The Experiment of Dreams

by Brandon Zenner

  For now, Ben was in an oblivious state of contentment. So much so, that he did not notice the black Lincoln Town Car follow him from his apartment to the airport. He did not see the car park near him in the airport parking lot, or notice it when it tailed him back home. Later, neither Ben nor Sophia detected the car parked across the street from The Metro while they were having drinks, or witness the man behind the wheel snapping pictures of them with a large telephoto camera lens.

  Mr. Kalispell liked to protect his interests. He protected them so well that he assembled a surveillance team to observe Ben, months earlier. A van was parked outside Ben’s apartment day and night, monitoring not only Ben’s movements and phone conversations, but everything: his past work with Dr. Wright, his internet browsing history, his bills and spending, even the stores where he bought groceries. The team assessed Ben’s every move and concluded that Ben was not only a prime candidate for the job based on his abilities to control his dreams and his past, but because there was no indication of him ever becoming a threat. He lived a sullen life with no friends and no family, a part-time job that held little interest to him, and had a minor alcohol problem—a fairly boring individual living a fairly boring life. His phone never rang, he seldom made phone calls, and nobody ever came to his door.

  He was a prime candidate, and after a few months of employment without consequence, the surveillance team was thinned out to a skeleton crew. There was not much to do anymore—no additional data to compile, no new phone lines to tap, or bank records to hack. The fun stuff was over.

  That was until they received the call—the dark Lincoln was on its way, and all hands were on deck. The team was back to work, full time.

  ***

  The days flew by, and Benjamin Walker was back at the airport, walking Sophia to the international gate, and watching as she walked down the quiet corridor. He smiled and waved. She waved back, and then she was gone. He drove home, passing through “Maryland’s Inner Death Circle,” and found a parking spot less than a block from his front door. He walked past a dark van with no windows. A magnetic sign on the side said:

  Mrs. Rose’s Roses

  New York, NY

  Delivery 7 Days a Week

  The black Lincoln drove past Ben and the van, going around the block and back toward the “Inner Death Circle.” The driver, a middle-aged man in a tweed suit, spoke to the computer on the dashboard.

  “Call Iain Marcus.”

  A robotic female voice repeated his commands; “Dialing Iain Marcus. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a moment please.”

  After a pause, a dial tone rang out from the car speakers.

  “Hello?”

  “Iain, it’s me.”

  “Where are you? How’s everything going?”

  “Not good, I’m on my way back. Call a meeting.”

  ***

  Iain Marcus walked down the barren hallway on the second floor of Mr. Kalispell’s estate in Stone Hollow to a door at the far end. He walked with urgency, the handle of his briefcase slippery with perspiration. He stopped before the solid mahogany door, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  He knocked.

  “Come in, Iain,” came a voice.

  Iain opened the door, blinking away the darkness of the room, letting his eyes adjust. The middle-aged man wearing the tweed suit sat on a plush, brown leather sofa to the right of the room. The man looked neat and tidy, as he always presented himself. His suit jacket parted around the midsection, and Iain noticed the man’s stomach resting over his belt, stretching the buttons of his white shirt.

  He’s getting soft with age, Iain thought. And he’s aged significantly the last several years.

  He nodded to the man.

  “Hello, Michael,” Iain said.

  “Hello, Iain.”

  “Iain, take a seat,” came a voice from behind the desk in the far rear of the room. The chair swiveled, revealing a man wearing a suit nearly as dark as Iain’s. It had been a while since Iain last saw him, and the man had barely aged. His black hair was slicked back, as always, yet the sides of his head were now winged with grey streaks. That was new. He looked even more distinguished than he already was—if that were at all possible.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Kalispell.” Iain took a seat in a matching brown leather sofa across from Michael. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Not at all.” Mr. Kalispell leaned back in his chair, hands clasped at his midsection. “Your partner and I had a few things to discuss.”

  Iain nodded to Michael Bennet, the man in the light tweed suit, and then looked back at Mr. Kalispell. “We won’t keep you waiting any longer.”

  Iain and his partner, Michael Bennet, put their briefcases on the coffee table between them and removed file folders, all carefully organized and labeled with multicolored tabs.

  “I’ve been informed,” Mr. Kalispell announced, “that we have a situation on our hands.”

  He paused, and Iain felt the words sink in. Iain and Michael stopped what they were doing and looked up.

  “Yes, sir,” Iain said.

  “If this is anything like Drapery Falls …” Mr. Kalispell shook his head. “It better not be anything liked Drapery Falls.” He was staring at Michael.

  Michael swallowed. “Mr. Kalispell, we’re assessing—”

  “Start at the beginning. Let’s start with Ben. What’s going on with him?”

  Michael removed a crisp black and white photograph from a manila envelope and stood to hand it to Mr. Kalispell across his desk. “This, sir, is Sophia Lorenz.” Mr. Kalispell studied the photograph that Michael had taken at the Charles de Gaulle Airport. It clearly showed a lovely young woman sitting beside Benjamin Walker in the airport terminal, her head turned to him in conversation. A few long strands of her straight black hair had fallen over her face, and she wore a genuine smile of happiness. Michael handed Mr. Kalispell several additional images and files, explaining each in turn.

