“You’re not serious?” I say.
“Let me be clear,” Reg says. “I am in no way claiming that ghosts, defined as the supernatural remnants of some angsty soul trapped on the mortal plane, are real.”
Reg walks across the lab, opens a mini-fridge that blends in perfectly with all the robotics equipment and gear, and returns with three bottled waters, which she hands out. She cracks her bottle open, chugs a quarter of it, and wipes her mouth. “However, that is a hypothesis. While science has yet to prove a supernatural realm exists, it also hasn’t disproved it. Believing alternate dimensions exist requires the same leap of faith. And there are alternatives, which are likewise unproven.”
She takes another swig. Rain and I hold our waters, but neither of us drink. We’re like two dogs, focused on the treat that is Reg’s supernatural diatribe, unable to think about anything else.
“Some think that ghosts are interdimensional beings that we experience when whatever veil between dimensions exists grows thin. This isn’t my favorite hypothesis, because it doesn’t explain why people see relatives or events from the past. Also, a prerequisite to this hypothesis is that other dimensions of reality exist…which we’re nowhere close to proving.
“My favorite hypothesis is what I call chronological residue; events from the past somehow, perhaps because of their intensity, affect time and space—which we know for a fact isn’t linear. Ghosts might be nothing more than echoes of past events. Think of it like a streaming movie from thirty years ago, and somehow your mystery friend here—” she smiles at Rain, “—is tuned into whatever frequency is flickering its way through time. That still doesn’t explain why people see Granny in her old rocking chair, but there are plenty of other hypotheses to explain those encounters. Mold exposure. Carbon Monoxide poisoning. Acid flashbacks. Hell, too much NyQuil could probably do it. But the hallucinations of some people don’t mean all ghost sightings are hallucinations. In the case of Rain, get an umbrella.”
Reg laughs at her own joke, but it peters out when she notices neither Rain nor I are joining her. Reg takes another swig. “In…your situation. You both saw and felt the same thing. Rain’s body was reacting to something outside of her, and she spoke a language she doesn’t know how to speak…all of this after surviving an event that defies explanation. She’s either totally in tune with a frequency of chronological residue, which would be fascinating and a Nobel-worthy discovery, or…”
I lean forward, eyebrows raised. “Or?”
“Ghosts.” Reg smiles. “Of the more traditional variety. As you move forward, I suggest keeping all ideas that haven’t been disproven on the table. After all, what we now call science has traditionally been treated as supernatural until someone has figured out how to understand it. Billions of people hold the supernatural realm to be quite real, including many scientists in fields that society assumes are made up of atheists. There are plenty of physicists, biologists, and geneticists who believe not just in the supernatural, but who go to church every Sunday and pray to a deity whose existence will likely never be proven by science. Not because it doesn’t exist, but because something that can create the known universe would be beyond our ability to comprehend.”
She looks back and forth between Rain and me. “I’m rambling. Sorry. None of this helps your current predicament.”
“I’m not sure about that,” I say. “Understanding motive almost always exposes the criminal.” I crack open my water bottle. Take a sip. Then another. “So, spirits of the dead or not, would it be safe to assume that SpecTek was working on some kind of supernatural science?”
“That’s an oxymoron,” Reg says. “Something cannot be both supernatural and science. Something can metamorphose from the former to the latter, but it cannot be both, and it cannot reverse course.”
“You know what I mean,” I say. Reggie has a tendency to take things literally. I once said ‘Holy shit,’ in front of her, and she spent twenty minutes explaining why shit can’t be holy, and how ‘bullshit’ was a better term to use.
She takes a moment to collect her thoughts. While she does, I glance at Rain, who has fallen silent. She’s probably wondering whether or not she’s a believer in the supernatural. With no memory of her past self, her beliefs and biases might have been erased, too.
“Was SpecTek researching the science behind supernatural phenomena?” Reg says, attempting to consume and regurgitate my question in a more accurate format. “It’s…possible. But improbable. I was under the impression that SpecTek’s primary benefactor was the U.S. government, which, in case you didn’t know, in the science world, means DARPA.”
“DARPA?” Rain asks.
“Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency,” I say. “They’re a government agency that figures out how to make awesome science into deadly weapons.”
“That’s a…crude description of their mandate, but not inaccurate,” Reg says. “Not all of their programs kill people. Most are focused on saving or improving lives.”
“But you don’t work for them?” Rain asks.
“God, no,” Reg says. “I don’t want my robots killing people!”
I throw my hands up. “But you just—”
“Saul. When it comes to robots, there are generally only two things people think to do with them—put holes in other people, or fill them.”
I groan.
She waves her hands. “Just…bad joke. Sorry. But you won’t find any silicon in this lab. Or guns. I want my creations on other planets. In surgery suites. At the bottom of the ocean. I want to expand the world’s knowledge, not…you know.”
“Killing people,” Rain says, with a nod of approval.
“So, what then?” I ask.
“The results of their experimentation were highly destructive and unexpected. It’s not uncommon for scientists working on the fringe of tactile sciences—” she looks at Rain, “—who are laboring in the real world, rather than working out math problems or thought experiments, to meet their end when unexpected…” Her eyes flick back to me. Toward my growing despair. “Sorry. I’m being insensitive.”
