He had already been seated at the first of the six ACIP stations in the sparkling white lab. The machine was running. They didn’t shake hands, but there seemed to be no hatred separating them, just a shared regret of a horrible crime.
Reece spoke first. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“I’m d-doing this for myself, not for you.” Pete didn’t mean it as a rebuff, only as a statement of fact.
Reece nodded, wondering whether the odd mannerisms were related to the trauma he had inflicted upon Pete and his family so long ago.
“I appreciate it anyway. I have a lot of regrets, but taking your brother’s life is the worst one. At the time I told the police I couldn’t remember what happened. That was a lie. To this day, I remember everything about it, but it still feels like it was somebody else. I keep thinking I could never have killed that little boy. How could I possibly do such a thing? But I did. It was me. It was a different me. But it was me.”
The ACIP’s green light remained solid. It never flickered. Clearly, Reece was committed to total honesty.
Reece had spent the 27 years after Leonard’s murder (1995 to 2022) at Massachusetts State Prison. But in 2011, he had undergone an experimental therapy similar to the ACIP field studies, his brain monitored throughout a battery of psychological tests. All physiological brain damage, the source of his rage, had been pinpointed and treated with a calibrated regimen of drugs, gene therapy, and behavior modification.
Reece was not without potential. He had become a model prisoner, earning his high school and college diplomas and a master’s degree in criminal psychology.
“Daniel Anthony Reece is dead,” Carter had argued to the Massachusetts Prison Board two years earlier. “His essence has been removed from our midst, just as though we had administered a lethal injection back in 2011. The body and brain now serve only as vessels for Mr. Reece’s memories; the personality is new. It feels to him as if he is the same person only because he possesses those memories; to us he is as different from the old Reece as any two persons could be. He is incapable of violence, indeed of any crime. For over 10 years we have incarcerated a virtuous man.”
In November 2022 the Board had authorized Reece’s release. He now worked for Carter as a researcher.
Still tense, Pete continued to rock. “I’ve always w-wanted to know what really happened that day.”
“I’d been paroled from prison two and a half months earlier,” Reece began earnestly, “and was doing okay. I’d found a job as a gardener for a landscape company in Carlisle. That day they sent another fellow and me to a job in Concord. We’d worked that same house the week before, so I knew how to get there. Right before we arrived, my partner told me he wasn’t feeling well. I dropped him off at his apartment and covered the job myself. It was the first time I’d ever worked alone.”
The light on the ACIP remained green.
“I’d watched the three of you the previous week—I guess it was you, your brother, and your nanny. I saw you through the bushes, playing on your front lawn. Looked pretty happy most of the time, but I could see your brother knew how to push your buttons—like most brothers I guess. You definitely got angry at him at least once. I don’t remember what he did or anything—didn’t really think much about it at the time. I just thought to myself, A couple of spoiled rich kids.”
“So, uh, you hated us right away?”
“No, I wouldn’t say I hated you, but maybe I was jealous—yeah, I was definitely jealous. Obviously I didn’t have a huge front yard and a nanny to play with. I didn’t have much fun growing up at all. Not that I’m making excuses. I know there’s no excuse for what I did.”
“G-Go on.”
“I saw you through the bushes again that day. I think it was around 10 o’clock when your brother crawled into the garden where I was working. He was tiny, but he looked so alert, like he was taking everything in, y’know? I just kind of stared at him. I didn’t really expect to see anyone that morning.”
Pete was surprised Reece had been that perceptive. Leonard was amazingly alert, aware of everything around him, but adults typically hadn’t noticed that about him. He made no comment; only nodded for Reece to continue.
“So next he said, ‘Hey, what are you looking at, mister?’”
