“He’s stressing me.”
“You have the medicine to help. He doesn’t.” Lloyd nodded and fell silent, looking away. Dr. Young turned to me. “Speaking of medicine,” he said, changing the subject.
“I think you are already beginning to suspect that the pill you have ingested for the last several years was not a simple antidepressant.” He paused.
“Mr. Whales what was the cause of your ailment? What did the doctor say?”
I didn’t remember.
“Chemical imbalance in the brain.” Iris said that. Dr. Young turned to her.
“Quite so! The hole in your head is caused by the rock!”
“That’s most likely what he told you, Mr. Whales. Imbalance of chemicals in your brain. The rock caused your head to bleed. Never mind the kid who threw it, never mind the father who never taught him it was a bad thing to do. Is the young lady a physician?”
“I’ve done human studies. A little bit of psychology.”
“Indeed? Very interesting. But then you don’t believe that, isn’t that true?”
“Yes it is. The imbalance is the body’s physical response to psychological problems, not the other way around.”
“And what do you think the reason was for Mr. Whales’s psychological problems? A tragic event in the family? Perhaps stress at work?” I looked at Iris, realizing suddenly I knew what she was going to say. And I was right.
“The world is fucked up,” she replied, meeting my gaze. Dr. Young laughed.
“Most eloquently put. I couldn’t have said it better myself. You surprise me, Ms. Iris. Are you an old friend of Mr. Whales?”
“No.”
“Fine, then. Back to the matter at hand. The bulk of your pill’s compound does nothing more than the antidepressants of yore. It works to help reestablish the chemical balance in your brain. There are a few variations, depending on what kind of rock your doctor believes it was that made your head bleed. Nothing unusual about it. Been used for decades. And although the latest breakthroughs in the study of the brain should have made it obsolete, it is still used, and will continue to be used, because it’s relatively cheap and quite effective. However, the progress made in the field did not go to waste entirely. The little pill you took included a tiny additive that was the direct result of that progress. It is there to eliminate the real cause. The cause, so colorfully summed up by Ms. Iris just now. Its active ingredient, if you will permit me, makes the world a better place.”
I glanced over at Lloyd, who was reassembling the pistol he’d just taken apart. Dr. Young continued.
“Obviously it doesn’t do that by feeding the hungry, stopping wars, eliminating income tax or performing any of the similar noble, but terribly idealistic, impractical and disastrously expensive deeds. Are you following me, Mr. Whales? I am not going to make this interactive, because it is so very simple. Simple as all genius. The only way to make the world a better place without altering it is to alter the beholder. Convince his mind that the world really isn’t so bad. Convince him that his country is the best. Assure him that he doesn’t have to worry about direction. That he, his children and his children’s children are in good hands. There are experienced and, most importantly, good people taking care of him. And best of all, cure him without him knowing it!” Dr. Young beamed and for a moment looked even younger.
“You know, this story is very recent. By recent I mean less than twenty years old. At the end of the last century one out of every twenty Americans suffered from depression. Very privately, too. But as the new millennium started, that number began to grow. Rapidly, Mr. Whales. I would wager you don’t remember hearing about Freedom Corp. fifteen years ago. Of course not, you were too young. But you wouldn’t remember even if you weren’t. The company had a different name then. We, the saviors, were just a small lab in the suburbs.
“We thought it was a blessing. Divine intervention. Quite seriously, I might add. We, the young, brilliant scientists could not get over the fact that this major discovery coincided in such a way with the sudden increase in cases of recurring anxiety and depression. It was our destiny to change everything. It was our purpose.
“I won’t bore you with chemical formulas and details of the project. Our end result was a pill, which was supposed to be prescribed and taken concurrently with therapy sessions. At the time when common antidepressants and standard therapy failed to address the puzzling influx of new patients, our miracle pill brought immediate results. Basically what it did was open the human mind to suggestions. Make it extra absorbent. Like mild hypnosis, but without amulets, candles or finger-snapping.
