“How did the others take it?”

“You mean, Martin and Edwin? About as you’d expect. It hit Martin especially hard. Even though Edwin pioneered much of the technology that made the work possible, Martin was the one who first stumbled onto the process. We parted ways immediately. None of us wanted to talk about it — even if we’d been allowed to. I moved back to Massachusetts, found work in a local hospital. Martin eventually killed himself.”

A brief silence settled over the room. Logan glanced up at the curtained windows. “Let me ask you just a few more specific questions about the equipment. We found several bulky suits hanging in one corner of the room. I’m assuming those were used by the operators of the machinery to shield them from negative effects.”

“If we’d been successful, those suits would no longer have been necessary.”

“The central device has two settings: beam and field.”

“The therapy was meant to be administered in two distinct ways. The first way would be to have several patients assembled together, so that they could be treated as a group.”

“I see. That would explain the roman numerals on the floor. So that would be the field setting?”

Sorrel nodded.

“And beam?”

“That allowed people to be treated individually, in remote locations. A radio wave would be sent out at a particular frequency to one of several small devices we constructed. When one of the devices received a signal, it would in turn emit an ultrasonic wave.”

“These small devices you mention. Were they stored in a recessed drawer on the central machine?”

“Yes.”

“How were they powered?”

“The usual way — by electricity. They had wall plugs, solenoids, vacuum tubes.”

Logan thought a moment. “The displays on the faceplate of the Machine. They were graduated from one to ten.”

“That’s right.”

“What was the standard medicated dose you administered?”

“Normally, two. Sometimes, as high as five — but those were only in the cases of the most floridly psychotic.”

“This was in the field setting, I assume.”

“Correct.”

“What would happen if you redlined it?”

Sorrel frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Turned it all the way to ten.”

“Ah. I understand.” Sorrel passed a trembling hand over his lips. “We never ‘redlined’ it.”

Logan hesitated before asking the final question. “In a few decades, the quarantine will be lifted. A small panel will be convened to discuss whether Project Sin should be revived — whether technology has advanced sufficiently so that your work could never be used against humanity. Do you think that will prove to be the case?”

The old man looked at him a moment. Then he shook his head. “I’ve wanted to think so. All this time, I’ve wanted that. But no — I don’t think it will ever happen. Project S is a Pandora’s box. I hate to say it, but they were right to close it down. And if you’re right, young man: if someone has secretly opened it again…they’ll be opening a window into hell.”

A window into hell. Logan stood up. “Thank you, Dr. Sorrel — for your time, and your candor.”

“Good luck.” And Sorrel raised a withered hand in farewell. “Sounds like you’re going to need it.”

42

As evening fell, and heavy rain lashed the gables, parapets, and spires of the Lux mansion, a cell phone rang in the small set of rooms in the far section of the second floor.

It was picked up on the third ring. “Hello.”

“Abrams,” came the voice from northern Virginia.

“I know who it is.”

“Logan’s up in Fall River, Massachusetts.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“He went to a retirement community. He visited with the last of the three still aboveground.”

The person on the second floor did not reply.

“We think he knows everything,” the man named Abrams said.

“That old scientist is probably in his dotage. The likelihood is Logan just heard a lot of rambling.”

“Our information suggests the old scientist’s memory is just fine.”

“Even if that’s true, all Logan would learn is the backstory. He doesn’t know about me. About us.”

“He’ll learn soon enough. It’s only a matter of time. We’re going to handle this.”

“Like you ‘handled’ the architect?”

“Yes. Time is of the essence now. We’ve waited long enough. We can’t afford any more delays.”

“I told you, I’ll deal with Logan.”

“You had your chance,” said Abrams. “It’s out of your hands now.”

“No. That’s not the way. People will get suspicious—”

“With this hurricane bearing down on Newport? You must be joking. It’s perfect. Logan’s on the way back there now. Are people leaving the mansion?”

“The evacuation is voluntary. But, yes, many have left already.”

“All the better. After the hurricane passes, they’ll find Logan’s battered body washed up on shore. They’ll be saddened — but they won’t be suspicious.”

“It’s dangerous to kill him.”

“It’s more dangerous to let him live. And he’s not the only one who knows too much. You’d be surprised how much collateral damage this storm may cause.” There was the briefest of pauses. “You wait. We’re going to take care of this, once and for all.”

43

Two hours later, around eight thirty p.m., Kim Mykolos was sitting cross-legged on her bed, typing industriously on a laptop. A sudden slam caused her to look up abruptly.

She glanced in the direction of the bathroom she shared with Leslie Jackson. It was unoccupied, and Leslie’s own room, beyond the bathroom, was also dark and empty — she’d left that afternoon to ride out the hurricane with relatives inland. Kim had no relatives within easy driving distance, and she’d turned down an offer from a friend to stay with his parents in Hartford. Despite the hurricane, the huge stone mansion seemed as safe a place as any…and besides, she was onto something interesting.

Another slam. This time, she realized it was a wooden shutter banging against a nearby casement, shaking the butterfly cases that sat on her bedside table. Earlier in the afternoon, maintenance had come by to make sure all windows were secured against the blast. One of the shutters must have come loose in the wind.

The phone on her pillow began to vibrate. She picked it up, glanced at the number of the incoming call. “Yes?”

“Kim. It’s Jeremy.”

“Where are you?”

“At a gas station, just north of Roger Williams University.”

“I thought you’d be back here hours ago.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But the Sakonnet bridge is out, so I had to take the long way, via Warren and Bristol. And with this weather, traffic on 103 and 136 is crawling. I guess you’re not leaving?”

“No. I’m here for the duration.”

“In that case, you can do something for me.”

“What?”

“You know those two small devices we found, stored in the Machine?”

“Know them? I’ve been slaving over one for what seems like days now.”

“I want you to hide them away someplace. Someplace safe. And get the one from inside the radio in Strachey’s rooms, please. Hide it as well.”

“But I’m in the middle of…” She hesitated. “Got it.”

“And then I’d like you to search my bedroom for another device, just like those others. It would most likely be hidden somewhere along my common wall with Wilcox, maybe behind a dresser or a bookcase. If you find one, put it with the others. I’d do it myself, only I don’t know when I’ll get there — and I don’t want to leave this to chance.”

“What is all of this about, exactly?”

“I told you why I went up to Fall River, who I was hoping to see. Well, Sorrel revealed a lot about Project Sin. It seems they were working on a way to treat schizophrenia using high-frequency sound waves.”

Mykolos caught her breath. No wonder…

“They’d managed to reproduce schizophrenia-like symptoms in normal people, using a particular sound frequency, and hoped a different frequency would have the opposite effect in actual schizophrenics. But they never succeeded. In fact, modifying their experiment only made the effects worse. So the project was mothballed.”