The Forgotten Room (21 page)

Logan, his satchel slung over one shoulder, reached the base of the central staircase without seeing a single person. Turning left, he once again made the journey down the dimly lit corridor of undressed stone toward the gleaming metal door that led to the basement laboratories. This time, however, he could see the thin, birdlike face of Laura Benedict on the far side of the perforated Plexiglas window set into the heavy steel door. As he approached, she punched a series of numbers onto a keypad set into the wall—apparently, the door was locked from both sides. With a low beep and an audible click, the door sprang ajar with a sigh of positively pressurized atmosphere.

Looking briefly over Logan’s shoulder to satisfy herself they were alone, she let him in, then pulled the door shut behind her. The air here was cool and smelt faintly of ammonia.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

Logan nodded. Once again, he was struck by the woman’s evident youth. She led the way down the gleaming corridor with the sharp, almost abrupt movements he recalled from their first meeting. Before, he’d been struck by the aura of sadness she’d seemed to wear almost like a garment. Now, however, he sensed a different emotion: anxiety, even fear.

“We can talk in my lab,” she said as they walked. “It’s not far. There’s nobody else in the secure area—I’ve already checked.”

“I would have thought you had all the computers you needed in your office.”

Benedict smiled wanly. “It’s true. I could probably get by without this lab. But it gives me a quiet place where I can be alone when I’m working on a particularly thorny problem—or when I need a break from Roger.”

As they walked, Logan glanced around curiously. Most of the doors were closed and bore simple airbrushed nameplates, but a few were open, revealing modern and sophisticated labs sporting equipment that he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Unlike the rest of Lux, the lighting here was bright, fluorescent, even a little harsh. It was as different from the polished wood and leather of the mansion above as a level-4 biohazard facility was from a London gentleman’s club.

He followed Benedict around one corner, then another, and then—just as the basement was beginning to resemble a chrome-and-glass labyrinth—she stopped at an open door labeled
BENEDICT
. She ushered him into a sizable room that contained a steel desk surrounded by several Herman Miller chairs in matching gunmetal gray; a whiteboard, currently devoid of writing; two computers linked to a digital projector; and a rack of blade-server CPUs similar to the one in her upstairs office.

Benedict closed the door, then sat in one of the chairs and motioned Logan to do the same. Her face was pale with anxiety.

“Okay,” Logan said, taking the proffered seat and putting his satchel on the floor beside him. “Please tell me exactly what your
suspicions are concerning Roger Carbon, and why you think that I, in particular, might be in danger.”

Benedict swallowed. “It’s hard to know where to begin. Honestly, I’m not sure I can pinpoint just when it started. Roger has such a corrosive personality, you know; he’s always getting into fights with somebody or other.” She paused. “I guess it started three months ago. I noticed that, all of a sudden, he’d become a little secretive. That wasn’t like him—normally, he doesn’t care who hears what he says, what he does. But he started closing his office door. Just occasionally at first, and then more frequently. And every time he did so, he’d get on the phone—I could hear murmurs through the wall, you see. And then, just a couple days before Will Strachey’s death, the two men had a dreadful argument in Roger’s office.”

“Strachey and Carbon? What was it about?”

“I’m not sure. Something about the West Wing. Roger had advocated for him to be in charge of that, you know.”

“That’s always struck me as odd,” Logan interjected. “If Carbon had wanted the work done quickly, you’d think he would have argued for somebody with more experience.”

“As it happened, I only caught the odd line or two of what was said. Will mentioned something about ‘I’m moving ahead whether you like it or not.’ And Roger replied, ‘I’ll see you in hell first.’ I have to tell you, I’ve never seen Will Strachey like that before—livid, really livid.”

“Go on,” Logan said.

“Then, just a few days ago, Roger made another one of his clandestine phone calls. Only this time he didn’t close his door all the way. I made out a little more of the conversation. It was something about a setback…a temporary setback. He seemed to be trying to persuade somebody not to take a certain course of action.”

