Orphans of Wonderland (25 page)

“Okay.” Trent smiled, but there was so much condescension in it, there was no room for humor. “Let's do that.”

“Dorsey said that day in the field wasn't the first time they took us, that it had happened many times before and even after that.”

“He's right.” Trent paced over by the window. “It started when we were very young. I don't know the exact time and age, but we were little. We were selected, and it went on for years.”

“Why us?”

“Bunch of kids from a working-class neighborhood. None of us with big families or lots of ties, nobody that watched us that closely.” He shrugged. “In the end, who knows why they settled on us specifically—or anyone else. They must've seen something in us. Potential maybe.”

“Why don't we remember?”

“We do, some of us more than others, but in pieces.”

“Some of those pieces are missing.”

“Yeah. But they're coming back, aren't they?”

Joel put the coffee aside. “Keep talking.”

“They like to use kids,” he said softly. “Because they're easier to break, and if they can get to them early enough, they can mold them the way they want. They use a lot of different methods.”

Despite the cold, Joel found himself perspiring and nervous. He suddenly couldn't sit still. “What kind of methods?”

A woman, a nurse, holds a baby, humming lullabies to it. She is drawn and serious looking, almost angry, but not quite. The baby looks at him too, such innocence in its eyes. They haven't taken that yet, ripped it away like wild dogs tearing at bloody flesh…

“It starts with sexual abuse,” Trent told him, his tone less intense, more reflective. He struggled to get the words out, and his expression and body language showed it. “Only it's not a bunch of guys wearing raincoats in alleyways or creeps pulling up in vans. It's doctors in lab coats and nurses in caps, it's motherfuckers in suits and ties—pedophile senators and the like—having their fun and getting the job done for them. What we remember are the satanic rituals that come before and after—sometimes even during—like something out of a bad horror movie. Only for us, that horror movie is real.”

The woman with the jewelry on her face…

“The abuse is so horrific children can't handle it, so they shut down. Their minds compartmentalize the experiences, tuck them away in a safe place, and they move on. And so the process begins. Their minds—
our
minds—are prepared for the next phase, because once the mind is fractured—some might say the soul—they introduce the drugs and the sensory and sleep deprivation.”

An older table fan, the metal blades spinning, twirling…a telephone rings with the old kind of bell, ringing and ringing. No one answers…no one ever answers…

Trembling, his eyes moist, Joel asked, “Why did they do this to us?”

A stern, older man looks down at him, holds out his hand…

“We were one of the groups that saw the entities, Joel.”

He takes the man's hand even though he doesn't want to.

“All of us saw them.”

He watches the fan, concentrates on the fan as he goes away to somewhere else…somewhere safe and quiet where no one is hurting him and there are no screams, where little boys can run and play and ride their bikes in the sunshine…

“But you and me, we were special because we did more than see them,” Trent told him. “We could conjure them.”

Angrily wiping away his tears, Joel said, “I don't understand.”

“Sal, Dorsey and Lonnie saw these things too. For them, it was the result of what was being done to them. For you and me, we did more than see them in the corners of our eyes and in the shadows. We were able to bring them through. From there…to here…”

“How?”

“I don't know, but where others could only see them, we could make them real. Some subjects had special abilities, like I said. Subjects like you and me.”

“Why can't I remember?”

“They've configured your mind not to.” Trent sighed. “Problem is that only works for so long. Slowly, gradually, those walls they worked so hard to construct in our shattered minds begin to fall away, and the truth behind them comes back to us, piece by piece, brick by brick. We're all in the same corridor, Joel. I'm just farther down the hallway than you. They figured out long ago that there are doors, and behind those doors are other realities. They learned how to open them back in Parsons' day. The rituals start here.” He pointed to his temple. “So they knew if they could get the right subjects, break us down and control us, wipe our minds clean and replace them with whatever they wanted and needed to make these things happen, they could open more gateways and bring through more evil.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Power. Destiny. Insanity. Makes their tiny cocks hard. Take your pick.”

