Cole Perriman's Terminal Games

by Wim Coleman

  “You passed the polygraph.”

  Marianne laughed delightedly.

  “You mean I’m innocent?” she asked.

  “Did you have your doubts?” Nolan asked.

  “For a while there, yeah.”

  “Well, it’ll take a little more time to get the DNA match—ten to fourteen days.”

  “That long?”

  “It will be okay. I’ve got faith. If we catch the killer in that time, it will be a moot point anyway. I’ve got a hunch we will.”

  “You just keep getting those hunches, Lieutenant. Any other news?”

  Nolan lowered his voice. “None—except that I had a date last night with a classy lady from Santa Barbara.”

  “Yeah? How did it work out?”

  “At first I was worried that she was a little out of my league, me being a redneck working-class bozo and all. But things worked out okay.”

  “‘Okay’? What’s ‘okay’ supposed to mean?”

  “Well, I fixed her dinner and we talked and we listened to music and we talked some more and one thing led to another and … well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Let me put it this way. It was magical.”

  An absolutely uncontrollable smile stampeded across Marianne’s face.

  “So how about you?” Nolan asked. “What did you do with your evening?”

  “It was much the same as yours,” she said. “A magical night with a magical guy.”

  “Care to tell me his name?”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  They both giggled like a pair of idiotic teenagers.

  “I hate Santa Barbara,” Marianne sighed when their laughter died down.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not here.”

  “Come back to L.A.”

  “When?”

  “Right this minute.”

  Marianne sighed. “Nolan, I’ve got a job … a job that I’m falling seriously behind in.”

  “Come on. Leave it. Forget it.”

  “Not just yet.”

  “Then promise you’ll come down as soon as you can,” Nolan said.

  “I promise.”

  “I’ve got to go now,” Nolan said.

  “Me, too,” Marianne said.

  “Okay,” Nolan said.

  Neither of them hung up.

  “Nolan, this is serious. I’ve really got to get back to work.”

  “Me, too. Hang up the goddamn phone.”

  They were both silent for a long moment.

  “Goodbye,” Marianne said at last.

  “Goodbye,” Nolan said.

  Marianne hung up. She spent the next few moments staring at the phone, wanting for all the world to pick it up and call Nolan. She felt like she had to talk to somebody about this new development in her life. She had to share the news immediately. But Stephen was obviously not a suitable confidant at the moment.

  Who else is there?

  Before she could stop herself, Marianne murmured ...

  “I’ve got to tell Renee.”

  She shivered slightly.

  You’ve got to get some work done. It’s been almost two weeks since you paid any real attention to your job. She went to look in her handbag for the notes she had made and brochures she had collected at the Blue Whale.

  *

  Hours later, Marianne closed the design program and clicked the Insomnimania icon. Then she sat and stared at the alters dialogue box that came up on her computer screen. The only name listed was Elfie, but every thought of the elf also brought Nolan to her mind. It made her lonely.

  As worn out as she was, Marianne didn’t feel as if she could sleep even if she went to bed. She wanted to wander around Insomnimania, but not as Elfie—not tonight.

  Well, it’s easy enough to create another alter

  She clicked the button beside “Create New.” A dialogue box came up asking her to type the name of the new alter. Marianne typed “Rose.” Then, proceeding automatically, she selected “Participant” for her new alter and quickly found herself staring at the selections in the Factory.

  Marianne chose a shapely female body, one that was ever-so-slightly on the heavy side. She added a round head with a delicately pointed chin. She selected a wild mane of hair and clicked it into place on the head. She stared at the color chart. Red hair, she decided, adding the color to that part of the drawing. Then Marianne stopped and contemplated the image.

  Small shock waves sent prickling sensations through her hands and into her body. She was recreating the cartoon character that Auggie had murdered in his last snuff!

  Am I trying to create Renee? Do I want to be Renee?

  But no, that couldn’t be.

  I just want to see her, to talk with her. I’ve got things to tell her.

  This last thought rang weirdly through her mind. How could she talk to Renee? What on earth was she thinking of?

  Well, okay, I know that I can’t bring Renee back. But I can bring back the woman who was in the Snuff Room scene. They don’t both have to stay dead.

  So far, the little figure on the screen was just a line drawing topped by the fiery hair. Marianne continued. She brought the face into an enlarged view and chose the features, including bright brown eyes and a vivid red mouth. The face still didn’t look just right. It was something about the arch of the eyebrows. She’d have to work on that later with the paint tools.

  “Meanwhile, honey, you can’t just run around naked,” she murmured aloud.

  But what should Renee wear? Marianne tried to picture her when they’d met in the Quenton Parks lounge. Yes, she was hardly likely to forget that outfit. From the available clothing items, she choose slacks, a tunic, and flat-heeled boots. She clicked orange for the slacks, red for the tunic, and dark brown for the boots. She selected a standard peach color for the skin. The image still wasn’t perfect, but it was getting closer.