“Do you understand now, Mr. Whales? Up until the end of last century, there was no need for such a pill, because your group therapy was enough to keep the number of depressions low.”
“My group therapy?”
“TV, radio, printed periodicals, all of it. Back then things were a lot simpler. I mean, nobody really knew what caused depression, but most agreed it probably had to do with stress at work, mediocrity, tragedy, childhood and so on. We had medication, therapy. In the scheme of things, we had it well in hand. But then came the new century, and all the fearsome events, and all the fearsome information suddenly available on the still free Internet, and things began to change and spin out of control. We were unprepared. These massive jolts were scaring us into a new set of perceptions. Mr. Freud here would appreciate the method.”
“I was there, Doc. Where do you think I learned it?”
“Now imagine, we were still treating successfully the normal cases I’ve just mentioned, but suddenly a whole new population of patients appeared, none of whom responded to standard diagnostics. These people were successful at work, their fathers did nothing inappropriate, their dogs did not get killed by cars, yet they were every bit as depressed, and normal pills, which only treated the “chemical imbalance,” were failing. Only later some of us would realize what had happened. That the Media Therapy had failed. That the Media Therapy had worked before that.
“At the time, however, we invented a new pill. We began replacing generic antidepressants with it during combined treatment and it worked immediately! With the increased power of suggestion, therapy sessions began to produce the results again. Previously undiagnosed patients were helped to recall sources of their conditions. Finding the roots was easy once we broke through the wall with the help of the pill. Everyone has had an event in his life that could have triggered the depression. A doctor’s job then was to simply convince the patient that it was that very event that did it. Once he succeeded, and he did every time, the treatment turned pretty much back to the standard algorithm. Faith helping those chemicals to rebalance themselves.”
“So first you make up an illness for them, then you treat it?” Iris asked.
“Not us personally, but yes, my dear. That’s what psychiatry is.
“Shortly and inevitably, the situation has changed. Our pill attracted attention. Let me explain.
“The pill succeeded in treating the new patients, but it neither explained the sudden increase in their number, nor it prevented that number from increasing further. We didn’t bother with reasons. Our field was chemistry, not metaphysics. But soon we weren’t able to handle the volume. We needed to expand. The company went public. Our stocks flew off the shelves, so to speak. We were bought immediately. Long story short, two months later the word came we were expanding 500 percent. The size doubled in a year. The name became Freedom Corp. And we didn’t even know who it was that bought us. Nor did we care, to be honest. With the increased demand, our salaries quadrupled. I’m talking close to what you were making recently, Mr. Whales. It was very hard to care, you understand.
“Still, with time, as we worked, and the information trickled down to our basements, rumors we heard began to gnaw at us. I suppose I should say ‘at me.’ I heard the growth of the number of patients was so rapid, that there were no personnel for individual therapy sessions. Eventually, it became known to me that the pill was being distribu
ted as a cure, and the patients were sent home without any treatment at all.
“The news shocked me. The very idea seemed sacrilegious. I realized that instead of helping people, we were now helping someone make money out of nothing, because I was convinced that without individual therapy the pill was useless. Worse, we were making money out of a lie. Finally, I could stand it no longer and confronted the Director, who promptly showed me the error of my ways. That was the first time I heard about the Mass Therapy. You see now? The task media had performed throughout the tumultuous twentieth century, the same take it failed to perform at the beginning of the new millennium, it was able to accomplish again with the help of our pill. And the results, once again, were miraculous. The world became a better place.” Dr. Young fell silent and looked at Iris.
“That’s when I left.”
“Is it addictive?” I asked him. He turned his head.
“You know that better than me, Mr. Whales, no? Well, in case you haven’t quite discerned that yet, no it is not addictive in the sense that heroin is addictive. That’s why it was so easy for you to stop taking it.”
“It wasn’t easy…” I mumbled unhappily. Both Dr. Young and Lloyd laughed.
