Cole Perriman's Terminal Games

by Wim Coleman

  “He’s like that—a real quiet type.”

  “Sullen’s more the word.”

  “Well, the truth is, I think he just plain doesn’t like people.”

  “That’s kind of an odd characteristic for a shrink, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. But I’m sure Gusfield’s told us all he can right now—which is that Stalnaker’s suffering from some kind of dissociative disorder.”

  “I sure do hate insanity defenses,” Nolan said, shaking his head.

  “I reckon all cops do. But this one’s Omaha’s problem, not yours. Anyway, we’re grateful for your help. We might never have caught Stalnaker if it weren’t for you folks, and at least he’s off the streets. Wish we could have returned the favor. I know you were looking for some link with those two cases in L.A. But we’ve already checked out Stalnaker’s whereabouts during the last month, and he’s been in town the whole time.”

  “Hey, at least I got to see a Nebraska winter,” Nolan said laughing.

  “Indeed you did,” Kelsey chuckled. “So what are your plans for this evening? My wife and I would love to fix you dinner—a real nice, heartland meal with lots of fat and cholesterol. You know, real down-home heart-attack cooking.”

  Nolan laughed. “Sounds great, but I’d hate to impose.”

  “You wouldn’t be imposing. Hell, it’s the least we can do in return for dragging you to hell and gone for no good reason. And it’d give Emily an excuse to cook up something special with all those vegetables we’ve canned and frozen for the winter.”

  “You keep a vegetable garden?” Nolan asked with interest.

  “Sure. Flowers, too.”

  “Me, too.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Well, not like I did back when the kids were still at home,” Nolan said. “But I still do some planting.”

  “I’d never have guessed that from an L.A. man.”

  “Why not? We’ve got a year-round growing season.”

  “Keep any tomatoes?” Kelsey asked.

  Nolan smiled. “I once had a vine that lived three years.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  “And I’ll bet your roses bloom all year round.”

  “Pretty close to it.”

  “Well, that settles it, sir,” Kelsey said emphatically. “You’re not getting out of Omaha without the two of us having a long talk about gardening. Your presence is definitely required tonight at my dinner table.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Nolan said with a smile.

  *

  That night, Nolan shared a pleasant evening with Michael Kelsey, his wife, Emily, and their two young children. Emily Kelsey served roast beef, baked potatoes, and home-grown green beans from the freezer. The kids talked about school, Emily talked about goings on in the neighborhood, and Mike Kelsey chattered about sports and politics and, of course, gardening.

  Nolan was pleased that the dinner table never turned to cop talk. Myron Stalnaker’s name was never mentioned once. Nolan realized that it had been ages since he had spent any time among people talking about nothing in particular. All his interactions with his fellow officers—even Clayton—centered on work, and he’d had very little social life outside the force. All this small talk was pleasant and relaxing. But at the same time, Nolan missed the depth of feeling and companionship he had experienced with Marianne. He was almost unbearably anxious to see her again.

  After coffee and dessert, Nolan said his thank yous and farewells to the Kelseys and returned to his hotel. But even after a full meal and idle pleasantries, he found it hard to sleep. Nolan didn’t much look forward to telling Coffey just how little he had managed to learn about the killings of Judson and Gauld.

  But more importantly, he was worried about Marianne. Myron Stalnaker’s capture had done nothing to ensure her safety. As Nolan lay in his hotel bed, he was seized by a sudden panic at the idea of Marianne being in some sort of danger while he was more than halfway across a continent. He immediately reached for the telephone to dial her number.

  11010

  SIMULATION

  The telephone rang before Nolan could pick it up. He felt a surge of excitement at the expectation that it would be Marianne calling. But instead, a man’s voice spoke.

  “Grobowski?” the voice said.

  “Yeah,” Nolan replied resignedly.

  “This is Harvey Gusfield. I’ve been trying to reach you all evening. I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  “No. Do you have some kind of break in the Stalnaker case?”

  “Nothing so gratifying. I got taken off the case this afternoon.”

  “Taken off?”

  “Dumped, okay?”

  “By whom?”

  “Whom do you think? My so-called, self-styled ‘superiors’ at the medical center. They’ve got this idea that Stalnaker’s an open and shut MPD case.”

  “Multiple personality disorder?”

  “That’s right. They figure if they just hypnotize him straight into the ground like a fence post, he’ll start popping out personalities like a gumball machine, and then they can make a modest little splash in the psychiatric journals.”

  “You don’t agree?” Nolan asked. “I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? One minute, he’s a mild-mannered loan officer named Myron Stalnaker. The next minute, he’s some crazed, murderous clown named Auggie. If that isn’t a case of multiple personality, what is?”

  Gusfield groaned with impatience. “I’m gonna have to educate you a little bit, detective. And I’ll do exactly that on the flight to L.A.”

  Nolan felt confused. “You’re going to L.A.?” he said. “What for?”