  Marianne selected “Edit” from the menu. The image was transferred to a screen that featured an array of computer paint and color-mixing tools. First she made adjustments to the colors. The hair and slacks changed to a bright rust color. She brought the tunic into close-up.

  I seem to remember purple.

  But she couldn’t picture exactly where the purple had been on Renee’s tunic. Finally, she simply worked out her own design, creating a purple slash across the tunic until it at least looked like something Renee might wear.

  Bringing the face up close, she adjusted the eyebrow line until one was arched higher than the other. Then she returned to normal view. She gasped. A cartoon of Renee looked at her gravely from the screen. Her arched eyebrow seemed to inquire, “So what now, kid?”

  Marianne changed the alters name from “Rose” to “Renee.” Then, moving quickly, she logged her new alter onto Insomnimania.

  Never a spectator, that Renee. A participant right from the start.

  A few moments later, Renee walked into Ernie’s Bar and went straight across the room to an empty barstool. In her tiredness, Marianne gave little conscious thought to her busy fingers controlling the figure’s movements by means of the mouse and keyboard. Renee almost seemed to be moving on her own volition—and Marianne felt weirdly as if she were walking through the saloon behind her.

  As soon as Renee was seated, Ernie asked in a terse, crackling voice, “What’ll you have?” Seemingly disconnected from her mind, Marianne’s fingers typed in a reply.

  rna>I’ll have a stinger, Ernie.

  As Ernie whipped out a glass and placed it on the bar, Marianne’s computer spoke aloud again, but with a different voice.

  “How’re you doin’, doll?”

  On the screen, an apelike creature dre
ssed in white tie and tails loomed near Renee. Marianne hastily typed a reply.

  rna>What do u want?

  gar>gargantua de sommerville-jones at your service, ma’am. ok f i sit dn?

  rna>Fuck off, buster!

  Marianne giggled with amazement. It had been an unplanned reply, much as though Renee had blurted it out herself. It certainly wasn’t the kind of response Elfie would have made, but it was quite effective. The gorilla performed a stiff bow and turned away.

  It seemed to Marianne like a good idea to get Renee someplace more private. She didn’t want to find herself in an argument with some Insomnimania character less inclined to docility. She pulled down a menu and selected “Booth.” The image of Renee was instantly whisked into a private booth—the one place in Ernie’s Bar where no one could follow without an invitation.

  Marianne realized that it hadn’t been a graceful maneuver. But she—if not Renee—felt more comfortable away from barroom socializers. Now the Renee alter was sitting all alone in the booth, looking directly at Marianne, occasionally blinking her brown eyes. After a few moments, Marianne began to feel silly for rushing into this isolation chamber. She typed.

  rna>Well, what now? I hope you don’t expect me to just sit here all night with nobody to talk to.

  “You can talk to me,” Marianne replied aloud. “In fact, I’ve been longing for a chance to talk with you.”

  rna>Take a seat right here, honey. Tell Rna all about it.

  That would be so nice. If I could only sit across that little table from her and tell her ...

  “Renee, I’m involved with someone,” Marianne said aloud. “I wanted to tell you. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

  She typed again.

  rna>Well, well. INVOLVED with someone?

  Marianne started as she heard Renee’s laughter in her ears. Then she realized that she had automatically struck the command for computer laughter. Was it only her imagination that made it sound so familiar?

  “Come on,” Marianne said. “You know what I mean.”

  rna>Yeah, I know. Nolan.

  “How did you know his name?”

  rna>Come on, dearie, don’t ask me any control questions. You’re the measure of my factuality. I’m your personal phantom. I’m all in your head. You can’t think anything without my knowing about it. Phantoms are terrific mind readers.

  “If you already know everything that’s on my mind, why are we even carrying on this conversation?”

  “For your benefit, dear. It was your idea. What do you think, I’m back from the dead for my health? Besides, you don’t know what I’m going to say about this Nolan guy. I can read your thoughts, but you can’t read mine. You’re just making me up as you go along. I’m all about surprise, baby, and that’s why you need me. You ain’t got enough surprise in your life.”

  Marianne was startled. She had felt herself type the words that Renee was saying, but she experienced the illusion that she had actually heard Renee speak—even though she knew perfectly well that she was carrying on both sides of the conversation.

  “I keep thinking I actually hear your voice,” Marianne said.

  “What’s so strange about that?” asked Renee.

  “You’re not really there. I’m only typing in your words.”

  “Oh, yes, that,” Renee said, and Marianne thought she detected a hint of a chuckle. “Well, try this out. Keep typing, but hold your mouth open.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Just try it.”

  Marianne opened her mouth. She had to muster her concentration to be sure that her eyes were open, too. She typed:

  rna>There. Can you still hear me?

  Marianne was even more surprised than before. There was nothing aural about the printed words and letters. They were coldly, silently splayed across the screen. The interchange no longer seemed the least bit like a conversation.

  “No,” she whispered. “I can’t hear you at all.”