“Can you provide any more details about the call?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t listening that carefully. It was only after overhearing
those bits and pieces, and comparing them to the other things I’d noticed, that I began to grow…afraid.”

“Why do you think that I might be in danger?” Logan asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? You’re looking into Will’s death. You’re also looking into the West Wing. If Roger is somehow involved with what’s happened, even your presence here is a threat to him.”

“I see.”

Benedict hesitated. “Three days ago, I saw him coming out of your set of rooms.”

“Really?”

“He seemed surprised to see me. Almost nervous—completely out of character. But then he said that he’d recalled something you should know, and, since you weren’t at home, would look for you elsewhere.” Benedict looked curiously at Logan. “Did he find you?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Well, don’t you see? It’s clearly not safe for you here.”

“It’s not exactly safe for me out there, either.”

“The hurricane? You can go stay in one of those block of rooms Lux reserved at the Pawtucket Hilton. I mean, anything could happen here now, with the place deserted like it is. If your life is at risk, don’t you think the best thing would be to leave—leave immediately?”

Logan nodded, but absently, almost to himself. He hesitated. And then slowly he reached across the table and took Laura Benedict’s hand in his. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she made no attempt to pull it away. He held it for perhaps ten seconds, and as he did so he became aware of several emotions: fear, of course; uncertainty; doubt…and something else.

He released her hand. “You haven’t been at Lux very long, have you, Dr. Benedict?”

“Just over two years.”

“Yes. And I recall you saying that Will Strachey was your mentor when you first came here.”

“He was friendly, kind to a newcomer. It made all the difference in the world.”

“Lux provided me with a brief dossier on you—on all the people I’ve interviewed, in fact. As I recall, before coming to Lux, you taught at the Providence Technical University.”

“Yes, that’s right. For about four years.”

“Quantum mechanics, correct?”

Benedict nodded.

“Not quantum computing—the discipline you’re pursuing now.”

Benedict frowned, clearly confused as to where this was going. “They’re closely related fields.”

“Are they? I wasn’t aware of that. In any case, I understand your doctorate was in mechanical engineering. Pardon my ignorance. Is that related, as well?”

Benedict nodded again.

Logan leaned back in his chair. “Providence was your childhood home, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Just east of College Hill.”

“Ah. That would be near the large research lab…the name escapes me…”

“Ironhand.”

“Ironhand. That’s right. As I recall, they have a rather shady reputation for operating in the gray areas of science, sometimes doing weapons research for the highest bidder.”

“Dr. Logan, why are you asking all these questions? Don’t you think it’s more important that you—”

“Why did you suggest that I go to the Pawtucket Hilton just now?”

“Why…” Her confusion deepened. “That’s where Lux reserved all the rooms when the category of the hurricane was upgraded. It’s the safest place for you to go.”

“But over the phone, you told me that block of rooms had filled up hours ago.”

“Did I?” Benedict hesitated. “Well, given your affiliation with Lux, I’m sure the hotel could make some accommodation—”

But Logan interrupted again. “Dr. Benedict, I’m going to ask what might seem like a strange question. I hope you don’t mind. Is your maiden name Watkins?”

Laura Benedict went very still. “Excuse me?”

“Is your maiden name Watkins, by any chance?”

Another curious mixture of emotions—shock, incomprehension, perhaps annoyance—bloomed on her features. “Of course it isn’t. Why would you ask such a thing?”

Logan spread his hands. “Just a hunch.”

“Well, your hunch was wrong.” And then Benedict stood up very slowly. “My maiden name is Ramsey.”

For a long moment, the two simply looked at each other. The overhead lights flickered, dimmed, then brightened again.

“Of course,” Logan said. “Sorrel told me that Dr. Ramsey pioneered a great deal of the technology that made Project Sin possible.”

Laura Benedict did not answer. The anxiety had obviously not left her, but now her chin was thrust forward defensively.

