“These are the men I told you about,” says Devon, walking to the gate. I hear the beeps as he punches in the code, but they all sound the same; I can’t guess the numbers from the sounds. The men come through and Devon closes the gate behind them. “They’re here to see you, Michael, they’re from the FBI.”
My blood grows cold.
“I’m Agent Leonard,” says the tall one, and points to the Asian. “This is my partner, Agent Chu. We’d like to have a word with you if we could.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“We never said you did.”
“You think I’m the Red Line Killer, that’s why you’re here, but I’m innocent—I’ve never killed anybody. I’ve never even hurt anybody.”
“We just want to talk to you,” says Agent Chu. “We’re hoping you might be able to help us.”
Devon stands next to me. “He’s not exactly … healthy … right now. I don’t know what you expect to learn from him.”
“Dr. Little explained his condition when we spoke with him,” says Agent Leonard. “We understand that he’s crazy—”
“We don’t use that word,” says Devon quickly.
“I apologize,” says Leonard. “Is there a room we could go to?”
Devon leads them to one of the private therapy rooms, a small room with a round table and a ring of plastic chairs. I don’t follow, but Devon comes back and pulls me toward it, coaxing me with a promise of candy.
“Does that work on the other patients?” I ask.
“Just come on,” says Devon, “they’re not going to hurt you, they just want to ask you some questions.”
I stand in the doorway, bracing myself against the wall so he can’t push me in. “Cell phones out first.”
“What?”
“No cell phones, no recorders, no electronic devices of any kind,” I say. “You want to talk to me, I want to make sure they’re not listening.” Unless the whole room is already wired—who knows what that man in the hall was doing here.
“Is it alright if we just turn them off?” asks Agent Chu. I stare at him, wondering if he’s part of it—if you take off his face, would he look like the other man in the hall? But no—even faceless, I feel like I can recognize them, and this man is different. They both are. I nod, and they turn off their phones.
I slip in carefully and sit down, pulling my chair to the door so I can run if I need to. Devon comes in as well, closing the door behind him.
“Let’s start by saying that this is not an interrogation,” says Agent Leonard. “We know about your condition, we know about the hallucinations and delusions, we know that everything you say here might be completely imaginary. Nothing you say today will be used as evidence against you, okay? We just want to ask you some questions.”
I sit still, waiting. After a moment he speaks again.
“You say you see Faceless Men,” he says. “Can you please describe them?”
“Why, do you know about them? That’s what this is, isn’t it—you’re FBI, you know all about the conspiracy.” I look at Devon, grinning. “I told you they were real.”
“Please just describe them, Michael, so that we know we’re on the same page.”
“They’re … men without faces.”
“I need you to be more specific than that. If the face is gone, what’s there instead?”
“Nothing.”
“There has to be something—even a hole is ‘something.’”
“It’s not a hole,” I say, “it’s like their face is just … blank. There’re no features, no eyes and nose and mouth.”
Agent Chu passes his hand over his face. “You mean just smooth skin?”
“It’s more like a … like a blur,” I say. “Like a smear.”
“Red?”
“It’s skin-colored,” I say, “not blood or anything like that. Their faces aren’t destroyed, they’re just … not there. That’s why I’m not the killer.”
“When was the last time you saw one of these men,” asks Agent Leonard, then shakes his head slightly, “not counting the one in the hall?”
“There was one in the hospital.”
“Standing up, like the one you saw today?”
“Of course.”
“And before that?”
“There was one that came into the bakery,” I say. “I have a job at Mueller’s Bakery, and there was one that came in there every week.”
Agent Chu writes that down. My pulse quickens, and I try to control my breathing. “Is that important?”
“We just want to get all the information we can,” says Agent Leonard. “Can you tell us the last time you saw the man in the bakery?”
“It was a woman.”
“A faceless woman?” He looks confused.
“She bought bread.”
“That doesn’t sound very ominous,” says Agent Chu. “I thought this was a secret cabal watching your every move, not just people in the neighborhood.”
“She was checking up on me,” I say. I don’t like his tone—he’s not joking with me, he’s serious. He sounds … suspicious. “That was part of how they kept tabs on me.”
“And the last time you saw her?”
“About a month ago, I guess. Right before the two weeks I can’t remember. I’m not exactly sure—it’s hard to keep track of time in here.”
“Can you describe what they were wearing?” asks Agent Leonard.
“The one at the bakery had just regular clothes, I guess. A dress, with like … flowers, I think.” It’s hard to remember. I never got a good look, because I always hid in the back when she came.
“Not a lot of housewives wear dresses these days,” says Agent Chu, writing it down. “If she’s real, she should be easy to find.”
“She’s real,” I insist.
“Did anyone else see her?”
“Of course they did, they sold her bread every week.”
“Did they think it was weird that she didn’t have a face?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Was Mr. Mueller in on it too? Were they paying him to keep quiet, or maybe threatening him? Or could he really not see it?
What if I’m the only one who can?
“Michael?”
