Fringe - the Zodiac Paradox (19 page)

“Yes, of course,” Walter said. “But that doesn’t justify risking the lives of innocent bystanders.”

“I’ve already said as much, Walter,” Bell responded brusquely. “There’s no need to belabor the point.”

“I’ve got it,” Nina said. “Roscoe and his band have a rehearsal space over in India Basin. It’s big, secure, and was specifically chosen because there are no neighbors to complain about the noise. The few neighboring buildings that have active businesses all close down before 6 p.m. and that block isn’t zoned for residences. It’s perfect.”

“The place where Violet Sedan Chair rehearses,” Walter intoned. “I would love to see it.”

The three of them packed up their equipment, piled into the Beetle and headed down to India Basin.

* * *

The Violet Sedan Chair rehearsal space really was perfect. It was inside an unmarked and unremarkable brick building on Spear Avenue, across the street from an abandoned shipyard. There wasn’t a single vehicle parked on the street, no sign of a living soul. Unless one wanted to include the fat brown wharf rats Walter spotted trundling over the piles of scrap.

They entered the building through a smaller door cut into a huge metal rolling door the size of a drive-in movie screen. Nina flipped a huge switch that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Doctor Frankenstein’s laboratory. For such an impressive switch, the resulting illumination was somewhat disappointing. Just a few motley antique floor lamps with red and blue bulbs, a single black light that made their teeth and eyes glow, and a small lamp illuminating the keyboard of a majestic old grand piano.

There was a giant Persian rug that made the rough shape of a stage in the center of the concrete floor. The piano and a garish, fluorescent green and orange drum kit were situated on it, as if the door were the audience. Along the back edge of the rug stood a wall of amplifiers that made Walter’s ears hurt just looking at them.

There were also several battered couches and chairs situated as if to observe performances on the rug-stage. A streamlined, 1950s refrigerator was off to one side, and a portable heater plugged into a long, snaking extension cord on the other. When Walter peeked into the fridge, he discovered that it was empty except for a single lonely can of beer and a package of Ho Hos.

Directly above the rug-stage was a large, grimy skylight.

“Yes,” Walter said. “Yes, I think this will be ideal.”

“It’s a bit chilly,” Bell noted, waving his fingers through the pale steam formed by his breath. He set down the canvas messenger bag that he had used to carry the alpha wave generator.

“Clearly that’s what this is for,” Nina said, cranking the knob on the heater and releasing a dusty hot electric train smell.

“I wish we’d opted for hot coffee instead of cola for the mixer,” Bell said, setting down the small cooler at Walter’s feet.

“Absolutely,” Walter agreed, opening the cooler and taking out a bottle. “But we want to keep as many variables consistent as possible.”

Bell took a bottle for himself, and then pulled out the tiny vial of their special blend. He dosed both of their beverages with the exact same amount as the previous experiments, then placed the vial and syringe on top of the cooler.

“Okay, boys,” Nina said, pulling her gun and a stopwatch from her purse. “Where do you want me to be?”

“I think it would be best if we lay down here, on this rug beneath the skylight,” Walter said, taking a swig of his medicated cola. “We can place the biofeedback machine in the center and Nina, you wait there by the piano.”

“We don’t know exactly where the gate will open,” Bell said. “But I can’t imagine it would be more than a few feet away.”

“What if I can’t see it?” Nina asked. “What if only altered minds are able to perceive the gateway?”

“Well, we have no prior data to assess,” Walter said, casting a meaningful glance in their direction. “So we won’t know until we try. That’s why we have to experiment like this, in a controlled area, so that when it comes time to confront the killer, we’ll be ready to put him back where he belongs.”

“But for now,” Bell said. “We’ll do our best to articulate what we’re seeing. That way, even if you don’t see it, you’ll know exactly when it opens and where it’s located in relation to us.”

Walter and Bell clinked their bottles together and drained their dosed colas, then went to work setting up the small, battery-operated biofeedback rig they’d modified to sync their alpha waves during the trip.

When everything was set, they lay down on the faded carpet and waited.

