The orderly behind Aidriel held the handles of the wheelchair in a death grip, his focus completely on the patient as he pushed him toward the ambulance bay doors. Through the glass panels, the two men could see Dr. deTarlo and a nurse motioning with their arms for visitors to stay away from the building. The few people nearby stepped back to watch and wait obediently, while the Passers remained wherever they were standing, their ghostly forms like clumps of fog in the early morning light. They were far enough away that they didn’t appear to notice Aidriel, but he could see them. He sat frozen, his eyes unblinking, his attention focused on his senses, waiting for even the slightest sign he was going to be attacked. Besides his heart pounding like a dynamo, he was fine.
Eventually deTarlo was satisfied everything outside was under control. She stepped back through the doors anxiously and motioned for the orderly to bring Aidriel out to a waiting ambulance.
“I’m kind of surprised,” the patient commented to the shrink as she fell into step beside him.
“Really, at what?”
“I figured you’d want to walk me straight out into a mob of Passers to see what would happen.”
To Aidriel’s astonishment, deTarlo nodded in genuine agreement.
“That option crossed my mind,” she answered. “But Williams didn’t think it was a good idea, what with the way the electromagnetic radiation would affect the ambulance.”
She sounded serious; Aidriel was speechless.
Reaching the open back of the van, he got up from the chair and climbed in.
“Lie down,” deTarlo ordered, pointing at the cot to one side. The EMTs staffing the vehicle kept their lips sealed and watched Aidriel for a reaction.
“What?” he asked, annoyed. “Why?”
“Do as I say,” the shrink answered coolly, taking a seat on the bench.
Aidriel sat down on the stretcher and plopped onto his back. The EMTs strapped him in and hovered nearby attentively, as if expecting him to stop breathing at any moment.
Aidriel’s intuitive sense of warning kicked in and pounded. The orderly took his time returning the wheelchair to the building before he hopped into the back of the van, pulling the doors closed. They waited without speaking, listening to the rumbling of the engine, and Aidriel prayed it wouldn’t suddenly stall.
Eventually the vehicle began to move, and deTarlo insisted the siren be turned on.
“We’re transporting a high-risk patient.”
No one noticed the vague, sour smile on Aidriel’s face.
“How’re you feeling?” deTarlo asked him.
“I’m sure you’re more excited than I am.”
“You aren’t looking forward to the personal attention of Chester Williams and his staff?”
Aidriel didn’t reply, but he was thinking that Williams’s staff was probably half Passers. They had to be, with the work he did.
The drive went remarkably quickly with the lights and sirens, and soon they found themselves at the airport. Aidriel was itching to get off the cot and was up and moving as soon as the EMTs undid the straps.
“We’re at the helipad,” deTarlo told him. “This is where the chopper comes to drop off patients to the plane for transport. There aren’t many people around. Less Passers.”
The orderly opened the back doors and Aidriel peered out into the bright morning sunshine. He could see a private jet parked some ways off on a runway as he and the psychologist climbed out of the ambulance. Printed on the side of the aircraft was American Sentience Movement in bold, scrolly letters.
“Everything from here on out is run by Williams,” deTarlo explained, taking his arm and leading him toward the plane as if he were a child. Aidriel resisted the urge to pull away, though he found it distracting to be hustled by a woman in pumps toward a plane. It made him feel like a fugitive being smuggled out of the country.
Earlier that morning, deTarlo had brought him regular street clothes to wear in place of the featureless dress of the psych ward. He was glad to have the jeans, sneakers and button-up shirt, but the dog tag was a bit much. It had his name and medical record number on it, Dr. Ana deTarlo, Psy.D. and her contact number, along with the logo of Williams’s company.
“Great, just in case I didn’t already feel like a research subject,” he’d complained.
“Just put it on,” deTarlo had snapped irritably. “Why do you have to whine about everything? You should count yourself fortunate American Sentience is funding all of this and showing so much interest in you.”
While he slipped the chain over his head, Aidriel had asked, “So why are you showing such an interest?”
“I won’t lie,” she’d said. “There has never been a case like yours since the Sentience began. With an expert like Williams involved, this study can be very beneficial for my career.”
Aidriel had not known how to reply at first, and fingered the dog tag thoughtfully.
“What is the expected outcome of this ‘study’?” he’d wanted to know.
DeTarlo had stared coldly as if he were just another case and wasn’t waiting for her answer.
“I don’t think that’s information I have to discuss with you,” she’d retorted. “You signed the consent forms. Once the report is published, feel free to read it.”
