From the Desk of General W. P. Garfield.
"What's that?" Tack asked.
"A memo to Project Nemesis." I scanned as I spoke. "The general is thanking everyone for their service and dedication. He's proud of everyone for 'seeing things through to the bitter end,' whatever that means." Then my heart sped up. "Listen to this: 'Final preparations are in place. Over the next ten days, we must remain steadfast and complete our objective. Godspeed.'"
Tack spread his hands. "What the hell does that mean?"
"No idea. This is dated two days ago. Lowell was supposed to destroy the message-it says so right here on the page. I wonder why he didn't?"
When I looked up, I found Tack watching me intently. The bruises on his face gave him a ghoulish affect in the murky half-light. The wall clock ticked on, uncaring, as we sat on the floor, each a momentary prisoner of our own thoughts.
"What's going on, Min?" Tack asked again, in a small voice. "What is Project Nemesis?"
I had no answer.
Not that we had time for one.
Outside, tires screeched in the parking lot, followed by slamming doors.
PART TWO
NOAH
14
My heart stops beating.
I freeze, trash bag in hand, the only illumination a streetlamp half a block away.
It's my fault, really.
I lie down. Close my eyes. Only for a second, but that's all it takes.
Someone is here. In the shadows at the foot of the driveway.
My executioner.
Such a mundane thing to dream about. Taking out the garbage? Boring, honestly, except for what's about to happen next.
Steady footfalls as the man climbs the hill. The trash bag slips from my fingers.
I close my eyes.
Pretending it was a normal day didn't work. Nothing ever works, not on the even years. This was always going to happen, so I might as well accept it. Get it over with. I don't remember falling asleep, but then, I never do.
I open my eyes.
A spark of red, quickly extinguished. Cell phone? Lighter? Does my darkest nightmare now smoke cigarettes?
I can't move. Can't breathe.
Again.
Two years since our last meeting, but again.
He walks slowly. Deliberately. He thinks I'll run, but I won't.
I can't escape. It doesn't work. This is all in my head. How can I run from myself?
I close my eyes.
"You aren't real."
My voice shakes, but I repeat the words. Louder this time.
"You aren't real!"
He reaches my side. I feel him watching me. My heart pounds so loud, he must hear it.
I open my eyes.
Stone-carved face. Black suit. Boots. Silver sunglasses, despite the darkness.
Identical, in every detail. Except he is smoking. He's never done that before. He's never done anything before. Except what comes next.
The man drops the cigarette. Grinds it with his heel. He's acting strangely. Less robotic. I could swear he's tired, though I don't know how I can tell.
Of course I can tell. He's part of me. Somehow.
The black-suited man reaches into his jacket. Withdraws a serrated knife.
"This is the last time."
My head jerks back. He's never said anything before.
"The last time?" I stammer, tears gathering in my eyes. "Are you sure? How can you know?"
"I know."
It's hard, but I smile, heaving a sob of relief. "Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much." The tears spill out and run down my cheeks. "I just want this to be over."
His face twitches. "Never thank me."
I nod anxiously. I have more to say-more to ask myself-but I don't dare. If by some miracle my lifelong nightmare is truly ending, I can't risk anything that might jeopardize that.
I close my eyes.
"Do it, then."
A beat. A long breath.
The knife slams into my chest.
A spike of agony. This might not be real, but it hurts just the same.
Faint words, whispered close to my ear. "I'm sorry."
He withdraws the knife. I fall.
Blood pumps onto the pavement. Slides down the hill.
Cold.
Blackness.
Nothing.
Thank God.
It's finally over.
15
My head snapped up.
I jerked awake, an instant from sliding to the floor. Adrenaline hit me like a kick in the balls. So much for staying alert.
It took a moment to get my bearings. Dr. Lowell's depressing lobby. The world's least comfortable chair.
I rubbed my eyes. Turned, spat in the wastebasket. My brain shifted from reliving the nightmare to full-on panicking about it. God, what was taking him so long? Lowell was the only person I could be real with.
A twenty-minute wait. I'd drifted off. Hadn't slept well in days.
Years? Ever?