Walter concentrated on the soothing hum of the wireless machine, working on staying as calm and open-minded as possible, then focusing on the rhythm of Bell’s breath and trying to slow his own to match.

* * *

He was just starting to experience the first hints of hallucinogenic onset, simple geometric shapes hunching along the edges of perception like bulky, glowing inch worms, when the band showed up.

“Hey, Nina!” Roscoe said, a big inebriated smile on his usually dour face. “Great to see you, babe.” He paused, a comical look of surprise supplanting the grin. “Is that a gun?”

Nina plunged her gun hand into the suede purse.

“Um... no.” She took her now empty right hand from the purse, and ran it over her hair. “What are you guys doing here? I thought you usually rehearsed on Thursdays.”

“You know how it is,” Chick said, the sticker-covered guitar case in one hand. “Some times you just get bit by the inspiration bug.”

Two other men whom Walter hadn’t met yet came in behind Chick, both with guitar cases of their own. He didn’t need to be introduced to the other two members of Violet Sedan Chair. He instantly recognized Alex Chambers and Oregon Dave Ormond from the photo on their album cover, and his tripping mind painted their skin with the appropriate psychedelic colors and organic paisley shapes.

From an experimental standpoint, this was a disaster, but he couldn’t suppress his childlike excitement over the appearance of the whole band. He wanted to jump up and greet them, but he was surprised to find that his body had melded with the weave of the dusty rug beneath him, making it impossible to get up.

He watched Chick hug Nina, lifting her off her feet and spinning her in a circle. Her shimmering red hair and green suede heels left spiral trails in the air, distracting him until Roscoe found the vial of their special acid blend on top of the cooler, and held it up for the rest of the band to see.

“Check this, man,” he said. “This looks like some pharmaceutical grade shit right here.”

“You put that down,” Nina said, lunging at him.

Roscoe tossed the vial to Chick, like big kids playing keep away from a smaller child in a schoolyard.

“Look at these two,” Iggy, the drummer said, gesturing to Walter and Bell splayed out on the carpet. “They’re tripping balls!”

“Far out,” Roscoe said. “We need to knock off a piece of that action.”

Chick grabbed the syringe and started to fill it from the vial while the other laughing musicians kept Nina back.

“Chick, don’t...” she began, but it was too late. He squirted the dose directly into his mouth.

Nina threw up her hands, disgusted, as Chick passed the vial to Roscoe.

“Don’t be so uptight, Nina,” Roscoe said, dosing himself. “You need to loosen up. Live a little. Share the wealth.” He went from person to person, dosing the rest of the band like a mama bird feeding her chicks.

“Okay, look,” Nina said. “We’re conducting a scientific experiment here.”

“My kinda science,” Alex said, opening his mouth wide to receive the chemical sacrament.

“Just shut up and
listen,”
she snapped.

The band members settled down, like unruly kids brought to heel by a feared teacher.

“Since you’ve already helped yourselves,” she continued. “The least you can do is help us in return. Right?”

“Help you how?” Iggy asked.

“The experiment,” she said, “is in telepathy and shared experience. My two colleges are attempting to sync minds using a combination of the hallucinogenic compound you just ingested, and enhanced biofeedback technology.”

“Far out, man,” Dave said. “What do you need from us?”

“Why don’t you guys lie down in the circle here,” she suggested. “And see if any of you are able connect your minds with them. The image that I want you to picture in your minds is a gateway, like a portal in the air. Okay?”

Brilliant,
Walter thought from within the depths of his trip.

She’s brilliant,
Bell’s mind echoed inside Walter’s head.
Brilliant and ruthless.

If the musicians were on the trip with them, linked in and working in synch, would it not naturally strengthen and enhance the gate? It might even allow the gate to stay stable, and open even longer. And while Walter had never even considered involving anyone else in their experiment, due to the risks involved, Nina didn’t bat an eye. She just saw an opportunity to take advantage of an unexpected situation, and took it.

Walter could feel Bell’s mind reaching out to her again, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. A flame like her red hair, falling coquettishly around her face like shimmering waves of liquid autumn.