Now, as the psychologist was dragging him toward the plane, Aidriel was starting to get cold feet. No one knew where he was or where he was going, and he wished he’d thought of someone to tell before they left. Did it really matter in the long run? He had a few friends and acquaintances, but what difference would it make if they knew where he was? Nobody would come after him. He thought briefly of Dr. St. Cross, but he had stopped contact with his former shrink shortly after he saw him last and realized he didn’t mind.
Aidriel also had reasons of his own to allow these bigwigs to shuffle him around like a curiosity to study. Since the attacks began, he had been unable to leave Indiana, and was curious to see if he ever could. Every time he’d tried, a Passer somehow blocked his way. He was always harmed in the process, and found himself waking up in the emergency room to the faces of confused doctors. He had mentioned this to deTarlo the morning before they left, but she hadn’t appeared concerned or even convinced.
“I’ve tried to leave the state four times,” Aidriel had explained. “Twice by car, once by motorcycle, once on foot. I met resistance every time.”
“Uh-huh.” Ana was busy overseeing the physical examination required for his discharge, and was looking over the doctor’s shoulder at his chart. The medical intern had cast questioning glances at Aidriel, but was under strict orders to examine only and ignore any and all conversation.
“Look, it’s in my record,” Aidriel’d pressed on. “The second time by car, I was coming around a hairpin turn on a very steep embankment, and Rubin was standing in the road. I drove right through him and he killed the engine and punctured both the tires on the passenger side. I flew right off the cliff and was unconscious for fifteen hours.”
“Quiet, please,” the doctor’d said, placing a stethoscope against Aidriel’s back, making him jump. DeTarlo couldn’t look less interested in what Aidriel was saying, and was scribbling on her own clipboard, carefully examining the scars present on his body in comparison to those already recorded in his file.
“Way to feel like an object,” he’d muttered.
“Quiet, please,” the doctor repeated, moving the cold metal head of the stethoscope. “Deep breaths.”
“We aren’t traveling by car, Mr. Akimos,” Ana said finally without looking up. “Williams is providing a private jet for us.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he’d mumbled.
As they neared the jet, Chester Williams came down the steps to meet them in a sports jacket and jeans. He looked very smart from a distance, but upon getting closer, Aidriel saw that the Passerist had studs in his ears and rings and bracelets on his hands and wrists. Though he was older than Aidriel, he reminded the patient of his younger years, before he realized jewelry was painful to remove from injured limbs.
“Dr. deTarlo,” Williams said without smiling, nodding his head once.
“Chet,” Ana responded with a smirk. Chester glanced at Aidriel and looked him up and down, but did not address him.
“Where is his tag?” he asked the shrink.
Without speaking, Aidriel pulled the object in question out from under his shirt and swung it up and down by its chain with a belittling look on his face. Williams saw it and turned away, leading them back up the stairs to the jet.
Dr. Ana deTarlo was the only person Aidriel knew from the hospital on the plane. He’d hoped to see Dreamer and wondered when and if he ever would again. Chester had his own crew of security and private orderlies in black scrubs with the American Sentience Movement logo on their chest pockets. One of them forcibly plunked Aidriel into a seat then leaned over him to secure his belt. He decided these guys were more like medical mercenaries than actual orderlies, and smiled slightly. There wasn’t a single Passer in sight, but Aidriel kept aware, hoping the uneasiness in his stomach was just because he was nervous.
“I’ve made sure there aren’t any Passers in the vicinity,” he heard Williams tell deTarlo. “But to tell you the truth, if we don’t have any problems, that could mean this whole thing is a waste of time.”
“We won’t talk about this,” the psychologist rudely hushed him. “You don’t have the right to doom this project before it has even begun.”
It surprised Aidriel that deTarlo could speak so insolently to Williams when she had led him to believe the Passerist was in charge of all of this. Chester glared at Ana but didn’t answer, pushing past her to take a seat across a table from Aidriel. DeTarlo walked toward the front of the plane and spoke softly with a man and a woman in lab coats, probably doctors.
For several moments, Williams regarded Aidriel with cold dark eyes, his face set in a serious frown that gave him the appearance of a rebel. The patient waited quietly; it wasn’t his place to speak first.
“You probably think,” said Chester finally, “that I am your enemy here. Because I am an advocate and ambassador to the Passers, that I’ll do everything in my power to prove you a fraud.”
Aidriel didn’t bother to say that the thought had crossed his mind, and simply allowed his eyebrows to arch.
Williams glanced out the small round window of the plane and sucked his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth.
“There’s never been a need to prove anyone a fraud,” he said, releasing his lip with a smack. “There has never been evidence to support anyone’s claim. Usually attention-seekers give up long before they are actually taken seriously.”