  “These, sir, were taken in Rome. This whole file is from Baltimore, and this file is from Paris, before Ben met Sophia at the airport.” He put the stack of photos on the desk before Mr. Kalispell. “And this,” he cleared his throat, “was taken yesterday.”

  “This is troubling.” Mr. Kalispell said.

  Michael nodded. “We have full audio from Ben’s phone conversations on the dates he called her—”

  “Play them.”

  Michael went to the media center at the side of the room. A stereo, TV, speakers, and other various communication devices were carefully arranged on built-in mahogany shelving. He inserted a disk in the CD player and hit play. Mr. Kalispell inspected the numerous photographs and files before him as he listened to the recording, not issuing a word until the recording ran through.

  “Has any of this—the recordings, the photographs—has any of it been altered in any way?”

  “No sir.”

  “Michael, did Ben believe that you were me when you showed him the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way. It’s best if he doesn’t know my identity.”

  No one knows your identity, Iain thought. You never leave your offices, or even open a window.

  Mr. Kalispell arranged the photographs, and put them back in the envelope. “Iain, play the tape. Drapery Falls.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. Then, Iain went to the media center with a thumb drive in the palm of his hand. He inserted the drive in a USB port, and after a moment, the television screen came to life. He stepped aside, holding his palms behind his back, and the three men watched the silent images on the screen come to life in the dark room. From inside the office, with the fabric curtains drawn, it was impossible to know the temperature outside was nearly eighty-five degrees with sunny skies. Iain felt he stepped into some vortex whenever he was in Mr. Kalispell's office, where the outside world, time, and nature, did not exist. The office was cold, dark, and sterile—always—and nothing
moved or flourished.

  The video ran its length, and Iain removed the drive.

  “Is this accurate Iain?” Mr. Kalispell asked.

  “Yes, sir. Extremely accurate.”

  “Is there anyone else—and I mean anyone—who could possibly know what happened in Drapery Falls, other than yourselves and Peter Wulfric?”

  Iain was taken aback. “No sir, of course not. Not a soul.”

  “Good.” Mr. Kalispell sighed. “Get ahold of Peter right away, and figure out how the hell this happened.” He swiveled in his chair, facing a large window on the wall behind him that would normally display the ocean in spectacular grandeur, only dark curtains kept the view at bay.

  “Is this the only copy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Destroy it. Better yet, put it on my desk. I’ll destroy it. Keep things normal with Ben until you talk to Peter. When are you going back to MoMA? Next week?”

  “In three days.”

  Mr. Kalispell rested his chin on a palm, keeping his back to the men. After a moment of silence, during which Michael and Iain exchanged nervous glances, Mr. Kalispell began to speak.

  “This project hit a major snag in Drapery Falls. Things did not go as expected, or as instructed. I believe that I specified there were not to be any, and I meant any, problems this time around. We have to take care of this with swift resolution. Do I make myself clear?”

  Iain and Michael’s eyes focused on their boss. “Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

  “Michael. Am I crystal clear?”

  “Yes, sir. Crystal clear.” Michael was starting to sweat. Iain glance at him and then look away.

  Mr. Kalispell sighed, still facing the curtained window as he began speaking:

  “I would like to share a few things with you, since we’re all friends here. Are we not friends, Michael?”

  Iain and Michael exchanged hurried glances, and then turned back to Mr. Kalispell. “Yes, sir.” Michael swallowed a lump in this throat. “We’re friends, sir.”

  “Good. That’s good, Michael. Now … let’s chat. When my father began Kalispell Industries, before I was even born, he longed for the day when his children would grow up and work for the company, to one day succeed him. It was his recipe for immortality. The way he could live forever was through this company. He would become a portrait on the wall for the following generations to admire, and never forget. Naturally, he became understandably agitated when I, his oldest son, declared that I wanted to go to art school rather than follow in the family business. Typical teenage angst, maybe; at least, that is what I was told at the time. The idea was unfathomable to my parents. ‘Hippie bullshit,’ I believe my father said.

  “Not having much in the way of artistic ability, and learning quickly that art school can only teach you so much if you are not already blessed with inherent talent, I longed to become a gallery director, or an art historian, something of that nature. I fantasized in my youth about one day running a major art gallery, a task I knew would never become a reality, but the fantasy gave me much pleasure back then. I was young and full of unrealistic ideals. My imagination was great and my resolve even greater.

  “I held on to those unrealistic ideals for quite some time. It was only after seeing my parents’ grief at my decisions that I relented and took business management classes at Stanford University. Not to mention that my brother’s willingness to participate in the family business only fueled my competitive nature and made me quickly climb to the head of my class at Stanford, and later rise in the family business.