“But you’re not wrong,” I say, forcing myself to sit up straight and take another drink, to hide my awkward recovery. “They were messing with something they shouldn’t have been.”
“Shouldn’t might be too far. I think the sciences are the most noble and natural pursuit in which a person can endeavor. They can be twisted and used for ill gain, but the human race has benefited more from those willing to push boundaries than it has been harmed. SpecTek was certainly not cautious enough, and the morally questionable way in which they conducted their research—” A glace at Rain. “—suggests that SpecTek cared more about ‘could’ than ‘should.’ It shows a disturbing lack of responsibility to the rights of the individual, not to mention the surrounding community.”
I lean forward, pinching my nose. Despite Reggie’s insights, her long-winded logic is starting to overwhelm me. And she doesn’t miss it.
“We can talk about this later.” She places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You need to sleep. Both of you. When you’re rested, we can consider next steps.”
“No offense,” I say. “But your lab isn’t exactly cozy. And sleep…” I shake my head. I’m not sure I’ll ever sleep again.
“I was in Salem, remember. My car is fine. My house has power.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger,” I say.
“Probably too late for that, right?”
“I’m sorry.”
She gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m glad you came. And I’m happy to help.”
“Even if it means dying?” I ask.
She shrugs and grins. “Quickest way to solve that ghost mystery, right?” She stands and motions for us to follow her. “C’mon. Better to not be here if they track you to the lab. Unlike you, they won’t have a key, and I’ll get an alarm if they kick down the door.”
When I stand to follow her, Rain catches my arm. The intensity of her glare as
ks a single question, which I answer with, “We can trust her. I promise.”
Given what I suspect happened to Rain, it wouldn’t surprise me if she had a natural fear of scientists. Even if she can’t remember what happened. But I’ve earned her trust. I’m not sure I’ll trust her completely until she remembers who she is, but right now, she’s still my one-and-only path to figuring out what happened, and whether there’s even a slim chance of Morgan being alive.
“And she’s right,” I say. “Better to get out of Cambridge.”
Reluctance falters and then fades. We exit the lab like three thieves tip-toeing out of a bank vault, checking every nook and cranny for watching eyes, before slipping out of the lab, back outside M.I.T., and to the street, where Reggie’s vehicle awaits. I stop next to the short, lime-green Prius.
“This is your car?” Rain asks. She’s short and thin, but still looks big beside the vehicle. “If they spot us—”
“They won’t,” I say with false confidence. “Also: shotgun.”
Rain doesn’t remember her life, but she seems to understand the etiquette of calling front-seat dibs. She rolls her eyes and opens the back door, sliding down into the vehicle. I have to adjust the seat to fit, but I manage to slip inside and shut the door, just as a helicopter thunders overhead.
We sit still and silent for a moment, as it circles the campus. On the outside, I look calm—I’m trying to, anyway—but my heart is pounding. When the helicopter heads to the North End, I say, “Slow and calm. Like you’re not running for your life.”
Reggie puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb. Our drive east along the Charles River is slowed by traffic flowing in from Boston. Much of it is emergency services, but a large number of vehicles are curious people—mostly young people—heading across the river to learn what they can. The light show from Boston highrise apartment buildings must have been spectacular. Without working traffic signals, we’re dependent on the mercy of others when we arrive at intersections, and since this is Boston… Well, it takes a while.
Ten minutes later, we’re stuck at the intersection of Edward H. Land Boulevard and the Charles River Dam Road. The Museum of Science is to our right. Beyond that icon of my childhood is the nighttime Boston skyline. After three minutes of false starts, I say, “You’re going to have to be more aggressive.”
“Hard to be aggressive in a Prius,” Reggie says.
I’m about to suggest that I drive, when I notice the car’s interior growing brighter. I glance in the side mirror, expecting to see a vehicle approaching from behind, hoping it’s not a black SUV. But I see nothing. I turn around the other way, intending to look out the rear window, but my eyes never make it past Rain.
She’s glowing.
Bright.
I squint as her fear-filled eyes flicker to life and flare bright blue.
12
“Uhh,” I say, and I take hold of Reggie’s arm.
She turns to me. “What—” Her head swivels toward Rain. “Whoa…”
Screeching tires pull my attention to the intersection. Two cars collide. Nothing serious, but the drivers aren’t shouting at each other, trying to place blame, or complaining about the damage. They’re staring at the Prius. At the glowing woman in the backseat.
And their faces are cast in blue light.
Our car is shining like a beacon. If the helicopters know what they’re looking for, we’ll be easy to spot.
“We need to cover her up!” I shout, considering removing my shirt to throw over her.
“Behind your seat,” Reggie says. “On the floor.”
Rain might be glowing like a lightbulb, but she’s still with us. Still herself. She bends down, plucks the folded blanket from the floor, and yanks it open. Sand sprinkles throughout the car, some of it in my mouth. While I spit the granules out, Rain cloaks herself beneath the blanket, leaving just a small slit for her to see through.
“Sorry about the sand,” Reg says. “It’s my beach blanket.”