  There was no response. Marianne was genuinely alarmed. She suddenly realized how very badly she wanted to maintain the illusion of Renee’s presence. Could she bear to lose her now? Then she felt herself type:

  rna>OK. Close your mouth again.

  Marianne did so. And as she typed again, she actually thought she heard Renee say, “There, can you hear me now?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Marianne. “How did that happen?’

  Renee’s tiny, sketchily painted chestnut eyes almost seemed to flash with her old mischief.

  “I learned about it from some philosopher I interviewed,” said Renee. “A cognitive philosopher, I think he was called. He said this is what happens when mental patients ‘hear voices.’ This is how they actually carry on real-life conversations with people who aren’t actually there. They think someone’s talking to them, but they’re really talking to themselves. So if a doctor tells them to walk around with their mouths open, their voices sometimes stop.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “It just worked for you, didn’t it?”

  “You’re still wrong. I don’t feel myself actually moving my lips—at least not when I hear you talking.”

  “Neither do mental patients. But in your mind, you’re moving them. I think that philosopher guy called it ‘articulatory neural machinery.’ When you open your mouth, you stop that machinery.

  Where did this idea come from? Marianne wondered. How could this make-believe Renee be sitting here spouting completely unfamiliar bits of information? At her present threshold of exhaustion, Marianne found it tempting to surrender to mysticism and believe that Renee had come back from the dead and was talking to her through her computer. But she considered herself a rational woman. She was willing to let this experience become extremely vivid, but she’d never allow it to run away with her. It had to remain, at rock bottom, a pretense.

  I must have read about this phenomenon at one time or another. It just slipped my mind. And now I’m simply putting it into Renee’s mouth.

  That made at least a little sense. She could sort it out better when she was fully awake tomorrow. But Marianne was sure of one thing. Any feeling she had had that she was merely “writing” Renee was now irrevocably gone.

  Gone, too, was any feeling of tiredness. Not only did the illusion seem real, but she no longer had to struggle to keep it going. The action of her fingers against the keys was almost completely automatic now. She barely felt her fingertips at all, and barely heard their rattling against the keys.

  “So what do you think about Nolan?” she asked. “Have I gone crazy or what?”

  “Sure, you’ve gone crazy. It’s good for you. I’ll bet you haven’t had a good nervous breakdown for two years now. It’s high time you howled at the moon a little.”

  “So you think I’m doing the right thing?”

  “I think you’re a treacherous, underhanded, duplicitous slut.”

  “Renee!”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I salute you for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Marianne. We both know you’ve been keeping this hunk in the wings for ages now. He was your secret weapon. You were waiting for me to croak so I wouldn’t steal him away from you.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And it’s flat-out untrue. I didn’t even get to know him until after you were killed. If you’re such a terrific mind reader, how could you get your facts so wrong?”

  “Hey, who do you think’s writing my dialogue?”

  “Anyway, I take it you like him.”

  “Sure, I like him. He’s a real meat-and-potatoes, no-frills kind of guy. It’ll do you good to get back to some Spartan, proletarian values. It’ll bring you down off your Santa Barbara hig
h horse. And he’ll scare the ever-loving shit out of you.”

  “He already has.”

  “Let him do it some more. It’ll do you good.”

  “What’s so great about being scared?”

  “It’s a feeling, Marianne. An emotion. Ever heard of those?”

  “I’ve got plenty of emotions. Right now, a lot of them are painful.”

  “Don’t let them go. Promise you won’t let your feelings disappear again. Don’t shut yourself down.”

  “Okay. If I can stand it.”

  “You can stand it. Me, you can shut down—I’ll still be here. In fact, it’s time you did just that. You’re exhausted, babe. You’re hallucinating.”

  “I miss you, Renee. I need to be able to talk to you.”

  “Hey, I said I’ll be here. This is all the reality I’ve got left. Visit any time.”

  Marianne escorted Renee out of Ernie’s, logged out of Insomnimania, and turned off the computer. She was overcome with a terrible sadness. She had nothing left of her dearest friend except this frail illusion conjured by her tired imagination.

  Who did this to her?

  Who did this to us?

  For an instant, Marianne again visualized the large woman in the silver dress. This time she imagined that the woman turned toward her, bright red lips parted, about to speak …

  … and then the image was gone.

  Marianne groaned bitterly. She couldn’t hold onto it. The woman was only intermittently, sporadically vivid in her mind. But she didn’t have that problem with Auggie. Marianne could see his stark, white-and-red, mocking face at any moment she chose.

  I can see it as clearly as that bloodstain on the wall.

  This made Marianne strangely certain of one thing. Even if Renee’s murderer was a woman, Auggie was the true key to the mystery—the murderous clown in the computer, not some real life man or woman. Somehow, that crazy, painted electronic fiction had robbed Renee of her life and Marianne of her friend. Marianne didn’t quite understand how this could be, but she knew it was true.

  But the police did not grasp this.

  They could never grasp it.

  They were looking for the killer in the world of flesh and blood, while Auggie’s was a world of image and illusion.