There was a moment of silence while Noland smiled at me. All this occurred before I had scanned and downloaded the face images to my phone. I couldn’t interpret the smile’s meaning.
“What’s the reward?” I asked.
“Here at the clinic? Whatever makes you happy … within limits. What about a box of cupcakes? Use of the Internet? A day at the beach? A porno movie?”
“And what’s the punishment?”
“Oh, right. You don’t know about that.”
Dr. Noland picked up what looked like a TV remote control. I glanced over at the wall screen. “Are you dead, Jacob?”
“My Spark exists inside a—”
Before I could finish the sentence, Noland pushed a button and the ankle cuff delivered an electric shock. It took my Shell a few seconds to recover. When I looked up, Dr. Noland was still grinning at me.
“Are you dead, Jacob?”
I stayed silent.
Noland grinned and reached for the bowl of pistachios. “Good. Very good. That’s a start.”
The baggage-claim area at Kennedy Airport was a windowless room the size of a football field. I counted eight CCTV cameras mounted on the walls and more cameras were probably hidden in the ceiling. The news footage of my actions in Paris didn’t show my face, but all the French police needed was one clear image from a surveillance camera. The real power of the cameras came from the software programs that turned human beings into a unique sequence of numbers. Right now the cameras near the baggage carousel were freezing and capturing images, transforming each face into a number, and checking those numbers against a stop-and-search list.
I was counting the American currency I had in my carry-on bag when I heard a dog bark. A plastic pet crate was being wheeled into the luggage area and a black muzzle was pushed up against the mesh at one end of the container.
Two little girls and their parents hurried across the room, calling to their pet. A few seconds later the dog was released and attached to a leash. He was a Labrador retriever with broad shoulders and floppy black ears, and he danced around the family, barking and sniffing everyone as if he had just been released from prison.
Both Dr. Tollner and Dr. Rutherford said that I was delusional—which is not true. Unlike the average psychiatrist, I see the world clearly, without the desire to create a story. The future is meaningless to me; I can’t imagine what could be or should be—only what is.
But at that moment, standing by the luggage carousel, I experienced my first fantasy since the Transformation. Within this dream, I was standing alone in a meadow ringed with elm trees. The day was clear and cold, moving toward autumn, and the brittle brown leaves were curled up at the edges.
Someone had left wooden crates and wire cages in the tall grass on one side of the meadow and I realized that each one contained a dog. A gust of wind pushed the branches back and forth and their shadows glided across the ground as I walked over to the containers and began to open latches and throw away padlocks. There was a sheepdog, a terrier, and several other breeds. Finally all the dogs were released and then they started dashing around the meadow barking and sniffing and smiling in that pink-tongued dog way.
And I was the only person there, a somber black dot at the center of a spinning circle of energy.
In the taxi, I turned off the video display and stared out a window at the other cars. The driver turned onto the Long Island Expressway and I saw the glittering towers of Manhattan grow up from the earth and provide an edge, a border, to the sky. Then we took the Midtown Tunnel beneath the river and, ten minutes later, the cab was pushing through the crowded streets of Chinatown. Tourists stood outside restaurants, reading the menus and staring at the bright red carcasses of Peking ducks hanging in the windows. The butcher shops were closed, but a fish market was still selling squid, fresh cod, and sea urchins. A fishmonger plunged his hand into a bucket and came up with a crab that waved its claws at a customer.
I told the driver to stop at the top of Catherine Street and then carried my suitcase down the block to my building. Inside the stairwell, I could hear muffled voices leaking through the walls. Someone was cooking and I smelled peanut oil and fried garlic; the scent had a brownish-orange color—warm particles floating through the shadows.
I was glad to be back. No Human Units were in the loft, and it was a clear, open space. With the nail and the cord I could walk in a precise circle without anyone staring at me.
When I reached the landing, I unlocked my door and entered the room. Lorcan Tate was sitting on my kitchen chair, watching a video on his phone. “You’re late, Underwood. Didn’t your flight get in two hours ago?”
“What are you doing here?”
He stood up quickly and took a step toward me. “I missed you. We all missed you. Heard you went to Paris …”
Lorcan reached around to the small of his back and then his hand reappeared, clutching a slapjack with a steel handle. He raised his arm and swung hard. The flat surface of the leather-covered club struck the side of my head.
My Shell collapsed onto the floor. It felt like I was drowning, pulled below the waves like a swimmer in an angry sea. Lorcan stood over me and struck the sockets of both shoulders, again and again, until my arms were numb and useless.
Lorcan snapped handcuffs on my wrists and bound my ankles together with a plastic tie. Grabbing the chain links that fastened the cuffs together, he dragged me across the loft to the drill press that had been left at one end of the room. Lorcan tied a nylon rope to the handcuffs, ran the other end through the motor mount at the top of the press, and then pulled the rope slowly until I was standing up with my wrists attached to the machine. I struggled, trying to break free, and Lorcan punched me in the stomach.
“You can’t get away. I didn’t have a gun that night at the training camp, so I couldn’t do anything. That’s not going to happen this time.”