“But it stopped. They let us go.”

“On a leash, so they could pull us back in whenever they wanted to. That time you spent in the nuthouse, it was just a tune-up, a reprogramming.”

“Why are they trying to kill us? Why now, after all this time? And wouldn't it be easier to just take us out one by one? They could've just come to Maine and—”

“They already killed Lonnie,” he said. “And tried to kill you.”

“Dorsey and Sal, we have to tell them, we—”

“This is about us now, not them.”

“What are you talking about? They're as much a part of this as we are.”

“We can't save them, Joel. I'm not even sure we can save ourselves.”

Joel watched him a moment. “Are you holding back on me?” he asked.

“It's all just too impossible to believe, right? Sounds crazy. Know why? Because it is, it's off-the-fucking-reservation nuts. The truth usually is. That's why they keep it from us, why they never tell people anything even close to it. Easier to tell them what makes them happy, what keeps them in line, distracted and thinking they're so smart nothing could ever be pulled over their eyes.” He turned and looked out at the road. “Well, guess what? Think again. Never underestimate the power of ego and arrogance. Convince someone they're too intellectually superior to believe something, and you'd be surprised what they'll ignore and explain away or excuse rather than let go of that make-believe brilliance they've been convinced they possess. And why wouldn't they? Look at the dolts on the other side of the fence. In the end, they have an army of unknowing advocates and enablers. They don't have to hide things and claim they aren't true. Add as much misdirection and misinformation as they can get away with, and an entire generation of people step in and do it for them, thoroughly basking in how brilliant and informed they all think they are. Meanwhile, the fires burn right in front of them. They don't feel the heat, don't hear the screams, because to them, none of it's real.”

Joel continued to pace, shaking his head as if to dislodge the traces of memories slowly slinking back. “Why did they kill Lonnie?”

“People die and disappear all the time. They've got plenty of ways to make you go away, weapons that can kill you and make it look like a heart attack or stroke. Fast-acting cancers and diseases they put in your veins that kill you in days but look like freak infections. They don't have to gun people down in the street.”

“Yet that's exactly what they did to Lonnie.”

Trent returned to the windows and looked out at the road below. A few cars were passing by through the snow, headed out of the area. “Everything they do has a purpose. None of it's random; it's only meant to look that way. They did Lonnie to bring you back. Now they're bringing me back too, both of us, out of the shadows.”

“And now that we're here?”

“They want hell so bad, I say we bring it to them.”

“Apparently we're pretty good at it.”

“Storm's closing things up early from the looks,” Trent said. “Employees are leaving Tuser Industries, have to go right by. It's why this is the perfect outpost.”

Joel joined him at the windows. “Jerry Simpson…”

“The rest is on him. He knows the answers because he's behind what happened to us. He was directly involved, then and now. I think there's a good chance he was Lonnie's handler.”

“What the hell is a handler?”

“Someone who helps control us out in the real world,” Trent explained. “They influence and guide us without our realizing their connection to all this.”

“And this Simpson sonofabitch, he was Lonnie's?”

“I believe so. We all have one. They come to us at various points in our lives, often beginning in childhood, but not always. They're particularly influential in our lives during times of trauma, fear, sadness and confusion. They give us just enough of a nudge to send us in whatever specific direction we're meant to go in during those times. From what I've been able to find out over the years about Simpson, he's in this up to his neck.” Trent pointed to a black Mercedes-Benz slowly passing by in the mounting snow. “And that's his car.”

The terror and tears were gone. Rage had taken their place. “You said the Devil needs killing,” Joel reminded him.

Trent nodded. “That I did.”

