The Glass House (15 page)

He remembered seeing a French film,
La Femme Nikita.
In its opening scene, a fifty-year-old cop who thought he was happy with his life realized in a shocking moment that he had in fact been asleep all those years. A young murderess had inadvertently awakened him, and he began to act in a way WJ now called living.

WJ spun a full circle in his swivel chair, taking in each of the screens on the four walls of his room. He stopped and turned his chair slowly in the opposite direction—once again taking in each of the four screens. Four images of the monk Seth Roberts, slowly awakening.

WJ nodded, then said aloud, “If it all begins with dreaming, then let's start.”

• • •

Seth didn't know if he was awake or dreaming. He knew he'd been under the influence of a strong sedative for some time—how long he had no idea. Evidently long enough to move him from the Wellness Dream Clinic.

This new place—his new room—had a single window high up in what looked like a dome. He closed his eyes and did what he used to do on Vancouver Island. He forced himself to be very still and allowed his brain to examine the air he inhaled.

It took a while, but slowly he began to collect information. Dry—the place was dry. So he wasn't in San Francisco any longer. And the air was cool, not cold. Cool and dry. He'd have to guess, but he assumed 14 or 15 degrees of Celsius.

Then he smelled the eucalyptus and the slightest tang of orange—so they'd moved him south. From the low temperature he assumed they must be near the moderating effects of the cold Pacific current. So probably south of Los Angeles.

He'd surfed down here at a place called Swami's near Encinitas, so he knew the south coast.

He hoped to hell they weren't in Mexico.

But then again, they could well be.

He wondered if it would be hard to get a sedated man across an international border.

He assumed that with enough money anything was possible.

He pulled hard on the handcuffs and leg restraints. They rattled against the metal sidings of the gurney.

Then he shouted, “What the fuck is going on?”

THE LIGHT FROM THE OPENING
of the small door drew Seth's eyes. Then the light was obliterated as a man's silhouette filled the space. The man stepped into the room and went from silhouette to figure. He was wearing a white lab coat and had a stethoscope around his neck.

An unusually syrupy voice came from his almost perfectly circular face, but the words were spoken with a severe lisp. Seth thought the man said, “Ah, you've returned to the land of the living,” but he couldn't be sure. Then the man flicked a wall switch and lights climbed the tall conical walls to the dome some forty feet above.

“Better?”—or did he say “setter” or “letter”? No, he asked if it was “better.”

Better than what?
Seth wondered.

“I asked you a question, young man.” Seth's hearing was adjusting to the sounds coming from the man's mouth. “Impolite not to answer your elders. Impolite.” The man's mouth was a tiny slit in the roundness of his face. Like one of those tropical fish that always seems to be kissing.

The mouth was doing that puckering thing again, but Seth had no idea what the man said. There, he was doing it again.

“Unlock these fucking handcuffs,” Seth demanded.

“Language!”

That Seth heard clearly enough.

“Such language and from such a young man.” The man's enunciation was suddenly perfect. “You were agitated and we didn't want you to hurt yourself in your sleep. Show me your hands.”

Seth did and the man unlocked his cuffs. Seth went to rub his wrists, then noticed that the cuffs were well padded.
Someone didn't want me hurt,
he thought.
Then why did I go to rub my wrists? Because you've seen it a dozen times on TV.

“I'm Doctor Petronius Chumley . . .” The man waited for Seth to supply his name in return. He didn't. “And you are Seth Roberts, the synaesthete, aren't you?”

Again Seth said nothing. He hadn't heard the term “synaesthete” for years—certainly not since he had handed over his father's twenty thousand dollars well over a month ago at the San Francisco Wellness Dream Clinic. “I'm not a synaesthete, I'm a bladder cancer patient.”

“Really?” Dr. Chumley said. “Well, we have a profound interest in you as a synaesthete but not much, I'm afraid, in your run-of-the-mill bladder cancer. None, to be factual. Besides, it's advanced markedly since your arrival—in fact, a major tumour has entered your bladder wall. Not good that. Very dangerous—very.”