“No, of course not. Not that easy, in any case. People are reluctant to stop taking pills because they believe their physicians and because they fear. Withdrawals, although relatively mild, can be horrifying for the unprepared. But I am afraid now there are those who think it is too easy to quit. I hear they are modifying the formula in order to remedy that. Stronger side effects, fearful hallucinations, severe lapses, fatigue and so on.”
“What are they doing?” Iris asked.
“Who are ‘they?’” I asked at the same time.
“On, no. Even if I was qualified to explain that briefly, I wouldn’t do it at this time.”
“Look, Doc, it was a great lecture, but I don’t take the stuff anymore. And nothing you said explained to me why I’m sitting in the same room with a murderer who set me up by killing a man…” I stared at the gun in Lloyd’s lap, finally recognizing it. “…with my own gun.”
“Quite right, it did not. But it is related.”
“Related? He killed a man for god’s sake, and you’re just standing there telling stories and sharing chuckles with him, instead of reporting him to the police.”
“I don’t approve of killing human beings for any reason, Mr. Whales. That includes, I believe, the recent attempt on your own life. I prefer no interaction with the so-called ‘authorities’ and I cannot reprimand Mr. Freud myself. I am not his employer. I am his doctor, and sometimes his priest. I have already ‘reported’ him to God, you may be sure of that.”
“I took your gun so you wouldn’t kill anybody. Those were my specific instructions.”
“That makes no sense. Why would I kill anyone?”
“Why did you run to your closet for the gun?” I had a few answers for that, and a question or two also (like “How the hell did he know?”), but none that would eliminate the next question about killing. I didn’t like that and said nothing. Instead, I asked Dr. Young a question.
”How is it related?”
Iris said, “I don’t understand how it ties to Luke, either. I mean, if Lloyd is supposed to protect him from some kind of danger… Why would he be in danger in the first place? Couldn’t be simply because he stopped taking the pills. I know a few people who have, and they never found corpses in their bathrooms.”
“Kitchen,” I corrected dumbly. Iris gave me a comforting smile.
“Were any of those people you knew famous, Ms. Iris?” Dr. Young asked, reaching for a coat that hung on a hook in the corner. She shook her head.
“So is it true that everyone is on the pill?” I asked, when neither of them bothered to elaborate.
“Everyone? Of course not. The numbers are quite substantial nonetheless. As of right now the pill is taken by approximately twenty-five percent of the population in the United States. Other countries… I cannot say.”
I glanced at Iris, who had been wrong for once. Dr. Young noticed.
“Were your estimates much higher, my dear?”
“I guess I thought better of us,” she replied. The old man smiled sadly.
“Yes. Three quarters of ‘us’ are doing just fine without the medicine. As I mentioned, however, the numbers continue to grow.”
“Wait, so it’s bad not to be on the pill now?” I asked.
“That depends on the case, and it depends on who you ask. Ms. Iris seems to think it’s bad not to need a pill, to look around and be perfectly OK with what you see without one. I happen to agree, but I assure you there are plenty of those who do not. In your case, as in, stopping the pills after years or taking them, we shall see, I suppose. Now, as to how the pill is related to your present situation… I don’t precisely know, but I would guess that if you had not stopped the pill, you would not be with us right now. Is that right, Mr. Freud?”
Lloyd looked up at him from his chair with a sour face. “I don’t know, Doc. Never mind that. Listen, what you need to know is that this drafting business was just a cover for something much more serious. I can’t tell you exactly what it was, because I don’t know. All he told me was that if you got drafted, it would start some kind of a chain reaction.”
“Oh, man, are you gonna tell me you’re from the future or something now?”
By the looks of it, Lloyd was going to tell me something else, but Dr. Young stepped in.
“It sounds like Mr. Freud’s employer is in possession of some information not available to us at the moment. There’s no need to discuss the point further.”
“Where do we go from here?” Iris asked.
“Now, that is a good question. Thank you. Mr. Freud, what were your instructions?”