“Why would you lure me down here with these dark rumors about Carbon—about wanting me to leave Lux for my own safety?”

“Because it’s true…you
must
leave Lux, immediately. If you don’t, they’ll kill you. I don’t want that.”

“Just like you didn’t want Strachey to die.”

Benedict’s eyes reddened, and she turned away.

“Then you really did care for him. I’m sorry. What you told me about being beside yourself with grief—you weren’t making that up.”

She shook her head without looking at him.

“Who, exactly, is going to kill me?”

It took her a moment to answer. “I think you know.”

“Ironhand,” Logan replied. It was a statement rather than a question.

Benedict said nothing.

“How did you learn about Project Sin?” Logan asked gently.

Still Benedict did not answer. Then, with a sigh, she turned toward him. “From my grandfather.”

“Dr. Ramsey?” he asked in surprise.

“A month before he died. Almost four years ago. My parents were already dead. He’d kept the secret his entire life. But it had eaten away at him, almost like the cancer that killed him.” As she spoke, Benedict’s voice grew stronger, more assured. “It was
his
research. He’d decided it was vital that his lone heir knew the truth. Dr. Martin’s discovery was an accident.
My
grandfather was the prime mover behind the project. He’d told nobody. But he’d left behind certain…private papers.”

Logan nodded for her to continue.

“The papers weren’t comprehensive. But they explained the project, its potential, my grandfather’s disbelief and chagrin that Lux had so abruptly halted it. I also learned the location of the lab where they had performed the work. It was a remarkable story, a maddening story. But it was all in the past, of course. It had nothing to do with me—I had my own life to live. And then…my husband died.”

She sighed again—a deep, shuddering sigh. As she did so, Logan reached casually into his satchel and, hand hidden from view, quietly switched on his digital recorder.

“I was a scientist myself; it wasn’t hard to secure a position at Lux. Nobody made the connection between me and my grandfather—and even if they had it would have meant nothing.
I immersed myself in my new research into quantum computing. And I bided my time. For quite a while, I was of two minds about whether I should even explore Project Sin. After all, my work was quite fascinating on its own. But the longer I was at Lux, the longer I could hear my grandfather, calling to me from the grave. Calling on me to right the wrong. Nobody was in the West Wing anymore; it was off-limits. That’s when I…I sought out the lab.”

“And found all the paperwork, research journals, studies, laboratory notes.”

“Yes. It was all very thorough.”

“And I assume that made it easy for you to restart the work that had been mothballed.”

For a moment, Benedict looked at him before answering. “The equations were complex. Certain aspects of the machinery were too obsolete to use and had to be replaced with modern equipment. That wasn’t exactly cheap.”

“In other words, you needed a backer. And that’s where Ironhand came in.”

“How do you know about them, anyway?”

“They approached the late Pamela Flood, descendant of Lux’s original architect. She recalled the name as ‘Iron Fist.’ I know the area of Providence you come from quite well. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together.” He paused. “What did they want with the blueprints?”

“They wanted to know if there was another way into the secret room. They didn’t want my work to be interrupted by any unexpected intrusions.” She paused briefly. “At first, their role was small. They fund lots of start-ups, hoping to strike gold one time out of twenty. My relationship with them was no different. They well understood the need for secrecy.”

“But over time, their role grew larger.”

“Yes,” Benedict said again. “When they began to understand the true possibilities of my work.”

My work
. Benedict was breathing more quickly now, her body language becoming restless. Logan wasn’t sure how much longer
she would be cooperative. “But you must have had other problems,” he said. “Getting that work off the ground, I mean.”

“It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s common.”

“Let me guess. Some Lux Fellows who worked or lived near the West Wing eventually started to report strange things. Others were seen acting in a peculiar manner.”

Benedict shrugged. “It was a relatively simple matter of adjusting the proximity beam.”

“Yes. I understand the device has two modes, a field generator and a narrowly confined transmission signal. Those people must have been affected by your initial experiments with the field mode.”

