Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 21: The Dreams

     The cab arrived, and they piled into the back seat together. Having planned for the possibility that she'd have to seduce O'Keefe, Katie had prepared a room at a rent-by-the-week motel that was about halfway between his house and her downtown base of operations. This was the address she gave the driver.

     During the ride, she leaned into Seth, head resting on his chest, listening to the rhythmic sounds of his heart and his breathing. She wondered about him. He really was unlike anyone she'd ever met before. He was confident and cheerful one moment, then worried and paranoid the next. He could be flirtatious, and he clearly liked her—no, he clearly liked Svetlana—but, he declined to act on his feelings beyond a certain point. She supposed he must be like her—living a double life. He must be. But how could he be so good at it? How had she not broken through his façade? She revised the balance of her mental calculations: he wasn't quite the fool he had initially appeared to be. So was that all an act? Could he be playing her the way she'd planned to play him? Was he really that good?

      As they rode the rest of the way in silence, Katie wished she hadn't called Hanlon from the restroom. He had been entirely too evasive with her, which was never a good sign in an employer. As they pulled into parking lot of her cheap motel, Seth gave her a most curious look. She wasn't sure, but it almost looked like suspicion. That makes no sense, she thought. I haven't spoken a word to him since we left the Crabbapple's. She dismissed it as a combination of alcohol and paranoia. 

     Once in the motel room, Katie invited him to take a seat. O'Keefe chose the chair by the door. She walked to the mini-fridge across the room and retrieved one of two bottles of vodka. She poured them each a drink in a clear plastic cup, and put them on the table next to him, along with the bottle, and sat herself on the bed with a bounce.

     "Since we have no place to go, we may as well have another drink, yes?"

     "Oh, I suppose," he replied. "One more won't hurt."

     "Zda-ró-vye," she said, raising her glass.

     "Um … Yeah, that." He lifted his, as well, and they both drained their drinks. "What's that mean? Is that, like, 'Cheers' in Russian?"

     "It is like that, yes. But actually means 'To your health.'"

     "Oh, I see. That makes sense."

     "Here," she patted the bed next to her. "Will you sit with me?"

     He stood up and sat next to her, while she poured again. "I guess you're used to vodka, being from Russia, huh?"

     "Da," she giggled. "What do you drink—normally, I mean?"

     "Oh, I'll drink whatever's available, but usually, beer or whisky." He paused a moment, looking at the window, before adding, "I think I'm really starting to like vodka, though."

     "Now that we are alone," she began, taking a sip as she kicked off her shoes, "you will tell me of these dreams, yes?"

     "I suppose I can, sure." He drained his glass again and threw it across the room and, surprisingly, right into to the trash can. "No more for me, thanks."

     "This is fine," Katie replied, finishing her own drink and pulling off the same shot. "Then I am done as well."

     She gave him a wink and a grin before scooting across the bed and lying down, pulling him alongside. The two of them lay down on their sides, looking at one another. She made a curious arch with her right eyebrow. "Let us hear it, then."

     "These are some weird and sometimes disturbing things I'm about to describe," he said. "So please stop me if you're bothered by anything I say, OK?"

     "I will." She nodded and took his hand in hers.

     "At first, I didn't really remember the dreams … I just sort of woke up with these impressions, you know?"

     "What were these impressions?"

     "Fear, mostly … then a feeling of otherness," he said. "It was like waking up in a world where everything was just … wrong, you know? It's hard to describe. You ever see The Twilight Zone? Did they have that show in Russia?"

     "Not when I was a child, no. But I have seen it since. Is very good show."

     "OK, then … sometimes I wake up feeling like I'm in an episode of that show—one of the ones where everything seems normal, but somehow you just know that by the end of it, the whole world's gonna be turned upside-down. Like, you'll discover that all the people around you are space aliens, or that the world doesn't exist and it's all in your head or part of some kind of experiment to test your reactions."

     "I like the one where the woman is driving across country and is frightened by hitch-hiker—"

     "Yeah! And by the end, you discover she had an accident back in Pennsylvania and she'd really been dead the whole time!"

     "Yes, this is the one."

     "Anyway, that's how I felt, at first. It wasn't until later that I realized that this feeling was just sort of … like some kind of emotional residue left over from my dreams."

     "This is not unusual I think. Many people have such feelings upon waking."

     "Yeah, but this would last for days. And then I started remembering bits of the dreams."

     "And what were these dreams?" She wished he'd just get to the damn point already. If he had something really useful to tell her, she'd like to know what it was before she passed out. She just hoped she'd remember it, come morning. It had been a long day, and she was beat.

     "I'm not always in them. Sometimes they're like movies I'm watching—like I'm just an observer, but … even then, I can feel things … as though I'm there, but without really being there."