“What do you want from me? Why have you moved me here? Where the hell am I?”

“It's all part of the wellness discipline.”

As Dr. Chumley launched into a long sermon-like speech praising the practices of the Wellness Dream Clinic, WJ watched from his closed-circuit feed and smiled. He thought of Dr. Chumley as his Dulcolax—a softener.

• • •

Dr. Chumley entered WJ's viewing room. “Anything else, boss?”

WJ looked at the man and thought,
It's a shame he'll have to go,
but a loose end is a loose end.
Then he said, “Sit, have a drink before you leave.”

The good doctor poured what he thought was an aged single malt scotch and took a long sip.

WJ glanced at his wristwatch: 4:17. By 5:17 the man across the table from him would be unable to move, speak—or anything much else. “Good?” he asked.

“Excellent. Really excellent.” He took a second sip, this one longer than the first.

WJ smiled and said, “Glad you approve. So Seth's ready for me?”

“As ready as an advanced cancer patient can be.”

“And he has how long before—”

“I'm no medical doctor, but I assume not long unless you get him treatment.”

WJ turned from Dr. Chumley and looked out the window at the brilliant Southern California sun and realized that it warmed other people, made them feel alive, made them feel glad to see the day and happy—and that it did nothing for him.

“Are you going to get him treatment?”

WJ didn't answer.

“Just asking, not my concern.”

WJ tossed the man an envelope stuffed with hundred-dollar bills. “No, it's not. I assume that settles us.”

Dr. Petronius Chumley riffled through the bills. “Generous. Very generous.”

WJ WATCHED DR. CHUMLEY LOSE HIS
balance as he walked towards his car. Somehow he managed to get in and drive away in the direction of I-5.

Alone, WJ reviewed his situation one more time before he took the next huge step.

He couldn't continue to live this nonlife. He couldn't. So he'd take the leap.

He knew that most people thought that he was a mathematician, and he let them think that, but it wasn't true. What he was, was an arithmetician. At the heart of mathematics is an elegance—a “feel.” He didn't have that. He was an arithmetician—a detail man.

Also a successful seducer. Long ago he'd used his arithmetic sense to break down the pickup into its component parts.

That's how he had looked at his initial attack on Seth Roberts back at the Wellness Dream Clinic in San Francisco—like a pickup in a bar. A very private, very special bar—for a very special pickup.

Step One: Can I stand near you? If you don't move away, then the answer is yes.

The boy had been eating—nibbling actually—at a vegetable
sandwich in the cafeteria, which WJ had stocked with actors who were paid to have lunch and not talk to anyone. It wouldn't be right for Seth to realize that he was the only patient in the institution.

There were actor patients, actor nurses and of course his paid doctors who asked the questions WJ wanted asked—and performed periodic cystoscopies to make sure that Seth felt he was actually getting medical care.

WJ entered with a tray of food—exactly what Seth had on his plate—and took a seat at the end of the long metal table. He chewed around the edges of his sandwich, removed the tomato, which he loathed, and looked up at Seth.

The boy's body canted away from WJ, but the boy didn't move—didn't get up and leave—so the answer was yes.

Step Two: Can I talk to you? If you talk back, the answer is yes.

“Food's better today,” he said.

Seth nodded, then said, “Couldn't be much worse.”

Step Three
: Can I mention something a bit off-colour? If you don't object, then the answer is yes.

“This place sucks. It's not doing me any good,” he said.

Again, Seth nodded. “I'm giving it time.”

Step Four: Can I buy you a drink? If you accept, then the answer's yes.

“Can I get you a refill?” WJ said, pointing at Seth's empty Perrier bottle.

“Sure,” Seth said and held out the bottle, wondering when he had started drinking Perrier. It was his father's favourite.