Aidriel shifted, briefly raising his eyebrows again and blinked, waiting for Williams to get to the point.
“There is no definiteness to any natural law,” the Passerist continued. “The Passers were human once too. They cannot be entirely unlike us, and I’m looking for what faults they have in common with us.”
“But the Passers have always seemed kind and protective,” pointed out Aidriel in a low voice.
Chester cracked a half-smile and nodded.
“But there have always been liars.”
Dr. deTarlo joined them and stood over Williams with one arm wrapped around her clipboard, balancing it on her hip.
“Chet, unless you’re recording this conversation, you shouldn’t be talking to my patient.”
Without looking up, Chester raised his hand and gave her the middle finger.
“Stop acting like a child.” DeTarlo was hardly moved, and maintained a patient, condescending tone.
Williams narrowed his eyes angrily and got swiftly to his feet so he stood face-to-face with the shrink.
“Let’s get something cleared up,” he hissed. “You are not my mother. Just because you and my father had an understanding doesn’t mean I’m your little servant boy. You can’t yank the medical permission you got for this, but I can sure as hell yank the funding. So get the hell off my back. Your gloating has passed the point of being tolerable.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he pushed past her and stalked toward his chair near the front of the plane. DeTarlo took his vacated place across from Aidriel and secured her belt, a smirk of pride plastered on her face. Her cheeks were flushed, and she distractedly ran her fingers along her elaborately twisted hair to make sure nothing had come loose.
“Wheels up in five,” she said neutrally.
Aidriel tilted his head back against the headrest. He held his breath and waited.
It surprised Aidriel that the flight and drive from the airport passed without incident. He remained tense and aware, but deTarlo found that amusing.
“Williams has made preparations for your transportation,” she explained.
“Forgive me for not being more relaxed, then,” he responded. “Though it isn’t uncommon for me to make short trips every so often without being attacked.”
“I’d imagine you’d be dead by now if that weren’t the case,” commented the shrink. “Of course, if you’d had your way, you would be.”
It startled him how insensitively she’d brought up his suicide attempt, and, ignoring the burning stares of the orderlies riding with them, he glanced out the window of the van that had picked them up.
Kelly Road was a long stretch of gravel-paved country street that was too far from everything for buildings to be seen in any direction once the caravan of vehicles arrived at Williams’s facility. The larger of the two fence-haloed structures was massive and unexpectedly plain on the outside, affording a single line of small windows to face the road on the first level alone. One side of the building was a two-story car garage that was already populated by several cars and SUVs when they arrived.
A second, small building sat across the street, shaped like a control tower at an airport. Outside the copious barriers, the compound was surrounded by nothing but crop fields, overgrown ditches and dense clumps of trees. They were still in the Midwest; the flight hadn’t taken longer than an hour. No one would tell Aidriel what state they were even in, however.
Williams’s car was at the front of the little procession, and paused at the security gate at the entrance of the lot. The driver rolled down his window, leaned out to exchange words with the security guard, then handed over a card. A moment later, he took the card back and the gate opened. Once the other vehicle had entered the compound, the van Aidriel and deTarlo were riding in pulled up and the driver went through the same motions. Afternoons were exchanged, paperwork was checked, then the gate opened to allow them to drive in.
The vehicles had parked in the upper level of the garage and everyone got out. More medical mercenaries were waiting for them when they reached the bottom of the elevator. They’d brought a stretcher with them, and Aidriel glanced questioningly at deTarlo.
“Get on it and lie down,” she ordered. Embarrassed that he was clearly capable of walking, Aidriel hesitated.
All eyes were on him, so he complied with the remark, “I don’t know you that well.”
The orderlies mirrored his awkward smile, but deTarlo acted as if she had not heard, and the joke passed without breaking any ice.
Once Aidriel was supine, the orderlies secured the familiar straps, but the group still did not start walking. A woman in black scrubs like the others, probably a nurse, drew some liquid into a syringe from a bottle and turned Aidriel’s arm without speaking to him, rolling up his sleeve to insert the needle into the antecubital area inside his elbow.
“What’s this for?” he asked deTarlo. She ignored him and was making more notes on her clipboard. It didn’t take long for Aidriel to realize he’d been given a sedative. His eyelids got heavy and he started to drift off. He could feel the stretcher begin to move, but Ana’s voice said, “Wait until he’s completely unconscious before taking him inside.”
“So he won’t know the way to…?” one of the orderlies began to ask. Aidriel passed out before he could hear the rest.