“Keep the kid alive. Keep him away from the cops. Stay in a populated area. Stay indoors at night. Bring him to you, if possible.” Lloyd fell silent.
“I’m certainly flattered,” said Dr. Young, “but you must have more. What is your long-term plan? Are you bringing Mr. Whales to see your employer? Shouldn’t you be looking for a car or something? That would be the easiest way to leave, am I wrong?”
“No car. It can get pretty lonely in between cities, and we can’t have that. We need to try and get on the Mono.”
I laughed. “Great idea! Let’s go right now!”
“Mr. Freud. O’Hare and the Union Station have more surveillance than any other building in Chicago.”
“So I figure, no one’s really expecting a fugitive to try and make it out of the city through there.”
“There’s a good reason for that.”
“It’s fast, it’s crowded, it’s under ground and in a tight space. Four good reasons to try.”
Dr. Young thought about it. “You’ll need time. You will not be able to do it today. It will require planning, maybe a couple of trips down there. Can you afford another night or even two?”
“He couldn’t say. We might get additional help, though. He did say that.”
Lloyd wasn’t looking at the doctor when he said that, and he sounded neither reassuring, nor reassured. Dr. Young only nodded. He turned to us.
“We will stay at my place today,” he said. “It’s a short walk from here.”
”What was that about?” I asked.
“Mr. Freud is worried there might be dogs on your trail soon.”
“Dogs? It’s the thirties. Who uses dogs?”
“Come, come.” Dr. Young urged us out of the door into the empty nave. In a softer voice he added a ridiculous phrase, but something in the way he said it made me pretend I didn’t hear. The phrase was: “These are pooches you don’t want to meet, Mr. Whales.”
Chapter Ten
Brome didn’t like to admit it, but tying the fat cop in civvies and the marshal together was a good move. Punching the marshal’s image into the surveillance search was, of course, a no-brainer after that, but that first idea the two were one and the same had b
een sound. He might have come up with it himself if his head wasn’t full of static all the time. Or maybe not. Maybe Brighton really was better at it than he.
Shortly after they received the initial image, the car in the picture was identified, and the home team sent over the address. Brighton adjusted the course without interrupting his monologue. He had just finished a detailed explanation of how it all occurred to him and moved on to the new version of the crime.
“So this is how I see it,” he said. “Whales receives the draft notice. He’s off his meds. He panics. Calls his producer. Has a fight with his wife. He’s desperate. He comes home to be confronted by the two marshals. The first thing that comes to his mind is to pay the cops off. He offers something insane, a couple of million in cash, maybe. There are a few possibilities here for what happened next, but my version is: an argument ensues, it heats up, Whales pulls out a gun and shoots one of the marshals. The other one, Freud, agrees to take the money, though now Whales feels that he’s in too much trouble, and hires Freud to assist him in getting out of the city. He probably gives him a deposit. They split up and meet later at the gay bar. They escape through the stage — that bartender probably abetting, since I see no reason for either Whales or Freud to know about the secret door — and later, when Whales runs away from the cops at the service station, Freud covers his escape by shooting at the police.”
“And they come here, spending the night.”
He drove into a fenced courtyard. The building loomed before them like a gray ship with a sharp bow. A lone police officer stood guard at the door.
“And the girl? The car?” Brome asked.
“Belong together, I think. Knows either Freud or Whales. Probably Freud. Hard to imagine Whales having friends in this part of town.”
Brome thought that knowing someone wasn’t quite enough to give rides and lodging to the most wanted man in the country, but he said nothing. After all, she could have been paid, and he didn’t want to hear it from Brighton.
They went inside and spoke to tenants, all of whom were sleepy, despite it being noon. It was funny, Brome thought, how none of them saw anything, while in the suburb they’d just returned from, neighbors from five surrounding houses came out to give the federal agents detailed statements regarding Whales’s last visit to his ex-wife without being asked.
Project Antichrist Page 8