I snap back. “What?”
“Did you hear my question?”
“I don’t want to answer that question.”
“Fair enough,” says Agent Leonard. “How about the one in the hall—what was he wearing?”
“A gray suit,” I say. “A hat, like the…” I gesture at my head, struggling to describe the hat. “Kind of shaped like a cowboy hat, I guess, but with a small brim, and really nice. Like a classy gray hat that you’d wear with a suit.”
“A fedora.”
“I guess.”
The two agents looked at each other. Agent Chu stands up. “I’ll see if I can catch him before he leaves the building.”
“You did see him! I knew it!”
“Yes, Michael, he passed us in the hall. He had a face, though.”
Agent Chu left, and Devon went with him to help with the gate. I looked back at Agent Leonard.
“You’ve got to get me out of here. When you find that guy and question him you’ll know—this whole place is part of the Plan, They’re keeping me here against my will, and you’ve got to get me out.”
“Can you describe any other Faceless Men?”
“You’re not listening to me,” I say. “You’ve got to believe me. That man’s probably an administrator or an owner or something—he runs this place, I guarantee it, and as soon as he finds out I blew the whistle on him I am going to disappear—he might already know. Is your cell phone turned off like I asked?”
“We’re going to talk to him,” says Agent Leonard, “but not because we suspect him of anything. We just want to figure out why you see certain people as faceless.”
“Because they’re trying to kill me!”
“Tell me, Michael, have you ever seen one of these faceless people in a custodial
uniform? Like a brown jumpsuit?”
“No, why?”
“Does the name Brandon Woods mean anything to you?”
“Should it?”
“How about a chemical company called ChemCom?”
“No—where is this all going?”
Devon comes back. “Is everything okay, Michael?”
“We’re actually done here,” says Agent Leonard, standing up. “We’ll see if we can find either of these people he’s talking about—see if they’re real, see if they have any connection at all to the murders. No sense going any further if all we’re getting from him is made-up junk.”
“I’m not making it up.”
“At least not on purpose.” He walks to the door. “Dr. Little says your treatment’s working, so when your mind’s cleared up a bit we’ll be back with more questions.”
Devon holds the door open. “You mean if these leads check out?”
“No, we’re coming back either way. This is a psych hospital, right?” He looks at me. “Sounds like the perfect place to ask about your mother.”
Devon walks him to the gate. I can’t see the numbers when he types them in.
“Come on, man,” says Devon, walking back to me, “it’s time to get cleaned up.” I let him turn me and lead me to the shower.
If the FBI are here then the reporter was right, and they really do suspect me. And if the Faceless Men are here, traveling openly, then the hospital really is working with Them. Or for Them. That would explain Devon’s buzzing. Is Linda in on it as well, or Dr. Little?
What about the other patients?
I need to be more careful. When we get to the shower I leave the hot water turned off, just to be sure, and brace myself for the frigid blast.
SEVEN
SOMETHING TOUCHES MY ARM and I jerk awake, shouting wordlessly. A light blinds me, and I throw up my hands to shield my face.
“Easy,” says a woman’s voice, “it’s just me.” I feel a hand on my arm, soft and feminine, and when my eyes adjust I see a pretty woman holding a small penlight. At first I think it’s Lucy, but she shines the light on her face and I see that it’s not. “I’m sorry to wake you, Michael. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Shauna, the night nurse. Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, just … scared is all. Just startled. I’m fine.”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t want to wake you up, but I guess I did anyway, huh?” She holds my wrist and shines the light on her watch, taking my pulse. I wait, watching her count. When she finishes she keeps her hand on my wrist, holding it lightly.
“How are you feeling?”
“You can turn the light on if you want,” I say. “It’s better than the…” I look at the flashlight in her hand, wondering if the Faceless Men can tap into it the way they do with the other devices—it creates an electric field, at least a small one, but it can’t really send or receive a signal. Or maybe this one can, if the Faceless Men have infiltrated the hospital. I want to tell her to keep it outside, but I also want to look normal. I can’t escape if they keep suspecting me. “I’m great,” I say, nodding. “I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she says. Her fingers on my arm are cool and calming. “Is there anything you need?”
I pause. It’s been too long since the reporter was here—she said she’d be back in a few days, but it’s been over a week. What went wrong? Was it too hard to find evidence in my favor?
“Do you know … Is there some kind of list of people who come to visit? Like a sign-in sheet or something?”
“There is,” she says, nodding. “Would you like me to check on something?”
“I’m just…” I don’t know what I’m just. “I was expecting a friend, and she hasn’t come, and I just wonder if … I don’t know.”
“You think she might have come when you were asleep?”
I look at the window in the door, showing faint light from the hallway. “I guess I’m just worried that she might have come and looked in and decided not to come inside. You know? Like I’m all…” I realize my eyes are wet, and I wipe them with the back of my hand. “It’s like I’m a monster. I can’t do anything, I can’t see anyone, I can’t go anywhere.… It’s like I’m in a zoo.”