  “Because this case is a lot more interesting than those no-brains at the clinic are ever gonna figure out. I’ll get a major paper out of this. Hell, I’ll probably get a major book out of it—a pop-psychology bestseller.”

  “So why are you coming to Los Angeles?” Nolan asked. “Your patient, or ex-patient, is right here.”

  “Oh, come on, Grobowski. Isn’t it obvious? Insomnimania’s in Los Angeles. That’s the key to the whole thing. And the guy who created Auggie’s there, too, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you know who and where he is, don’t you?”

  “Right again.”

  “Well, I’ve got to talk to him.”

  “Good luck,” Nolan said with a laugh.

  “Why?”

  “Zoomer’s not the easiest guy to talk to.”

  “‘Zoomer’? What kind of name’s that?”

  “A hacker’s name. Have you ever tried talking to a hacker?”

  “Have you ever tried talking to a man who thought he was receiving radio signals from Alpha Centauri? Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Zoomer. So what’s your flight number?”

  With some trepidation, Nolan gave Gusfield the time and number of his flight. After he hung up, he immediately picked up the receiver again and dialed Marianne’s number.

  *

  For a few moments, Auggie’s world consisted of nothing but the automobile’s interior. Then he touched a button, and the driver’s side window rolled down. At that moment, he felt his creative world grow abruptly larger as his imagination conjured an elaborate place called “outside.” Now the gentle smells and sounds of evening wafted toward him. He savored the touch of cool air.

  Ah, the life of the mind!

  This corporeal, fleshy, simulated realm was, of course, less vivid and more ethereal than the brass tacks, informational reality where Auggie actually lived. Even so, he sometimes took a certain pleasure in visiting here. There was a nice randomness, a nonsensical quality about this outpost of his imagination.

  It’s an awfully dark place, though.

  Auggie br
iefly considered blasting the Santa Barbara evening with a flash of blazing light. But no, that would break one of his own central rules—that he would leave this dim reality just as it had first appeared in his dreams. After all, one did not retreat to one’s imagination to escape from limitation, since limitlessness was a simple fact of the electronic world. One came here when one hankered for limitation.

  Cramped and dark is perfectly appropriate for this charade.

  Auggie peered through the dark toward the sloping back yard across the street. A female simulation was sitting on a bench in the garden. Just enough light leaked through the curtained windows of the house for Auggie to see her. She was sitting motionless, her head tilted back slightly, her eyes closed, her palms turned upright on her knees.

  And whose simulation was this?

  Oh, yes, Auggie realized. It’s Elfie’s.

  That clever little pixie had imagined this form into being. And what was this simulation’s name? Auggie had to think a few seconds before remembering.

  Marianne. Elfie calls her Marianne. Not much of a name—and not much of a simulation, either

  Indeed, the woman didn’t seem to be doing anything in particular. She wasn’t talking or moving about or interacting with anything or anyone. She was just sitting there, as if staring into her own make-believe mind.

  A pity. And I gave Elfie credit for being more creative.

  During their conversations, Auggie had sometimes noticed that Elfie spoke of this simulation much too seriously, even superstitiously.

  She almost seems to think this “Marianne” is more real than she is.

  Preposterous!

  But it was worse than preposterous. It was unhealthy. Elfie couldn’t really grow, couldn’t fully join him if she let her imagination run away with her like this.

  I’ll have to have a little chat with her try to make her understand.

  And if Elfie refused to see reason? If she allowed herself to be controlled by her own illusion?

  Well, I’ll just have to take matters in my own hands. I will free her one way or another. It won’t be the first time, after all.

  A distant beeping pierced the night. The simulation remained motionless for a few moments while the beeping continued. Then she rose from her bench, stretched, and walked inside her house.

  The night was empty again. All that could be heard was a loop of crickets chirping.

  That’s all there is to see. Auggie sighed. I’d better get back to the Basement now.

  *

  Nolan groaned with annoyance and anxiety when Marianne’s answering machine took his call. But to his enormous relief, Marianne picked up the phone while he was waiting to leave a message.

  “I’m glad you called,” Marianne said when she found out who it was. “I’ve been wondering how things were going.”

  “Things are a lot better, now that I can hear your voice. Where were you, in the shower?”

  “No. I was sitting in the garden.”

  “Isn’t it kind of late to be outside?”

  “It’s only seven-thirty here.”

  “Yeah, but it’s dark, isn’t it?”

  Marianne laughed slightly. “Come on, Nolan. It’s Santa Barbara. What’s going to happen to me in my own garden?”

  Nolan fell quiet for a moment. It wouldn’t do any good for him to start getting overly protective.

  “God, I miss you,” he said at last.

  “I miss you, too.”

  “When this whole thing’s over, why don’t the two of us run away for a while? Tell the world to go to hell?”

  “That sounds lovely. But you sound discouraged.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I am.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Not much. Stalnaker’s some kind of psychiatric case, and he does seem to have killed Howard Cronin, but I can’t make any connection between him and Renee or Judson.”