Benedict, who had been looking away, glanced back at him sharply. “As I said, it was a simple matter.”

“But you had a more serious problem on your hands. Lux had decided to renovate the West Wing.”

She looked at him, frowning.

Suddenly, Logan understood something. “You’ve told me that Carbon lobbied for Strachey to be the one put in charge of the renovation. And that’s true—isn’t it? What you left out was the fact that
you
convinced Carbon to suggest Strachey. What was it you told me—that Roger was a ‘pussycat’ in your hands? That doesn’t jibe with your being afraid of him; I should have noticed that before. You assumed that Strachey would be slow at getting up to speed; that the renovation would take a lot longer than it did. That the forgotten lab
—your
lab, now—would remain hidden. But he moved more quickly than you’d expected.”

“I was in the last stages of making the technology transportable,” Benedict said, turning away again. “Of making the central amplification unit unnecessary; moving the hardware out of Lux and into Ironhand’s secure labs.”

“So you needed just a few more days…days that Strachey’s death should have given you.”

“He wasn’t supposed to die!”
she said, wheeling back. Tears sprung from her eyes.

“A double irony, since I was called to Lux to investigate his death and, in turn, found the room—preventing you from finishing.”

Benedict said nothing.

“And then you tried to stop me, the same way you stopped him. Only it didn’t work…not the way you intended, at least. I imagine you’re wondering about that.”

Benedict looked at him but remained silent.

“What about Pamela Flood? Was she supposed to die? That’s the way your friends at Ironhand work. Doesn’t that tell you something about them? And how did they learn about Pam, anyway—was my phone tapped?”

When Benedict’s only response was to shake her head, Logan placed one hand on the desk and folded the other over it. “Tell me about the research, then,” he said. “Have you succeeded where your forebears did not—creating a wholly safe treatment for schizophrenia, with no possibility of misuse?”

Now Benedict answered. “I did try. At first. But I soon learned that what was true in the 1930s is even more true today. You can guess the rest for yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, please don’t be coy, Dr. Logan. After all, you’ve already seen Sorrel.”

Logan nodded slowly. So she knew about his visit to Fall River—a journey undertaken only that day. “In other words,” he began again, “the problem has become more porous, rather than more solvable, as technology has advanced. So I assume you put aside its beneficial effects in favor of enhancing its harmful ones. In other words, weaponizing it.”

“Simplistic, but correct.”

“Interesting.” Logan paused, thinking. “If all efforts to use the sound waves to
cure
schizophrenia were abandoned, and attention paid solely to the effects that the wave caused
naturally
—and enhancing them—no doubt some extremely disagreeable reactions would result.”

“Hallucinations. Paracusia. Delusions. And that was just the start.”

“The start of what?” Logan asked.

“My refinements.”

“What refinements, exactly?”

Benedict gripped the back of the chair, leaned in toward him. “You know, it’s almost a relief to talk about it with somebody who can understand—even, perhaps, appreciate. The Ironhand people are mostly interested in the end result. You see, I’ve been able to accomplish two things in particular: widen the perceived effects of the beam and enhance its functionality.”

Logan waited, listening.

“My grandfather and the others, of course, weren’t interested in intensifying the schizoid effects,” Benedict went on. “Nor was I, initially…until I realized the so-called negative effects were the only ones the device could produce effectively. Initially, the sonic waves only affected certain 5-HT
_2A
serotonin receptors in the frontal cortex.”

Logan nodded. Sorrel had hinted as much.

“But I was able to create not just a single wave, but a harmonic series that would not only trigger additional effects on the brain, but also enhance the effects of the initial carrier wave.”

“The devil’s interval,” Logan murmured.

She looked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“The flatted fifth. G flat, for example, over C. It was a particular interval between two notes banned from church music in the Renaissance for its supposedly evil influence.”