The phlebotomist Dreamer and several members of the medical staff had arrived at Kelly Road the day before Aidriel did. They’d been assigned to featureless quarters with two beds a room and two rooms to a bathroom. It didn’t take long for the phleb and her nurse roommate to unpack the single suitcase they’d each been allowed to bring. They were shown to their workstations and allowed time to access their supplies with the direction to fill out a request form if anything was missing.
Dreamer arranged her little cupboard to her liking then rearranged it again to pass the time. The nurses were clustering at their first aid closet, chatting and exchanging rumors about the true nature of their temporary employment. Bored and excluded, the phleb wandered off to explore and mostly found locked doors and offices crowded with paperwork and blank computer screens.
At the end of a hall on the ground floor was a pair of large double doors announcing The Bird Cage. The name was mysterious and intriguing, but the technicians and engineers pushing in and out of the entryway told her in passing that she should not go in without permission.
A voice over the intercom announced the arrival of Chester Williams and the “subject” while Dreamer was looking over the coffee and snack machines with passionless attention. She curiously wandered in the direction of the parking garage, falling into step with a nurse carrying a bottle of tranquilizer and a syringe on an errand for a doctor. As they neared the garage, the nurse told Dreamer not to come any further with her, though not impolitely, and the phleb obeyed. She was loitering in the hallway when the door opened again and Williams, deTarlo and their entourage passed by with Aidriel on a stretcher. Dreamer stood back and watched them hurry by, her eyes ever on their patient.
He looked a different man than the one she had met at the hospital. Peaceful and motionless, his rugged face was free of worry when he was not awake. She liked the boyish manliness of his appearance; she’d thought his voice and manner attractive from the first time she saw him. His eyes had depth and character behind the pain he couldn’t hide. Incidentally, she’d heard him laugh bitterly in the psych ward and liked the sound. And his arms were to die for; lean and muscular and with veins that would make any phlebotomist swoon.
But the seriousness and preoccupation on the countenances of the group of important people escorting Aidriel sent chills through Dreamer. When she had received the offer—or rather, the demand—of employment by American Sentience Movement, she had hesitated only briefly, accepting on the promise in her mind of more interaction with the unsound patient from the 4th floor and more chances at eavesdropping on the fascinating mystery of his case.
Dreamer was young and had thought this would be a pleasant adventure. There was, however, no wide-eyed curiosity or optimistic hope on the faces of those few privileged with the true facts of the case. Even the strangeness of the constant company of the ghosts was still somehow ordinary. This was not the stuff of a superhero movie; Aidriel was only human and would be whatever those in authority over him wished him to be. Dreamer knew she was nothing also. She and Aidriel were just people, everyday intelligences and personalities that could be two anybodies passing each other on the street. They were not beautifully paranormal like the Passers; they were not rich or genius or talented like Williams and deTarlo and the other strange people so dark and unusual beneath the surface.
The phlebotomist got the feeling as the stretcher and its escort passed that something horrible had been happening in secret and would continue, against the irrelevant will of her conscience, in the clandestine room beyond the doors marked The Bird Cage.
“Mr. Akimos, speak when you understand me.”
Aidriel’s answer was a low groan, and he blinked in the hazy light. He could tell when he moved that he was lying on a comfortable cushion, and his arms touched soft, yielding surfaces on both sides. The notion that he might be cradled in some kind of tiny cocoon set off his fears of being smothered and he startled himself awake.
He was lying on his back on a wide bed surrounded with four walls of thick foam padding. It reminded him of a tiny padded cell.
Dr. deTarlo was standing to his right, a pen nestled between the fingers of her hand resting on the cushioning, her mouth a tight, straight line.
“You didn’t come out easily,” she said, clicking her pen, glancing at her watch, and recording the time on her clipboard. Aidriel didn’t apologize. He was grateful for deep sleep, even if it was drug induced. Constant dread did not make for a restful night.
The psychologist unlocked and lowered the padding on one side just as if it were a hospital bed, and stepped back, ordering him to sit up. Aidriel’s head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but he managed to drag himself into a sitting position and hold it upright.
They were inside a geodesic dome–shaped structure made of what looked like thick fogged glass with white light glowing through it. In addition to the bed, there was a bolted-down table and two swiveling chairs amid the heavily padded room that was akin to a fast-food restaurant. There was a couch, a television, and a closed-off cubicle with a shower and toilet. Three plastic storage tubs with lids were neatly piled to one side, opposite the bed and next to two translucent doors with padded crash bars.
“This is what we call the Bird Cage,” Dr. deTarlo told him. “It’s where you’ll be living for the duration of the study. Cameras have been mounted in the framework of the structure, and you will be monitored via video, audio, and sensory equipment twenty-four hours a day.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Aidriel asked groggily.