“Miss Holquist is going to have a negative response to your actions.”
“Who cares? Forget that bitch.” Lorcan approached me and unzipped my jacket. “I’m tired of all your crazy shit—walking around, telling everyone that you’re dead. So guess what? Doctor Tate is about to cure you of that delusion.”
Reaching into his shirt pocket, Lorcan pulled out a leather pouch. He gave it a shake and out came a straight razor, the blade folded within the mother-of-pearl handle. “Nice, huh? German made. I’ve had it for years.”
His thumb pushed the curved tang at the end of the blade, then slid a silver clasp forward and locked the blade tight. “I know you stay away from women, but here’s a little tip if you want to play with them.…” Lorcan extended the razor and cut the buttons off my shirt. There was a clicking sound as they hit the wooden floor and rolled away from my shoes. “Instead of ripping off their clothes like a crazy bastard, it’s better to cut off their bra and panties with a razor. Take your time. Slow is better. Right away, they’ll start crying and begging for their lives. You’ve got them under control and you haven’t even started yet.”
He opened my shirt like a surgeon peeling back a layer of skin, and then began probing my rib cage with the tips of his fingers. It felt as if he was gauging the strength, the thickness of my Shell. “Are you ready?” he asked. “You better get ready.…”
“I don’t like to be touched.”
“Go ahead … tell me you’re scared, Underwood. There’s no reason to lie about it.”
“Fear requires a desire to exist in the future.”
“You got an answer for everything, don’t you? All right … answer this question. Are you alive or are you dead?”
I shook my head and he slashed the razor through the air—about an inch away from my eyes. “Answer the question!”
“My Spark exists. It’s held within a Shell.”
“Wrong. That’s wrong. You’re just like everyone else and I’m going to prove it. Do you know where your heart is? Most people don’t. It’s not where you put your hand when you pledge allegiance to the goddamn flag. It
’s more toward the center of your chest, behind the sternum. And it’s not some big Valentine’s heart with chocolates. It’s three layers of muscle … weighs less than a pound … about this big.” Lorcan held up a fist and waved it at my face.
“Are you following a plan, Lorcan? Or are you just making this up as you go along?”
“You’re goddamn right it’s a plan! I’m going to show you that you’re not some bot filled with wires and circuits.”
Lorcan extended the razor as if it was a calligrapher’s pen and he was about to write on my skin. First he cut a vertical line and then a horizontal line in the center of my chest. The pain felt like a high-pitched sound—brakes squealing on a subway car.
“Here.” He pushed the tip of the razor into the point where the lines crossed. “You got a heart and it’s right here.”
The high-pitched sound faded away and now the cut was burning. A fiery sensation spread across my chest.
“You’re bleeding, you stupid bastard.”
“Yes.”
“Dead people don’t bleed and they don’t feel pain. That proves that you’re alive.”
My Shell felt hollow—like a cavern hidden underground—and my Spark was a tiny point of light blinking like a firefly within that darkness. Cogito, ergo sum. But the doctors were wrong. I was thinking, but I didn’t exist.
Lorcan stepped back and grinned. “If I cut a little deeper, you’re going to bleed to death.”
I gazed down at the wound and watched blood trickling down my skin. The blood was bright red—a noisy, urgent color.
“If you’re alive, then you won’t want to die. And if you don’t want to die, then you’re going to beg me … plead … so you can live.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
Lorcan displayed his teeth as his lungs sucked in air. “You want to see your heart? I’m going to cut it out and hold it in my—”
Someone knocked on the door and Lorcan’s hand jerked away from my Shell. He remained silent for a few seconds and then we heard a familiar voice.
“Lorcan? Are you there? It’s Miss Holquist. Open the door.”
I didn’t know what emotions Lorcan was feeling, but I watched his body change. At first, he was defiant—clutching the razor as he took a step toward the door. When Miss Holquist knocked again, Lorcan bent his head down and sucked in his stomach. It looked as if he was absorbing his demons, forcing them back into his Shell.
“Open the door.”
“Just—just give me a minute, ma’am. I want to make sure that everything’s safe!” Lorcan pointed the tip of the razor at my right eye. “We’re not finished,” he whispered. “Once I start something, I never step back.”
“Open the door now.”
“I’m coming!” He folded up the razor, but kept it hidden in his hand. When he unlocked the door, Miss Holquist marched in wearing a navy blue business suit and a gold necklace. I had never seen her looking so perfect. She wore dark red lipstick and her hair was a helmet attached to her skull. She looked across the room and saw me handcuffed to the drill press.
“I didn’t ask for blood, Mr. Tate. I told you to keep Mr. Underwood here until I returned from my meeting.”
“He tried to get away and I stopped him. Of course, he’ll lie and tell you something different.”
Miss Holquist’s heels clicked across the loft and then she stood in front of me. “What happened, Mr. Underwood? Did he stab you?”
“Razor.”
“Ahhh, yes. The pearl-handled razor. Of course.” She pivoted on one toe and faced Lorcan. “I didn’t give permission.”