“Then let's go kill us the Devil.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

In a small town on Cape Cod, behind a large wrought-iron gate, the house sat more than a hundred yards back from the road, atop a long ridge surrounded by forest. The driveway, which was longer than many streets in town, carved through a patch of woods and wound along to the top of that ridge, The grounds encompassed nearly fifty acres; much of it meticulously landscaped and expensively maintained open lawn. At the rear of the property, well behind the house, a second building, a cottage, sat off by itself. Beyond the cottage was a boathouse, then a stretch of private beach, a dock, and the Atlantic Ocean.

Joel and Trent had barely spoken on the ride there, following Simpson's Mercedes from New Bedford toward Cape Cod, then finally crossing the giant Sagamore Bridge onto the cape. Going on the Cape Cod Highway was treacherous, as the snow had gotten worse and begun to accumulate—there was already a good three or four inches on the ground—but the slow speeds also made it easier to hang back and safely follow their prey. All the while Joel's mind raced with possibilities and memories. Or were they only remnants of bad dreams? He could no longer be sure. Of anything.

“Looks like Mr. Simpson's done pretty well for himself,” Joel said as Trent drove past the property, then turned around on a nearby dirt road.

Rather than answer, Trent pulled over to the side of the road but kept the wipers moving against the snow spattering on the windshield.

“Sal and Dorsey should be here,” Joel said.

“They are.” Trent looked at him. “We're always together, all of us, in a way.”

“They deserve to be here for real.”

Trent reached behind his seat and pulled free one of his knapsacks. He opened the flap and pulled out a gun, a .45. “I don't know what's waiting for us in there,” he said, “but I'm not taking any chances with this fuck.”

The gun made it real. The manner in which Trent handled it with such ease and familiarity made it disturbing. The moment he saw it, Joel felt like every muscle in his body had constricted in unison.

Trent tucked it inside his duster, pulled a second gun from the knapsack, a 9mm, checked it over, then held it out for Joel. “Take it.”

“I've never fired a gun in my life.”

“Here's the safety,” he said. “Make sure it's off. Aim and shoot. Don't aim unless you intend to shoot. Don't shoot unless you intend to kill.”

“What happened to you?” Reluctantly, Joel took the gun and put it in his coat pocket. “What happened to us?”

“We survived.”

“All those years ago,” Joel said, the words catching in his throat. “We were happy and carefree once, weren't we? Just kids. Playing, laughing…”

“Once upon a time.”

A burst of cold wind cut through the Jeep.

“We don't have much time,” Trent said. “They'll be coming.”

Joel nodded but he was focused on the flakes silently falling all around them. “It's beautiful, isn't it? The snow.”

“I prefer the desert. I like the heat. At night it gets cool, even cold sometimes, but the heat, it's never far. And it's alive, the desert, hot or cold, day or night, alive. Always alive.” A slight smile creased his weathered face. “I wish I could show it to you, man.”

“You will.”

The smile drifted away as Trent's sad blue eyes turned steely and cold. “We need to move. Rich little town like this, we're gonna stand out. Ready?”

“No, but what choice do we have?”

“None. Never did.”

Together, they stepped from the Jeep and started up the road toward the gate. Moving through the falling snow, two dark smudges in a sea of white, they approached the gate, then stood there a while, watching the house in the distance.

Who was this Simpson? Joel wondered. Did he have a wife, a family, people he loved? Did he do these horrible things, then come home to them and pretend that all was right with the world? Did he rationalize his atrocities in his own mind, drape them in patriotism or some faux greater good? Or was he well aware of the master he served, the havoc he'd wreaked and the pain he'd administered? Did he revel in his accomplishments or hide in the darkness of his own black soul?

When they reached the gate, Trent began searching for a release. Simpson had utilized a remote device to open and close the gate, but there appeared to be no external manual controls. While he fiddled with the mechanism, Joel looked through the rails at the long driveway ahead. A Lexus sedan, Cadillac Escalade and Simpson's Mercedes-Benz were parked in a circular brick area in front of the house. The doors of the three-stall garage attached to the house stood closed.