  “I know you were hoping for more. I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll tell you the rest when I get back, but it isn’t much,” Nolan said. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’ve just been getting caught up on some work,” Marianne said.

  Nolan didn’t like the vague, deceptive sound in her voice.

  “You haven’t been hunting for Auggie again, have you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Because it’s dangerous.”

  “Nolan, I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”

  Nolan sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just discouraged and cranky.”

  “I hate to think of you being so far away,” Marianne said.

  “No more than I do. I’m flying back to L.A. tomorrow. Can we get together soon?”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  Nolan hung up the phone. He rose from his bed, walked to the window, and watched the light, cold white drizzle still falling over Omaha. He still didn’t know if it was snow or sleet.

  Just one of the million and one things I don’t know.

  *

  Renee was sitting under the red and white beach umbrella at Babbage Beach again, her red slacks rolled up as before. Marianne was looking at her through the screen. The orange sun had just dipped below the horizon and was re-starting its descent from the top of the screen.

  Marianne was sleepy, but not as sleepy as she expected to be after being up most of the night searching vainly through Insomnimania’s desktop maze for Auggie. So far, her fasting hadn’t produced any real effect except a slight case of nausea, and her garden meditations hadn’t done much more than keep her in a mellow frame of mind.

  Even so, she felt right-brained enough at the moment to carry on a seaside conversation with her virtual friend. As usual, Renee’s gestures and expressions seemed much more subtle than the crude computer animation could realistically allow, and semi-hallucinatory voice seemed quite vivid. Marianne’s imagination was fully engaged—as it was going to have to be the next time she met Auggie.

  “You shouldn’t have lied to Nolan,” Renee said.

  “When?” Marianne asked.

  “When you talked to him earlier tonight. You told him you weren’t poking around Insomnimania. You told him you were getting caught up on your work.”

  “You’re nosy.”

  “I’m supposed to be nosy. I’m your conscience.”

  “And dishonesty’s bad for a relationship, right?”

  “It is when you’re such a lousy liar. He’s probably seen through you already.”

  Marianne didn’t bother trying to explain the reasons for her deception, that Nolan would fly into an unnecessary panic and maybe even get angry if she told him the truth. She knew that Renee—whether imaginary or real—would be too stubborn to change her tune about this issue. Besides, Renee was probably right. Nolan undoubtedly had seen through her already.

  “We never decided what those clouds are,” Marianne said, pointing to the middle portion of the sky.

  “No, I guess we didn’t,” Renee said.

  “I still say they’re cirrus.”

  “And I still say stratocumulus.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Marianne said. “I promise to look it up before we meet next time.”

  A brooding expression crossed Renee’s face.

  “Let’s not meet a next time, okay?” Renee said.

  “Why not?” Marianne asked, a bit startled.

  “Because I keep sitting here trying to remember what the real ocean was like. And I don’t like not being able to remember. I don’t like not knowing.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marianne said.

  A particularly large, noisy wave broke against the shore. Marianne actual
ly winced at the sudden and unbidden sensation of a breeze—a damp, chilly, mist-ridden breeze that smelled and tasted of salt and seaweed.

  “I liked being alive,” Renee lamented. “I really, really liked it. It’s not like I hate being here. It’s just that I have to act as though I like it. I have to act as though I feel anything. It’s all just an act—moods, pleasures, pains, all sensations. Being alive wasn’t like that.” Renee heaved a long, unhappy sigh. “Can we call it quits after this meeting?”

  “Of course,” Marianne said.

  “Thank you.”

  “It will be hard to let you go, though. Do you realize we’ve had our best conversations here? It’s as if it took your death to make us really talk. Isn’t that sad?”

  “Yes, it is. Very sad.”

  The two of them fell into a silence broken only by the sound of electronic waves.

  “Renee, I have to find Auggie,” Marianne whispered. “I looked for him last night and all tonight, too, and it’s almost time for Insomnimania to go off. Where is he? Do you know? Do you know who he is?”

  “What does it matter?” Renee replied.

  “Because he knows who killed you. I want to find your killer.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? You were my best friend.”

  Renee shook her head wearily. “You’d be surprised what death does to your priorities. Ideas like vindication, spite, revenge—they seem pretty strange from this side of things.”

  “Renee, you don’t understand,” said Marianne, feeling her voice choke slightly. “I don’t feel hatred or vengefulness, either. I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel them. And I want to find out why I don’t feel them. And in order to find out, I have to find him. Renee, for whatever reason, it matters who killed you.”

  Renee smiled.

  “You’re really taking this personally, huh?” she said.

  “Do you remember anything?” demanded Marianne. “Do you know who it was?”

  “Sure, I know who it was. It was a clown. It was Auggie. It was a goofy painted fuck who plays wacky tunes while he does his killings. Come on, Marianne. You know him, too.”

  “Renee, it was a woman!” Marianne said.