(Note: Reece’s recollection is the only record we have of Leonard Armstrong’s final words, most of which I have also cited in Chapter 3 of this chronicle. There are no other witnesses or digital records. Presumably the words cited by Reece are accurate, but possibly not verbatim.—22g CP)
“Now I’m thinking, ‘This kid can’t be more than three years old—four at the most. And he’s mouthing off to me like some teenager.’ Startled the hell out of me. I said, ‘Boy, you better get away from here.’ But he didn’t leave. I sure wish he had.”
“What happened n-next?”
“He said, ‘Boy? I say now. Lookee here, son. You watch who you’re calling boy around here.’ I’ll never forget a single word he said, for as long as I live. I guess he was imitating that Foghorn Leghorn character, at least that’s what they told me. But I didn’t realize it at the time. I thought he was taunting me. Then he went on, ‘I mean, I say, how big are men where you come from anyway? I say.’ I know now he was just repeating something he’d heard in a cartoon, but at the time I felt like he’d insulted my masculinity or something. I was very sensitive about that. I was raped by my father when I was nine and obviously I had some unresolved issues about my sexuality. Anyway, something in me snapped and I slapped him—hard.”
The green light on the ACIP flickered, but Reece corrected himself before the bell could ring, “No, it was a lot worse than a slap. I knocked him unconscious and the whole side of his face was bleeding. Anyway, you saw me throw him into the back of the truck and I drove away. I just got the hell out of there.”
“Uh, d-did L-Leonard ever w-wake up?” Pete asked, hoping to God he hadn’t. His body began to rock more violently.
“Yes. Yes, he did.” Tears were rolling down Reece’s cheeks. “When I finally stopped the truck on that dirt road behind Walden Pond, he was wide awake, sobbing. I felt he knew exactly what was happening to him. I’m sure his face hurt and he was probably scared as hell, but he was alert. He asked for you. He was crying, ‘Petey. Where’s Petey?’ I had no idea who Petey was, but of course he meant you. And I’m sorry about what happened next. I am so sorry. I was damned cruel.”
“What h-happened?” Pete’s body no longer just rocked; now it oscillated.
“I’m not sure I can describe how much I hated him at that moment. Hated both of you—just for being normal kids whose parents probably loved you. Just because I knew you had all the things I always wanted and never had. I thought to myself, ‘Why them? Why should they get to live in a big house with parents who actually care about them? Why not me?’ So I said something to him, something so horrible I figured it would hurt him bad. And I could tell it did. He just whimpered and stared—like he was in shock—right at me. Right into my eyes. I waited a few seconds for my words to sink in. And when I was sure he understood, I picked up a rock and lifted it over him. He pleaded with me not to hit him again, but I was too enraged to stop what I’d started. I smashed the side of his forehead with it—several times. After the second blow, he stopped crying. I guess he was dead.”
Pete quivered and glared at Reece. Why doesn’t he just tell me what the hell he said? What’s the big deal? Reece killed him for God’s sake and he had no trouble describing that in graphic detail. But now he’s going to make me ask him what he said to Leonard just before he smashed his skull? How could mere words be so bad that he can’t repeat them without a formal invitation? But if that’s the game, I’ll play along.
“God damn it, what did you s-s-say to him?”
Reece remained silent for a few seconds. He glanced at Carter, who wore a look of resignation.
Carter nodded.
When Reece did respond, Pete bit down so hard that his tongue started to blee
d. The blood dripped onto his chin, but he felt nothing.
“I said to him, ‘Petey told me to kill you.’ ”
CHAPTER 32
ON THE BRINK
Dallas, Texas
August 11, 2024—The Ivory Coast’s Moslem-controlled government files an official complaint with the United Nations against Ghana for refusing the Ivory Coast army entry to its borders to capture or kill the terrorists responsible for unleashing a genetically engineered virus in Abidjan. Over 300,000 persons perished from the virus, which apparently had been designed to spare only ethnic Betes. The terrorists are believed to have sought refuge in Ghana’s Tongo Hills.—Statistics released by the FDA show obesity and other eating disorders have been drastically reduced in the United States. Over 90 percent of all Americans are now within three pounds of their ideal weight, largely as a result of WeightPerfect, ATI’s computerized time-release appetite regulating system. The arm-patch system, first available in October 2018, was designed to monitor each person’s body fat and nutritional needs, make food and exercise recommendations, and release the appropriate hormones to raise or lower the individual’s metabolic set-point. Nearly every person in America now uses the system, at least occasionally.