“Why aren't the cars in the garage?” Joel asked.

“Who knows? People have garages all the time and don't use them.”

“Seems strange, especially in this weather. Maybe the Lexus and the Escalade belong to people that don't live here. Maybe Simpson doesn't plan to be home long.”

“Maybe you're overthinking it.”

Trent removed something that looked like a screwdriver from his duster pocket and was about to force the tip into the gate lock when it simply opened with a loud click. With a baffled look at Joel, he returned the tool to his pocket, then casually opened the gate and walked through. “Wasn't even locked.”

Joel followed him through and closed the gate behind them. “Something's not right. It can't be this easy.”

“I know.” Trent pulled the .45 from his duster, held it down against his leg, then started up the long drive. “Come on.”

“We walk right in? Just like that?”

“What'd you think we were going to do, parachute in?” He kept walking; stepping in the fresh tire tracks Simpson's vehicle had left behind. “Act like you belong here, and no matter what happens, keep moving.”

Joel trailed behind as they moved along the snow-covered driveway.

As they walked, silence engulfed them. Their breath swirled liked clouds and the temperature was harsh, but they continued on, waiting to be seen, for someone to appear and confront them. But nothing happened, and they soon reached the house, feet from a chipped stone path leading to ornate double front doors.

Lights filled a few of the downstairs windows, giving the home a warm and inviting look in the storm.

Trent approached the front doors. He tried the handle on the left-hand door. It opened without resistance.

“Like I said, too easy.”

With a quick look back at Joel, Trent stepped inside.

A foyer, modest in size but outfitted with an expensive tile floor, a carpeted hallway to the left, a large living room to the right and a staircase straight ahead. The warmth was immediate, washing over them in waves. Closing the door behind them, they slowly moved a bit deeper into the foyer.

In the living room, an older woman Joel assumed was Simpson's wife sat in a comfortable chair, watching an animated version of
Alice in Wonderland
on an enormous flat screen, the sound muted. Dressed in a flannel muumuu, she was a plump, haggard woman well into her sixties, with hair styled like a football helmet. She stared blankly at the silent television, as if medicated to the point of no longer being cognizant of where she was. She seemed not to notice them.

They passed by a spacious kitchen and a set of French doors leading to a patio that was closed for the winter but featured extravagant fire pits and grills.

The entire house seemed preternaturally quiet.

Another room farther down the hallway appeared to be some sort of spa, with a large Jacuzzi, massive walk-in showers, a sunken bathtub and a variety of high-priced exercise equipment.

At the end of the long hallway stood a single door. Closed, it had no markings and gave no indication of what lay behind it.

As they approached, Trent held up his free hand, signaling Joel to stop. He listened a moment, then tried the door. It opened to reveal a large study, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the floor covered in an expensive Persian rug. At the rear of the room was a desk and chair positioned in front of three large windows overlooking the back of the property, the second building in the distance. In the center of the room sat a pool table, and along the far wall, an extensive and fully stocked bar.

An older man stood behind the desk, his back to them. Gazing out the large windows, he calmly smoked a fat cigar, apparently transfixed by something outside.

Trent leveled the .45, holding it with both hands now as he stepped deeper into the study. Joel reached into his coat pocket and gripped the 9mm, but kept it in his pocket.

“Come in, children,” the man said in a deep, raspy voice. “Father's been waiting for you.”

Joel knew that voice. It had spoken to him countless times in his nightmares. It struck him like a hammer. He shook like the frightened child he'd suddenly been reduced to.

“Turn around,” Trent demanded, remaining in his shooting stance.

Simpson did as he'd asked. Thick necked and broad shouldered, he was under six feet tall but built like a professional wrestler. Age had robbed him of what was probably once a powerful body and had left him pudgy and soft around the middle, but money had allowed him, among other things, a year-round tan, a bright capped-tooth smile and a watch and pinky ring that cost more than most cars. With a slow and plodding gait, Simpson came out from behind the desk. In one hand he held his cigar, in the other, a glass of brown liquor. He motioned vaguely to the bar. “Something to drink, children? Some vintage Scotch, perhaps?”