The light shining through the blanket strobes. Rain shouts in surprised discomfort, her voice sputtering in time with the flicker.
“Get us out of here!” I shout.
Before Reg can hit the gas, Rain leans forward and grasps her arm. “No! That way!” Her glowing gaze turns right, toward the Museum of Science. Toward Boston. “It’s going that way.”
“It?” I say.
“I think she wants us to follow a ghost,” Reg says, eyes wide.
Rain coils in discomfort.
“It’s hurting you,” I argue. “We should get away—”
“I need to know,” Rain says, her voice almost a growl. “What I am. Who I am. And you do, too.”
“It’s a compelling argument,” Reg says. “Sometimes answers can only be found at the end of a breadcrumb trail.”
“Or in an evil witch’s candy house,” I grumble, turning my attention to the Boston skyline. The city looks peaceful. Nothing intimidating there. No helicopters either. Why not? “Go for it.”
Reg turns the wheel and hits the gas. The prospect of a scientific discovery eradicates her timidity behind the wheel. She lays on the horn, squeals tires, and tears past the Museum of Science like the hounds of hell are chasing us.
Once we’re over the bridge and entering the city, Reg slows down. The police presence is intense. Patrol cars everywhere. They don’t know what happened, and they’re responding like it was a terrorist attack. If they see Rain’s glow we might be stopped and searched. What will they do when faced with a glowing woman who looks like she could explode?
God, I hope she doesn’t explode.
Reg glances back. “What are you feeling?”
Rain shivers beneath the blanket. “It’s…intense…”
“Figured that out already,” Reg says, and then to herself. “Don’t be a snark. She’s dealing with a lot. Fine.”
“I feel energy,” Rain say, oblivious to Reggie’s dialogue. “It feels warm…and cold…if that makes sense. It’s moving through me. And…I can feel it in my head.”
“Like pressure?” I ask. “A headache?”
She shakes her head. “Voices.”
I’m frozen for a moment. Hearing her speak Norwegian was freaky enough. I don’t really want to experience it again. But the more we understand about what’s happening… “Can you hear what they’re saying?”
“Him,” Rain says.
“Him…who?”
“It’s not a they. It’s a him.” Rain’s light flickers again and then goes dark. She gasps and presses into the back of her seat. Then she lurches forward and points down Cambridge Street. “That way!”
Reg follows her directions, making a last-second left turn that takes us straight toward downtown.
Are we really chasing a ghost through Boston? I wonder. How does that even work? If it’s a ghost in the traditional sense—a human spirit—how is it moving? I thought they haunted the place in which they died? And if it’s an echo from the past, who the hell made this journey in a way that bent time and space? Paul Revere?
Okay, that would be cool, but how does it help us find out what happened to Morgan?
Where are you, baby?
I tune out the car, the city, and the sirens filling the air.
She was home just a few days ago. We had pizza. Watched Back to the Future, again. She has a thing for 80s movies, especially the lighthearted ones. She wore the footie pajamas I bought her for Christmas last year. I see her in the living room chair, feet up on the ottoman, popcorn in her lap. The way she laughed, more at her own running commentary on the movie, than at the movie itself. The night ended in bed. No sex. Just curled up together, me sleeping well.
A horn blare shocks me out of the past.
The Prius swerves left and then right, narrowly avoiding being T-boned by a large truck. I turn back. Our light is green.
Why did he run the red light? I wonder, and then I notice the city’s lights, all around us now, are flickering.
As is
Rain.
We’re catching up to the ghost…and it’s affecting the whole city, not just Rain.
With every light in the city turning off and on, it feels like we’ve entered the world’s largest rave. And then everything takes on a blue hue, as though lit from above by a giant fluorescent bulb.
“Shit,” I whisper, leaning forward to look up through the windshield. But the car is too small for me to look up past the skyscrapers blocking my view. So I roll down the window and lean outside like a dog. I’m struck by warm air and the smell of ozone.
Then I look up.
“Shiiit.”
Clouds swirl above the city, pulsing with the same blue light emanating from Rain’s body.
It’s happening again.
“Does SpecTek have another lab in Boston?”
The question was rhetorical. I didn’t expect anyone to have an answer, but Reg says, “They have labs in Chicago and Austin. Cambridge was their only lab in the Northeast.” When I give her a ‘For real?’ look, she adds, “Their work is secret. Their locations are not.” She shrugs. “I keep up.”
“I can feel him again,” Rain says, voice quivering. “He’s here.”
“Here?” I ask, looking around the street. We’re on State Street, surrounded by massive, flashing buildings. “I don’t see—”
But then I do.
The memorial is so subtle that most people miss it. Only those walking along the Freedom Trail’s red-lined path usually take note. The cobblestone circle is of immense importance, not just to Boston, but to the United States as a whole. It marks the location where the very first patriots gave their lives in rebellion against the British throne, four years before the more well-known Boston Tea Party. What started as a scuffle, with a single Red Coat, ended in a bloodbath that sparked a movement, which gave birth to a nation.
Is this the event that Rain is connecting to? If Reggie’s chronological residue hypothesis is right, a massacre that shaped all of history since would surely fit the bill.
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