When Pete arrived home after meeting with Reece and Carter, he kept to himself. “Jennifer, I need to be alone tonight.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. I can’t.”
He locked himself in his study and sat down.
“Darker, please.”
The lights dimmed and Pete simply closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The next morning when he awoke, everything seemed even worse. He left the house at 6:00 a.m. without waking Jennifer to kiss her goodbye.
As he sat in his office, his body moved to and fro in a motion exaggerated even for him. “Come off it, Leonard. Go get the ball. It’s not that funny. . . . Please, Leonard, go get the ball.” With those words spoken almost 30 years before, Pete had sent his brother to his death. It had been unintentional, but during Leonard’s final seconds of life, how could he have known that? In his dying moments, Leonard probably believed his own brother had been responsible. The more Pete thought about that, the more upset he became.
Trying to escape the pain, he deliberately turned his thoughts to Charles Scoggins, whom David West had always mistrusted. Why didn’t I listen to David? Did Charles actually plan to blackmail me even before I reprogrammed the ACIP for him—or had blackmail merely been an afterthought?
Then a new thought. What if Scoggins planned the whole scenario years ago, before he showed me the stolen Renaissance code?
He had long wondered why Scoggins had bothered to show him that stolen code. It never made sense; Scoggins would have known the code would be useless to ATI unless Pete could override the Truth Machine.
Of course! He must have known exactly what would happen. That’s the only logical explanation. He set things in motion by showing me the code, then he waited patiently for two and a half years.
Never had Pete felt such anger before. And fear. His future and all his dreams were in jeopardy. A colleague he’d trusted and to whom he’d invested responsibility for ATI’s most important project had betrayed him. If only I could talk to David about this, or Leonard.
Pete had no idea what Scoggins was planning next, but had no doubt there would be more betrayals. He’s playing by a different set of rules. Maybe he intends to murder me. After all, my death would put him in control of the ACIP division.
These days, Scoggins kept unusual hours. He liked to get to work late, but was usually the last person on the Truth Machine team to leave the office. This evening was no exception. He must have been startled to hear a knock on his office door at 8:03 p.m. and even more surprised when Pete peered inside.
“Charles, I th-think we have a problem. It’s serious. Do you have a few minutes for us to meet—privately?”
Scoggins spoke into his wristband PDC. “Stop four.”
“We need to go down to the lab.”
Inside the same laboratory where he had interviewed Reece only 29 hours earlier, Pete pulled out a laser CBP (controlled-burst pistol) he’d hidden in a drawer. He pointed it at Scoggins and motioned him toward the ACIP.
“Get into th-that chair right now. And hand your wristband to me.”
Scoggins complied. “What’s this all about, Pete?”
“You set me up. You gave me the stolen Renaissance code knowing I’d eventually have to use it. You knew all along I’d reprogram the ACIP. Isn’t that true?”
“Pete, I had no idea. I was only trying to help the company. I swear to you.” The ACIP light flashed red and the bell rang. Pete smiled grimly.
“I took out the override code. You can’t lie to me anymore. Now point the ACIP monitor at me.”
Beads of sweat forming on his pale white face, Scoggins obeyed.
“I’m warning you, Charles, if you lie to me again, I’ll kill you. Now. Tonight. And if you don’t do exactly as I say, you’ll wish I’d killed you. I’ve planned this carefully—every detail. All the recorders are turned off in this part of the building and nobody will ever know I was here. Don’t make me do it.”
The ACIP green light stayed lit and steady. Pete meant every word. Scoggins’s survival was in his own hands.