“Indeed? In any case, this synergistic wave—of two hypersonic pulses—caused a far wider spectrum of serotonin receptors to, in essence, overload. This effect could be maintained long after the wave itself had been cut off—I’ve witnessed serotonergic abnormalities lasting for eight, even twelve hours. Theoretically, with an initial pulse of sufficient strength, they could be imprinted indefinitely.”

Indefinitely
. Logan felt a sudden chill. “Witnessed these abnormalities in what?”

Benedict paused. “Lab animals.”

“And in Strachey, too. And perhaps other human subjects—willing or otherwise—at Ironhand?” When there was no reply, Logan added: “What kind of abnormalities?”

“I’ve already mentioned a few.” She drew in a breath. “Perception distortion, for example.”

“As in synesthesia.”

Benedict nodded. “All manner of false sensory signals. Enhanced sight, sound, taste, combined with hallucinatory factors. Eidetic imagery. Ego death. Altered sense of time. Catastrophic shifts in cognition. Complete dissociation from reality—”

“My God!” Logan interrupted this catalogue of horrors. “You’re talking not only about complete psychosis here—you’re also talking about the worst LSD trip of all time!”

“Scientists once thought LSD and schizophrenia were connected,” Benedict said, shrugging. “And there were a few files in the room concerning early tests on ergotamine derivatives—that was a few years before LSD was actually synthesized from ergotamine, of course. But my hypersonic interval is so much cleaner.”

“Cleaner.” Logan shook his head, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. As she’d spoken, Benedict’s voice had grown stronger, the shine of her eyes brighter; she took obvious pride in what she’d accomplished.

“Of
course
, cleaner,” Benedict told him. “Isn’t that what we want—clean, effective weapons? This is the cleanest weapon there is.”

“Laura, how…” Logan stopped, momentarily baffled. “Can’t you see how wrong this is?”

“Wrong? I’m helping my country.”

“How, exactly?”

“By giving it a new way to defend itself. Look what’s happening in the news
every day
. We’re being attacked, not just on one, but on many fronts. And we may insist on fighting fair, but our
enemies don’t. Not anymore. That’s why, without this technology, we’re going to lose the war.”

“But don’t we have enough weapons as it is? And this—this
device
of yours is cruel. It’s unthinkable. To drive somebody, perhaps an entire army, insane, or to send them on an endless bad trip…Laura, there are reasons chemical weapons were outlawed. And what if this weapon
is
deployed? Just how long do you think it will take for the technology to be leaked—and the same diabolical ordnance used against our own men and women?”

Logan fell silent. For a moment, the two merely looked at each other. Once again, the basement lights faltered for a moment before brightening again. At last, Benedict turned on her heel, opened the door to the lab, and began making her way back down the corridor. Logan jumped to his feet, turned off the recorder and slipped it into his satchel, and began to follow.

“Listen,” he said as they made their way back through the passages. “I understand. You’re in denial. It’s only human. At the start, you were thinking—understandably—about a wrong done to your grandfather. And a weapon with as much potential power as this one…well, it could be worth a great deal. It meant money.”

“Naturally it meant money,” Benedict said, stopping to face him. “My grandfather was a brilliant man. He practically invented this technology single-handedly—only to be marginalized, to have his greatest creation swept under the rug. He was never recognized for his achievements. He
should
be recognized. Compensated. My
family
should have been compensated.” She turned back, continued down the hall. “This is my rightful legacy,” she said over her shoulder. “My inheritance.”

“What is it you want to inherit, Laura?” Logan asked. “Ruin, madness, death? Listen: I’ll bet you haven’t spent much time really thinking about how this would end—about the damage this research would cause if placed in the wrong hands. It’s true—your grandfather, and by extension yourself, have accomplished something remarkable. But if you’d take a moment to step back, to see
the ethical reality of the situation, you’ll know that this isn’t the way.”

Ahead, the metal of the secure barrier came into view. As Logan spoke, Benedict slowed, then stopped. “I was wrong,” she said quietly, without looking back.