“Thanks for the sandwich,” Logan replied. He watched her leave, shutting the door behind her. His eyes traveled to the sandwich, sitting on the white china plate. Then they moved to the sheet containing three paragraphs — the brief dossiers of the scientists behind Project Sin. After a moment, he picked up the sheet and began rereading it thoughtfully.

40

The Taunton River Assisted Living Community was a cream-colored three-story building on Middle Street in Fall River, Massachusetts. Logan parked in the lot behind the building, then — leaning into the howling wind — went through the front entrance and made a series of inquiries.

“That’s him over there,” a second-floor nurse said five minutes later. “By the window.”

“Thanks,” Logan replied.

“How did you say you’re related again?”

“Distantly,” Logan said. “It’s complicated.”

“Well, however you’re related, it’s nice of you to stop by, especially with this storm approaching. Both his children are dead, and his grandchildren never visit. Shame, really — mentally, at least, he’s still sharp.”

“Thank you again.”

The nurse nodded toward the box of chocolates in Logan’s hand. “He can’t have those, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll leave them at the nurse’s station on the way out.”

He walked through the large community room, past superannuated men and women watching television, playing cards, doing jigsaw puzzles, mumbling to themselves, or in some cases just sitting with vacant expressions on their faces. He stopped before a large picture window in the far wall. It overlooked Kennedy Park and, past the train tracks, the approach to Battleship Cove. A wheelchair was placed by the window, and in it sat perhaps the oldest man Logan had ever seen. His face was sallow and covered with an incredible tracery of wrinkles; the bony white knuckles that grasped the arms of the chair almost threatened to burst through the tissue-paper skin. Extreme age had shrunk and twisted his body into the shape of a comma. A tube of oxygen lay in the base of the wheelchair, and a nasal cannula was fixed in place. But the faded blue eyes that glanced Logan’s way as he approached were as bright as a bird’s.

“Dr. Sorrel?” Logan asked.

The man looked at him a moment longer. At last, he nodded in the faintest of motions.

“My name is Logan.”

The old man’s gaze dropped to the chocolates. “Can’t have those,” he said. His voice was like dry leaves skittering over broken paving stones.

“I know.”

Sorrel’s gaze rose again. “What do you want?”

“May I?” Logan pulled up a chair beside the old man. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“Talk all you like.”

Logan sat down. “Actually, I’d rather hear what you have to say.”

“About what?”

Even though nobody was listening, Logan lowered his voice slightly. “Project Sin.”

The old man went very still. The knuckles grasping the arms of the wheelchair turned even whiter. Slowly, his eyes left Logan’s and drifted away. It took a long time for him to respond. Finally, the end of a tiny pink tongue emerged to wet his lips. He cleared his throat.

“Quite a storm brewing,” he said.

Logan glanced out the picture window. The leading edge of Hurricane Barbara was approaching the city, and the trees in the park were writhing crazily in the wind, small branches and green clouds of leaves streaming away in contrails beneath an ominous sky. The streets were eerily deserted.

“Yes, there is,” he agreed.

“What did you say again?” the old man asked.

“I said, I’d like some information about Project Sin.”

“Can’t help you with that.”

“I think you can, Dr. Sorrel.”

Sorrel’s eyes rolled in his head, as if he was looking around for assistance.

“Don’t worry,” Logan said, keeping his voice low. “My visit is officially sanctioned.”

“I’m ninety-eight. I’m an old man. My memory’s not so good.”

“I doubt if you’ve forgotten this particular project. But let me refresh your memory anyway. Project Synesthesia was undertaken at the think tank known as Lux, in Newport. It was halted rather abruptly by Lux’s director, Charles Ransom, in the nineteen thirties. You were one of the three scientists involved, along with Martin Watkins and Edwin Ramsey. They’re both dead. You’re the only one left.”

Sorrel’s only response was a faint shaking of the head, whether through denial or palsy, Logan couldn’t be sure.

“I — perhaps I should say we, since I’m working at the behest of Lux — know about the secret room. I’ve been inside. I’ve seen the equipment. And I know why your work was halted: there were fears it could be used in ways harmful to mankind.”

Sorrel’s head jerked in an involuntary spasm. He closed his eyes. The lids were so thin, Logan could almost see the irises beneath.

“Someone — we’re not sure who — recently broke into the room. We believe they are trying to restart the old experiments. Based on their actions, I can only assume they’re less interested in the beneficial aspects of your work than in the harmful ones. But they’ve taken away all the lab notes, all the files. I need you to tell me just what you were working on.”

Still no response.

Logan reached into a pocket of his jacket, withdrew an envelope, took out a folded sheet, and showed it to Sorrel. It was a letter from Olafson, on Lux stationery, giving Sorrel permission to answer any and all of Logan’s questions, without reservation. The old man scanned it with his eyes, hands still clutching the arms of the wheelchair. After a minute, he turned his head away.

“How did you find me?” he asked at last.

“It wasn’t easy,” Logan said.

There was a silence while the old man’s lips worked. “I made a vow,” he said at last.

“So did Olafson, the current director. But he broke it — and for good reason.”

“I’ve kept that vow,” Sorrel said, more to himself than to Logan. “All these years, I’ve kept it.”

Logan leaned in still closer. “Dr. Sorrel,” he said. “Since the secret room was broken into, two people have died. Others have been adversely affected to a greater or lesser degree. Some are experiencing synesthesia — tasting voices, smelling music. I need to know what you were working on, and the reason that work was stopped. Only you can help me. There’s no one else.”

As Logan was speaking, the old man had gone very still.

“Dr. Sorrel?” Logan asked.

No reply.

“Your help is vital. It’s critical.”

Still nothing.

“Dr. Sorrel?”

At last, the old man stirred. “Two eighteen,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Two eighteen. That’s my room.” For the first time, Sorrel lifted one of his hands and pointed toward a hallway. “It’s down that way. We can talk in there.”

41

Sorrel’s room at Taunton River was quite large, but as spartan as a monk’s cell. There was a hospital bed with a suite of vital monitors on the wall above it; a spare tank of oxygen; a single window looking out onto the roiling, ever-darkening sky. There was a tray table on wheels, a few magazines arrayed atop it. Logan was surprised to see recent issues of JAMA, The Lancet, and Nature, apparently well thumbed.

Logan moved the wheelchair to a position facing a small couch, then, closing the curtains against the ominous, distracting view, took a seat.

“Show me the letter again,” Sorrel said in his breathy whisper.

Logan complied.

“Tell me about the deaths,” Sorrel asked. “Please.”

“One was a computer scientist, a longtime resident at Lux. He’d been tasked with restoring the West Wing, which has been closed for years. He suddenly became violent, hysterical — completely out of character — raved about voices in his head, some barely articulated threat to his well-being. It was unendurable, and he killed himself.”