“Easy, Michael,” she says, and squeezes my wrist. I feel stupid and weak. “I know it’s hard in here,” she says, “but you’ve got us. We’re your friends.” She smiles, and I try not to flinch away from the penlight. “You like peaches?”
“Peaches?”
She laughs, warm and cheerful in the darkness. “I love peaches—my parents used to have an orchard, and my mom would can them every year. They always cheer me up. I know it’s not much, but if you want some peaches for breakfast I can put a note on your chart and see if the kitchen can send any up in the morning. Make you feel a little more … like a person. You know?”
I feel stupid and embarrassed, but it does sound nice. I nod. “That’d be good. I like peaches.”
“Great.” I can’t see her in the dark, but I imagine she’s smiling. I smile back.
* * *
IN THE MORNING my oatmeal comes with peaches, but they taste wrong—sweet but superficial. I can’t place it exactly. I also have an extra pill; they’ve doubled my dose. I feel depressed, like I’ve somehow ruined everything. The commons room buzzes with conversation, but from what I can tell most of the patients are talking to themselves, not to each other. Which one is my secret ally? I scan the tables silently, trying not to look suspicious, but it’s impossible to tell.
“Michael.”
I jerk my head up, surprised, and see Dr. Vanek settle into a chair beside me. “You’re rather deep in thought; I could barely get your attention.”
“Sorry,” I say, “just … thinking.”
“Which is why I said you were deep in thought.”
Another patient sits at our table, a small man with wide eyes and frizzy hair, but Vanek shoos him away. “I hate these hospitals.”
“Seriously,” I ask. “How did you ever become a psychiatrist?”
“You might call it a survival mechanism.”
“You hate everyone here.”
“I hate everyone out there as well, so psychiatry is no worse than anything else.”
“Great.” I take a bite. “What brings you here, anyway?”
“Your psychoses. I find myself increasingly fascinated the more I learn about them.”
I nod and click my tongue. “I’m glad I’m entertaining.”
“Tell me, Michael, is there some specific memory of a phone that you find particularly horrifying?”
“What?”
“Phones,” he repeats. “You’re scared of them, and I want to know why. Many schizophrenic delusions are based on specific events from the patient’s past—it may be that you see Faceless Men, for example, because of some childhood abuse by a man with an obscured face.”
“I was never abused,” I say quickly.
“Yes you were,” he says, “at least emotionally, by that disaster you call a father. It may be that your delusions of Faceless Men somehow come from him.”
“My father has a face.”
“I can see that you’re missing every point I try to make,” he says. “We will retreat from the general and return to the specific: why are you afraid of phones? Is it all cell phones? Is it the mere idea of them, or is it their usage? Is it a specific ring that holds some kind of buried meaning for you?”
“You already know why.”
“Yes, yes,” he says, “but that explanation applies to all devices generically. Your outburst a few weeks ago, when you attacked Devon, was focused on a specific device. You didn’t react to the clock radio in your room, but the cell phone scared you terribly.”
“Wait,” I say, setting down my fork with a frown. “There was a cell phone in the room?”
“Of course there was; what did you think was buzzing?”
“That buzzing was a cell pho
ne?”
Dr. Vanek raises an eyebrow, drumming the table with his pudgy fingers. “He keeps it set to ‘vibrate’ to avoid disturbing the patients, though that obviously didn’t work in your case. Tell me, Michael, what did you think it was?”
“I thought it was … I don’t know.”
“Surely you thought about it long enough to concoct some kind of explanation. Pants don’t just buzz for no reason, and your intense reaction to the sound makes it obvious you were aware of it.”
“I thought it was—” I stop. I can’t tell him what I thought it was. For all I know Vanek is part of the Plan as well. “I didn’t know it was a cell phone.”
“But it was,” he says, “which returns us to my question: why are you afraid of phones?”
“It’s not all phones,” I say, “just cell phones—it’s not even cell phones, it’s the signals they send and receive. Normal phones keep their signals trapped in cords, but cell phones just shoot them through the air.” I glance around nervously. Is there another doctor listening? I don’t want them to hear anything they think is crazy. “Why are you asking me this?”
“Because I’m a psychiatrist.”
“But not my psychiatrist; not anymore.”
“I have arranged a research agreement with the hospital,” he says. “I have limited access to all patients, pending doctor approval.”
“And Dr. Little approved your visit to me? He doesn’t seem to like you.”
“And I don’t like him,” says Vanek, shrugging. “Thank goodness we manage to act like professionals regardless.”
Devon had a cell phone. Everything happened because of a cell phone signal. Is that the switch that lets them control me—an external signal from a nearby phone? I smile. That might be a good thing—if they have to use an outside source, that means I don’t have a transmitter actually on me. That means I can escape and be free, as long as I stay clear of their signals. This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.
“So?” asked Vanek. “Why do you think you’re afraid of cell phones?”
I click my tongue and take another bite of oatmeal. “I’m not crazy.”