  “All the while I yearned for the peace, the tranquility, and the unbelievable joy of spending hours—days, even—immersed in the world’s greatest works of art and sculpture. I wanted to live in paintings and portraits, saturate myself, not spend a moment doing anything else. I made it my life's ambition to visit the world’s most spectacular museums and artistic sights. I spent years studying abroad, from Cairo, to Britain, to Taipei, examining every brush stroke and chisel mark, in every museum I could find. There is such a depth in art that it seems incomprehensible to many people that such things can be devised by the hands of men. And yet, we humans do create such wonders.

  “However, just visiting these places and seeing these masterpieces were not enough. My happiness waned considerably the farther I distanced myself from museums and galleries. So naturally, I began collecting. It has been a great source of pleasure and relief for me. Walking in one of my galleries is like taking my daily medication—it is my medication. And where Lucy is concerned, I’m currently blending my newest business venture with my own private interest, as you both already know—creating a sort of bridge between the two.

  “So here we are now, at a crossroad along that bridge—and what is there to do? Losing my newfound capability to reproduce art is not something I take lightly. I would be losing my supply of medication, and believe me … I’m a much nicer man when I’m on my medicine.”

  There was a pause. In the silence, Iain thought Mr. Kalispell had finished speaking, but he did not dare speak himself.

  Mr. Kalispell continued. “Losing Lucy, losing the Vitruvian Machine, well, that would be disastrous. Unthinkable. Unfathomable. Impossible. After all this time, all this time and money spent researching, exploring the boundaries of human law and nature, and going well beyond those limits … well, that is something we can’t simply walk away from.

  “I hope you two understand the importance of the task I gave you. Kalispell Industries must produce Lucy. The company’s name is at stake. The company my father began, and which my brother and I now run, it is my father’s name; it is his legacy. It is my own name, and it will be my legacy. I will not see it tainted by failure. Lucy is the future of Kalispell Industries; it is what will live on long after all of us are dead.

  “You are part of this, Iain, Michael. You helped create Lucy, and now you must help protect it. You must work very carefully; there is no room for doubt or error. Your decisions must be carefully thought-out and absolute. Iain, I give you and your men complete authority to do whatever is necessary to resolve this situation, no matter how it dirties your hands. I will wash them clean. We cannot afford to let this project come crashing down on us. All of our livelihoods are at stake. The production of Lucy is going to be a huge monetary gain not just for myself, but for you two as well. I assure you.”

  He paused and the air grew still.

  “That will be all.”

  Iain and Michael stacked the papers and folders, and snapped the clasps of their briefcases shut. They left Mr. Kalispell’s office without uttering a word or making a sound, closing the door behind them. Halfway down the hallway, Michael let out a sigh and Iain put a finger between his neck and collar.

  “You look pale,” Iain said. Not to mention fat. Soft.

  “I wasn’t expecting this—another incident, another setback. Everything was going great this time.”

  Iain forced a nervous laugh. “We’ll figure it out, Mike. We did before. We always do. Things could be worse.”

  “Yeah, we could be back in Afghanistan.”

  “Come on now, this is nothing like Afghanistan, Michael. This may be worse.”

  Chapter 15

  “Why do you have two of the same painting?” Sophia held the unframed painting of the cabin in the woods, raising it up to the identical copy that hung from the wall.

  Ben didn’t feel like explaining.

  “They look identical.”

  Ben was in the kitchen, opening a bottle of wine and unwrapping a piece of incredibly soft Camembert cheese that Sophia had snuck in her baggage. Sophia knew Emily’s story as well as Ben could tell it, and occasionally Ben was open to discussing it further. Today was not one of those days. Sophia knew the subject was painful, so she never pushed the conversation.

  “It’s, a … Emily painted it. Many years ago.”

  He came out of the kitchen holding two glasses of wine.

  Sophia stood next to the painting, her hair
tied high in the back, and for a moment it was not black but brown and curly. Her long thin body turned curvy around the hips. He saw Emily standing there with her back to him, looking at the painting, holding it up by the edges of the frame. They were back in the studio, his old house and life. She stood from her stool, the painting complete, and Ben at the doorway. She didn’t hear him, she didn’t see him, and he stood there watching her as she gazed upon her finished painting, holding it up to the light. Then he shifted, leaned his body against the doorframe, and made a noise. Her paint-freckled face turned, startled …

  “Emily …” Wine circled in the glasses, jumping out over rims.

  “What?” Sophia turned and her face was hers, Sophia Lorenz. Her hair was straight and black, her body thin and delicate, and they were in his apartment in Fells Point, Maryland. Ben shook his head. He put the glasses on the coffee table and went to get a napkin.

  “What? Nothing. I’m sorry. Emily painted that years ago.”

  Sophia looked at the painting on the wall, then at the other in her hands.

  “They are so identical,” Sophia whispered to herself. “Why—how—did she paint it twice?”

  She put the copy down.

  “It’s very good,” she said.

  Despite their plans to travel while Sophia was visiting—go to Manhattan, or see the shore at Ocean City—they spent most of their time in Ben’s apartment, drinking wine and talking and laughing.

  The days flew by, and before Ben knew it, he was back at the airport. He stood at the terminal, watching her off, waving as she disappeared toward her gate. He was grateful at having just spent a few days with her, but felt deep reluctance to see her go.

  ***