Not without my medication. My prescription always ran out on my birthday. Lowell was the only place to get more. And I needed those pills. Needed to sleep again, without fear.
I glanced at the clock: 6:10 a.m. Come on!
He cancels my appointment, can't see me for two excruciating days, and now he's late.
I rose, began pacing. Man, I didn't need this. Changing the routine, right when he knew I needed him most. It's not like I was looking forward to it.
My birthday session, on a bad year.
Time to admit I'm still crazy. Hooray. Shit.
Finally I couldn't take it any longer. I strode to his office door and yanked it open, knocking only as I stepped inside.
"Dr. Lowell? It's Noah Livingston. We have an appointment right now, and I really-"
I halted midstep. Lowell was on his hands and knees before his old wooden cabinet. He twisted around in surprise, a stack of folders clutched in his arms.
"Stop right there!" he shouted, glaring. "What are you doing, just barging in?" Lowell hastily shoved the files into the cabinet and slammed its door. Locked it. Then he lurched to his feet, anger clouding his pale features.
I stepped back, stunned. In all the years I'd known him, he'd never once raised his voice. I didn't even know he was capable of it.
Dr. Lowell took a deep breath. When he spoke next, he'd recovered his normal soothing tenor. "What are you doing here, Noah?"
I gave him a troubled look. "We were supposed to meet. You canceled my special visit on Monday, and weren't able to see me yesterday."
Lowell closed his eyes. "Of course. I'm so sorry, Noah. This week has been . . . chaotic. Please sit down. I'll be with you in a moment."
I took my usual seat in a recliner and waited anxiously. This was almost too much. I'd been living with crushing anxiety for two days, had gone off my meds, and now my psychiatrist was acting like a totally different person.
"You got my calls? I tried to reach you from the cave, but there was no reception. Then when you canceled our appointment, I . . . I didn't know what . . ." My voice choked off. Dr. Lowell had never postponed a visit before.
"It's been a trying week. That's no excuse-I know you rely on me, and I've let you down." Lowell reached into his jacket and removed a medicine bottle. "Have you run out of your prescription?"
I nearly snatched the bottle from his fingers. Nodding tightly, I waited for him to hand over the pills, then swallowed one dry before he was able to continue.
"Why don't you tell me what happened?"
"In the dream, or the cave?"
"Let's start with the dream."
I told him about my nightmare. Every nauseating detail. Stabbed in the heart this time-I couldn't wait to hear the explanation for that one. What the knife "symbolized," or whatever. What Black Suit actually speaking to me might mean.
But Lowell merely nodded, so I kept going. Admitted the rest.
The cycle was always the same: a sleepwalking dream I couldn't distinguish from reality, followed by waking up in the cave. It wasn't even a cool cave, just a random crack in the western canyon wall, bordering a pond. It's a miracle I'd never stumbled into the water and drowned, or fallen into the gorge.
This was the fifth time I'd blacked out. Always on my birthdays, even years only.
Nuts. I'm freaking nuts.
It was terrifying. Humiliating. Getting worse.
The entire awful story spilled out, including the aftermath. Opening my eyes in the gloom. My hands flying to my chest, where no wound existed. Shame setting in. Crying, huddled on the stone floor, unable to make myself move. A tough guy, that's me.
Tears stung my eyes, but I forced them back. "I'm just so tired of this. I'd been doing well these last two years. I accepted the truth of my problem, and I mask my feelings every day, like you taught me. I . . . I work as hard as I can to be normal."
Lowell nodded. "How is the anxiety?"
"I try to compartmentalize. I can make it through most days without a problem if I stay detached. But without my pills I can't sleep."
He frowned. "That's odd. You've been off them for how many days now?"
"Only two. I tried to come in yesterday, but-"
"I know. It couldn't be helped. Just be sure not to miss another dose this week."
"But why didn't it work?" I could hear the tension in my own voice. "What's wrong with me?"
"You experienced a regression," Lowell said calmly. "A minor setback, nothing more. I don't want you to worry, Noah. We'll get to the bottom of it together, I promise."
I shook my head. "It's not fair. I've been taking my pills. Every damn day!"