WJ almost touched his hand—if it were a pickup he would have—but this was way more important than any pickup, and the answer was yes.

WJ made his way to the front of the room, gave the counter person Seth's empty bottle and pointed towards him, then left.

Oh, yes, WJ had been pleased—pleased with how things were going and how easy it had been.

He'd used Craigslist to recruit people to populate his Wellness Dream Clinic. What they'd been told was that it was a reality television show called
The Institution. No experience required: Apply to the address above.

Then he'd added this to his listing:
About the Show: Each actor will be assigned a role in the institution, some as orderlies, some as cooks, some as cleaners, some as patients. Each will be given a scenario, which they must follow faithfully. Every moment will be filmed by more than three hundred hidden cameras. Anyone acknowledging that he or she is playing a role—at any time—will immediately be taken off the show and forfeit the thousand-dollar payment. Please read the release below and sign it before applying.

He'd been inundated with folks anxious for their fifteen minutes of fame. So he'd cast his show, then with the help of his hacker business associates lured its star—Seth Roberts—through his Gmail account.

• • •

From the first night in the San Francisco Wellness Dream Clinic, WJ took to watching Seth sleep, although the fact that the boy slept with his eyes open was disconcerting. And then there was all that rapid eye movement—the kid seemed to dream from the moment he fell asleep then on and on through the entire night.

But then his video cameras caught that cop breaking into the clinic, so he'd packed it up and moved Seth here to Southern California, to Carlsbad.

He played his copy of the video of Seth in the Duomo again
and marvelled, for the thousandth time, at the joy on the boy's face.

His Dulcolax had softened up the boy. It was time.

He picked up his Andrea Amati cello, then took a deep breath and said aloud, “It's now or never.” Or had he just thought that? He didn't know.

THE DOOR OF HIS ROOM
opened, and Seth saw an odd sight. The grey-haired man he'd met once in the cafeteria back in the Wellness Dream Clinic was there. He had an old cello in his hands.

“Seth Roberts?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I'm your doctor, and in a way you're my doctor.”

Seth immediately knew that both statements were true and untrue. It confused him.

WJ saw the confusion track across the boy's face.
Good,
he thought. He smiled. “Your treatments are going very well.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, I'm very pleased.”

Seth knew this was a truth—but wondered exactly what truth. “Where am I?”

“We're in Southern California, by the ocean.” Seth nodded. “Did you figure that out?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Seth ignored the question and asked one of his own. “I'm not here to be treated for my cancer, am I?”

WJ didn't say anything.

“I'm not being treated for anything, am I? This is all some kind of bad joke.”

“No it's not, of that I'm sure.”

Seth looked at the grey-haired man. The man wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the truth either. More confusion.

The man opened a laptop and turned it to Seth. With a few keystrokes he brought up a shot of Leonard Harrison. “Ever met him?”

“No. Who is he?”

“Now? That's a good question.”

“What does that mean? I've had enough of this, so if—”

“You're Decker Roberts' son, aren't you?”

That surprised Seth. He hadn't filled out anything that would identify him as Decker's son. In fact, he didn't mention who his father was to anyone—ever.

“Aren't you? No need to answer that, because I know you are. Where is he?”

“I don't know and I don't care.”

“Okay.”

WJ stepped back and looked at the young man—boy. His colour was not good, and he was clearly confused by what had happened to him.

“Did you have me handcuffed?”

“We had to move you here as part of your cure, and you're a very rough sleeper—you call out in your sleep and thrash about and seem to dream all night long. Do you know that you sleep with your eyes wide open? And they are in constant motion. REM sleep they call it. Deep dream sleep. So you see, padded cuffs were only there to keep you safe.” Confusion once again registered across the boy's face. Clearly he wanted to believe that all this was for his health, and yet everything he saw or heard said that something else was going on.

“Look here.” WJ called up a website—the synaesthetes' website. “Do you know what this website is?”