“Stop calling us that,” Trent snapped.

“We're not children,” Joel said. “Not anymore.”

Simpson watched them a moment, his beady eyes dark and intense and looking mildly amused. Bald but for a ring of closely cropped white hair, the man possessed a presence and arrogance those in positions of power often wielded. He took a tug on his cigar, then exhaled a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “You'll always be my children,” he said, plucking the cigar from his thick lips. “Always.”

“Are we alone in the house?” Trent asked. When no answer came, he stepped closer, the gun aimed at Simpson's face. “Answer me, you piece of shit.”

“For Christ's sake,” Joel said. “Answer him. Are we alone in the house?”

“My wife is in the other room, but she's of no consequence.”

Simpson's pig eyes found Joel. It felt like they'd gone right through him, stabbed directly into his soul. He knew this man and yet he didn't.

“It's almost like meeting God for you, isn't it?”

“You're no god,” Joel told him.

“I'm
your
god, boy.” With bored indifference he drifted across the room to the bar. Selecting one glass decanter from a row of them, Simpson poured more Scotch into his glass, swirled it around a moment, then took a long sip. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink, children?”

Trent joined him at the bar, this time pressing the .45 against the man's temple. “Last time I'm asking.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?” Joel said.

“No,” Simpson replied evenly.

“Awful lot of vehicles out there for only two people.”

Simpson raised his glass. “You always were the smartest one.”

“Close the door, Joel,” Trent said, lowering the gun.

He did.

“Anybody comes through it, shoot them.”

Joel nodded. “You killed Lonnie to bring me back,” he said, “and you brought me back to bring Trent out into the open. Well, here we are, Simpson. After all these years, here we are.”

“You're the only one that ever really counted,” Simpson said. “The other four, well, they had their purposes, of course, but you were always my
special
boy, Joel.”

“Is that why you tried to have me killed?”

“Everyone has an expiration date, son. Even you. Even I.” He shrugged as if there was nothing else to do. “Sooner or later we all become irrelevant. Bees in a greater hive is all, serving the queen, the master, for a greater purpose.”

“What about Lonnie? Was he irrelevant too?”

“Now here I call you the smart one and you ask a silly question like that.”

“Kidnapping us as children—abusing us, experimenting on us,
destroying
us, ripping our minds to shreds—that wasn't enough?” Joel tightened his grip on the 9mm but kept it in his pocket. “Why did Lonnie have to die? Why do any of us?”

Simpson considered him the way one might an addle-brained preschooler. “Not only were you the smartest, you were the best of them, weren't you, Joel? Are you worried about Sal and Dorsey? Don't be. We have no use for a broken-down, alcoholic greaseball and a drug-addicted old nigger. They present no threat to us or anyone else. Frightened mice scarcely worth the time, much less the bullets.”

“You're not worth the price of a bullet either,” Trent said, raising the gun again. “But I don't mind wasting one long as it goes through your skull.”

Simpson ignored him and sucked on his cigar. “They're ghosts now, Joel. Gone from you, as if they were never really there at all.”

“Why was Lonnie branded?”

“It was necessary and he was our property. We own you. You're our slaves.”

“He was a human being, with a daughter.”

“You think you're gonna reach this garbage?” Trent asked. “You think you can reason with evil like this?”

Joel shook his head. “I just need to understand.”

“Rebirth,” Simpson said flatly. “There are many portals. We open them.”

“With no regard for what comes through?”

“We know exactly what comes through. And so do you.”

“Why then?”

“The master we serve, Joel. We serve him, you serve us.”

“We were able to conjure entities,” Joel said. “Trent and I.”

Simpson smoked his cigar a while before answering. “Others glimpsed them. You made them real.”