicians seated at their consoles and peered through the tinted window. Beyond the one-way glass stood his friend, his colleague and partner, Jason Lowrey.

The room in which Lowrey stood was spacious, although its ceiling was almost oppressively low. The chamber was utterly empty: walls totally blank, not a stick of furniture, floor bare gray vinyl tile. Jace was crouched slightly, hands on knees, as if winded from exertion. He wore a heavy-looking bulbous black helmet with a darkened visor pulled down over his face. Metallic gloves on both hands. Barely-visible wires trailed from the helmet and gloves toward the window where Dan was watching.