Walter shook his head, feeling himself drawn to Nina, as well. But they needed her on the
outside,
now more than ever. They needed to stay focused, and so did she. Especially with this sudden and unexpected influx of unknown individuals.

Belly,
he said, or thought, or just imagined that he thought.
Focus!
He reached out to Bell with his mind, calling him back into the loop of their own intimate connection. Reluctantly, Bell allowed his attention to be turned away from Nina and back to the task at hand.

The band members settled into a rough ring around the biofeedback machine, heads toward the center. At first they were snickering and goofing around, but as the acid started to kick in, they all settled down and grew quiet.

Roscoe’s mind opened itself to Walter first, revealing an intricate, endless Fibonacci spiral, like a transparent nautilus, each tiny chamber haunted by a treasured fragment of music. Then Chick and Alex joined the psychic orchestra, light and dark twins blown like autumn leaves on the wind of Roscoe’s music. Then Dave, a quiet, soulful presence defined by simple pleasures like sunshine and a girl’s laughter and pancakes and memories of a childhood dog. Then Iggy, his strong, comforting thoughts as regular and steady as his drum beats, creating order out of the tripping chaos.

And Walter, feeling like a conductor, poised with baton held high above the orchestra pit.

“Now,” he said. Or maybe he just thought it.

And the gate opened.

* * *

Allan peered down through the skylight of the warehouse at the tremulous shimmer that had boiled to life like steam from a kettle in the middle of the circle of musicians. He had seen that light before, on the same night he had first seen the two hippies from Reiden Lake. The same night the pigs and their dogs had chased him into the water. The same night he had tumbled through the strange gateway and found himself in another world that was so like, and yet so
unlike,
his own.

He had always wondered what had opened the gate that brought him to this world, but he had never been able to formulate any kind of concrete theory. It had all happened too quickly, and in the middle of such chaos, that he hadn’t been able to objectively observe the phenomenon.

He’d turned the mystery over in his mind during his idle hours, and had even considered the possibility that it might have been his own desperate desire to escape that had somehow opened up a hole between worlds, and granted him his wish.

But here was a much more convincing explanation. He had just seen the entire assemblage take acid and arrange themselves in a circle around this weird machine, to participate in some sort of communal trip. And out of that trip had risen the shimmer.

It must have been the same at Reiden Lake. He was tripping, and those kids must have been tripping, too, linking the three of them into a mutual experience that had opened a hole in the fabric between their worlds, and allowed him to fall through.

Allan’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest as it all became clear. Those two seemingly harmless, bumbling idiots had come to San Francisco not just to stop him, but to send him back to the world of his birth.

He stood and stepped back from the skylight. This could not happen. He could not
allow
it to happen.

As he drew his gun and turned back to the edge of the roof, he paused. There was smoke in the air. And the sound of screaming.

The trip was breaking up, fading fast. Above them, the shimmering gate was dissipating as well, its long, reaching tendrils breaking into watery fragments that spun away into misty nothingness.

Roscoe sat up beside Walter on the Persian carpet and looked up at the skylight.

“Oh... wow, man,” he said. “That thing, it was... wow... I think I got enough material out of that trip for an entire concept album. We need to jam. Right now, while the juices are still flowing!”

Roscoe leapt to his feet and staggered over to the piano. Walter blinked and looked up—he had been completely focused on Bell, trying to hold open the connection for as long as possible.

In the background, he registered sounds from outside, but they were too far away for him to identify their nature.

“B-flat,” Roscoe said, fingers playing over the keys with a funky little riff.

Walter ignored the ecstatic singer and looked over at Nina, who still stood by with her handgun and stopwatch, just outside of the circle.

“How long?” he asked. “How long was it open.”

She checked the watch.

“Thirty-seven seconds,” she said. “Maybe thirty-eight.”

Iggy the drummer sat up, scratching his beard and wearing a dreamy expression. Beside him Chick Spivy was suddenly reanimated by the sound of Roscoe’s playing, and responded by rolling over and unlatching his guitar case.

“That’s it, man,” he said, unwrapping a length of cord and plugging into the wall of amps. He prodded the prone base player with the toe of a battered Frye boot. “Come on, Davey! Get in on this.”