Pete threw him a pair of handcuffs.
“Now cuff your left arm to the chair.”
Again, Scoggins obeyed. The electronic handcuffs, developed for law enforcement by Motorola and the MicroChip Corporation, were light, soft, comfortable, and efficient. Only a password spoken in Pete’s voice could unfasten them.
“How long have you been planning to blackmail me?”
Scoggins didn’t answer until Pete pointed the weapon directly at him.
“Technically speaking, since the day in Theo-Soc when David West started talking about the Truth Machine. I’d had fleeting notions about it even before that, but my plan really crystallized that day. You wouldn’t even talk to me after that class, remember? And your naive, moony altruism was so pathetic. Pete, we’re alike, you and me. How can you think these stupid little ants are worth saving?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you see how slow and silly they all are. They don’t even know how to think. But you and I are different, Pete. You’re the same as me—you just don’t know it yet.” The light stayed green.
“Charles, look at the ACIP. I’m not like you. I’ll never be like you.” Again, green.
“We’ll see. Anyway, when you wouldn’t go into business with me, I knew I had to find a way to change your mind. Eventually an opportunity arose. It always does.”
“When was that?”
“The day President Hall started talking about Roswell’s Truth Machine bill.”
“And?”
“First, I talked Boschnak at Merrill Lynch & Schwab into signing an exclusive with me. Then I convinced him that your company was a much better bet than mine. But in order to get out of the exclusive, I told him he either had to get me into ATI on acceptable terms or give me two percent of ATI’s stock out of Merrill’s shares. Y’know, you’d never have gotten as good a deal from them without my involvement. Not everything I did was detrimental. I’ve done a lot of good things for you.”
“Gee, thanks. Why’d you show me the stolen Renaissance code, Charles?”
“I’ve got a few skeletons in my closet. Long story. Mostly insider trading, commercial bribery, computer and wire fraud—white-collar kind of stuff.”
The green light flickered. Scoggins must have been holding back.
“What else?”
“I sold military technology to a Japanese arms dealer I happen to know. That was before I came to ATI, but there’s no statute of limitations on treason. Suffice it to say, I couldn’t afford to have the Truth Machine actually work on me.”
“What does all that have to do with the code?”
“I suspected that the fatal flaw was a simp
le problem with a unique solution. That’s why I saved it for last. As soon as I saw the Renaissance code, I realized it was the only possible way to solve the flaw. I knew you’d memorize it if I showed it to you. I figured you’d eventually decide to use their algorithms rather than risk Renaissance beating us to the prize—although they never really had a chance. They’re still at least 10 years behind us.”
“How did you come up with your plan?”
“When I started at ATI, I just wanted to delay the Truth Machine. It was my only hope of staying out of jail without leaving the country. But then I figured that once you’d used stolen algorithms, your only choice would be to override the ACIP. I’d be able to force you to program an override for me. That would turn a liability into an asset, wouldn’t you say? Worked almost the way I planned it too, but it took a lot longer than I expected. You were too damned principled—at first.”
“So you never really offered Bonhert a joint venture or a merger?” Pete realized it was a stupid question the moment he asked it.
“Of course not. He’d’ve made a deal in two seconds. I did everything I could to make sure you two never talked to each other. Lucky for me you both prefer to stick to science and leave the deal-making to your underlings. Big mistake, Pete. If you want to get things done, you should learn how to connect with people.”
Pete knew that was right. What a fool I’ve been, he thought.
“Why’d you show me the code back then? Why not wait until I was more desperate for a solution to the fatal flaw?”
“I was afraid you’d figure out the solution yourself before I showed it to you. Hell, if my team had worked on that part first, like Renaissance did, we could’ve figured out the solution ourselves within eight months—even without you. But that would’ve ruined everything. You could’ve passed the Truth Machine Panel’s SCIP honestly. I’d have had nothing on you. I had to make sure that didn’t happen.”
The Truth Machine Page 22