“He was trying to escape.”
Miss Holquist’s voice was as clear and precise as a computer at a calling center. “It’s loathsome to hear the same false statements in a variety of different ways. You’re not showing respect.”
“I’m—I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Cut him loose.” Miss Holquist headed over to the kitchen area while Lorcan used his razor to cut away the plastic tie that held my ankles. When he unlocked one of the handcuffs, I collapsed onto the floor.
“Now give him the key.” Miss Holquist returned with the green towel I used to clean the windows and tossed it onto the floor. “Press this against the wound, Mr. Underwood. That’s an order.” She faced Lorcan. “My car is parked just outside the building. Patrick is driving. I want you to go north on Mulberry Street and buy me a double espresso at Sophia’s in Little Italy.” She turned to me as if we had just finished a meal in a restaurant. “Would you like something? Pastry? A latte?”
“He doesn’t drink or eat anything but that nutrition shit.”
“Then just the espresso.”
Lorcan grabbed his jacket and walked over to the door. “I don’t think you’ll be safe with this crazy bastard.”
“I am not happy with you, Mr. Tate. Do you realize that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And do you understand that I am not a police officer or a prison guard or any of the other shabby authority figures whom you’ve intimidated during your passage through this world? My negativity can have immediate consequences.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.”
“Then buy the espresso and come back here. Do it now … as quickly as possible. I don’t like lukewarm coffee.”
Slam of the door. No more Lorcan. I was still lying on the floor and I watched Miss Holquist’s blue-and-white patent-leather pumps as they carried her around the loft. At that moment, it felt as if the shoes had more reality than their owner. Perhaps all she had to do was slip them on in the morning and the shoes made all the major decisions, taking her this way and that, carrying her around the city.
Miss Holquist dragged the chair across the loft and placed it in front of me. “Stand up and sit here. I’m sure that you’re not seriously wounded. Lorcan Tate is a sadist, but he knows how to use his tools. If he’d wanted to kill you, you most definitely would be dead.”
She was right. The cuts weren’t serious. But it took a conscious effort to stand up and plop myself down on the chair.
“Good. Now raise the towel.”
I obeyed the command. Miss Holquist leaned forward and examined my wound like an art critic inspecting a detail in a painting.
“You’ll need stitches and some antibiotics. When we’ve finished our conversation, my driver can take you to a physician who owes me a favor. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. Now please tell me … what went wrong in Paris?”
I had never lied to Miss Holquist. This would be the first time. The truth exists. Lies need to be invented.
The Turing Test tried to make a distinction between humans and machines. But these days Shadow programs like Edward and Laura can be programmed to say “I love you” or imitate other emotions. If a machine wanted to act like a human, then it had to deny the truth.
Lying, not love, is the fundamental indication of humanity.
“My plan wasn’t successful. Only one of the targets was neutralized.”
“And what was your plan, Mr. Underwood?”
“The family was living in an eighteenth-century palace that had been divided into different apartments. I left a package at the entrance for Jafar Desai.”
“Mr. Pradhani’s son-in-law?”
I nodded. “Jafar’s bodyguard picked up the package and carried it to the apartment. I followed him and shot him in the head the moment he opened the door.”
“And then what happened?”
“Jafar ran through the house and locked himself in the bathroom. I kicked in the door and killed him as he lay in the tub.”
“What about the wife? Why is she still alive?”
“I shot Nalini when she tried to get away. I thought she was dead, so I didn’t stop to fire a confirmation shot. An alarm started ringing and I was worried about being trapped in the building. I had to kill two more bodyguards in order to escape.”
“Yes. I’ve read news reports about what ha
ppened in Paris. The French press calls you Monsieur Sangfroid … ‘Mr. Cold-Blooded.’ But the police don’t know your real identity. Do you think you left your fingerprints at the café mentioned in the Le Monde article?”
“No. I followed the rules I learned in training class. I picked up the cup with a paper napkin and I wore gloves inside Jafar’s apartment.”
“And did you speak inside the apartment?” She stared at me. “Did you say anything to the wife?”
“No. I shot her once and she fell onto the floor.”
Miss Holquist paused again. And this silence opened a space between us that was cold and dangerous. “And what about the child? He was your third target.…”
“I couldn’t find the boy. Maybe he was hiding.”
“Did you search his room?”
“Not really. I just opened the door and looked inside.”
“He could have been in the closet or under the bed.”
“It’s possible.”
“Mr. Pradhani said you showed some reluctance about this target.”
“There didn’t seem to be a logical reason to kill the child.”
“The boy was a target because our client made that your objective.”
“But Sanjay didn’t steal his grandfather’s money. He didn’t even know about it.”
“So now you refer to him as Sanjay. He has a name. And what is the relevance of his name?” Miss Holquist leaned forward. “Are you attempting to be moral about this issue, Mr. Underwood? If so, I’m very surprised.”
“No,” I said. “I’m trying to be rational. I obeyed your instructions, Miss Holquist. But I don’t understand how the child’s death would benefit Mr. Pradhani.”
Spark: A Novel Page 18