     "Being where?"

     "Usually it's in a lab or some sort of a test chamber."

     "You mean Labelle?"

     "I think so … sometimes, yeah, but not always," he said. "It's like a medical lab, or some sort of operating room."

     "What happens in these places?"

     "There are these faceless people there—or well, their faces are … fuzzy. I think they're covered—wearing masks or something, but my vision is almost always blurry in these dreams, so it's difficult to tell."

     Svetlana held his hand and asked, "What is it that these faceless people do?"

     "They're hurting me. They're sticking me with needles and they're … cutting me. Sometimes I can even see my own insides … like my organs and stuff. My heartbeat always sounds really loud in my ears, and there are tubes in my mouth, going down my throat."

     "This sounds like … have you ever had surgery?"

     "No—well, I had my tonsils out as a kid, but that hardly counts."

     "I see, so this would not be memory from this. What else happens in these dreams?"

     "I—I hear this … it's a raspy voice from behind me. It sounds … inhuman and scary … kind of like," he coughed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Katie saw that this was difficult for him. He wiped a tear off the bridge of his nose before continuing. "You ever see someone who's had throat cancer, and they put one of those electronic devices in their throat so they can talk? It sounds kind of like that but less robotic. And more sibilant."

     "What does this voice say?" She took his hand again, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

     "It's giving instructions. It's telling the faceless ones what to do. It's mostly a lot of medical jargon that I don't even understand. I guess I must be making up nonsense words, or my mind is just throwing back words I've heard from watching hospital shows on TV, or something. I can never really remember what it says … except when it—it tells me things." 

     "What things?"

     "It tells me things to do. It tells me how to …" He sat up again and swallowed hard. "It tells me to kill, how to kill—about people who it wants me to kill, and … and how it's my duty to do what it says, and I don't have a choice … and then," He was openly crying now.

     "Is just bad dream, yes?" Katie asked. Her own heart pounded quickly in her chest, sharing the pain and fear that were plain on his face. She felt for him, this poor man. What had he been through? Were these really just dreams, or were they echoes of something horrific that his mind had blocked—had someone actually experimented on him while he slept? Could a rival government have done this to him in order to use him as some sort of unwitting agent? Was that who was spying on him? It was no wonder the man was so paranoid!

     "I don't know," said Seth. "I can't tell sometimes whether these are dreams or … or repressed memories or if whoever is watching me is doing things to my brain to make me see these things. I just … I want them to go away." He collapsed on the bed beside her, shaking with … was it anger? Or was this the simple expression of hurt without outlet?

     She reached over and stroked his hair. He looked up at her, and as their eyes met, she pulled him close and into an embrace. He turned his face up to hers and she kissed him again. This time it wasn't simply for a distraction. She felt sorry for him, and she wanted to make him feel better. And this time he kissed her back, tentatively, then firmly, then suddenly their clothes were coming off …

    O'Keefe fumbled around nervously at first, much as Katie had expected. Before long, however, he fell into a workmanlike rhythm with which he somehow managed to bring her to a minor climax. It wasn't until past that point, though, that the real surprises occurred: Seth seemed to lose his inhibitions and his lovemaking became passionate and intense. After the initial shock, Katie lost herself in the moment. The two of them fed off one another's energy, moving and breathing as one being. She climaxed again, this time much more intensely, before he lost it completely and fell on top of her in a ragged heap of exhaustion.

     Afterwards, as they lay side-by-side on the bed, their breathing coming only with effort, she began clearing her mind. She hadn't intended for things to go this far—had never thought it would be necessary. But here they were, energy spent, having shared what? A moment of honest passion? How the hell had he made her feel this way?

     She rolled onto her stomach and rested her head on his chest. He ran his hand up her back and massaged her neck, gently.

     "I never," he began. "I never meant—"

     "You hush now," she replied, laying a finger across his lips. "Do not worry yourself. That was ... very nice. It was what I wanted—better, even."

     "Are you sure?"

     "I would not say it, otherwise."

     They lay there in silence for a while. Having finally caught her own breath, Katie could feel Seth's respiration ease into calm. He was falling asleep. After several minutes, she joined him.

    The harsh light of the morning sun poured through the gap between the curtains, waking Katie. Somehow Seth had turned over on his stomach during the night while she had barely shifted her position at all. She rolled over off the bed and arose, taking care not to rouse him, and went to the bathroom.

     While showering, she thought about what she'd managed to find out. She knew someone had been spying on Seth. She knew he had been having dreams that may well have been repressed memories.  He didn't appear to have any memories of his time in the service. If Gavrilo's intel had been faulty, it was the first time she had heard of such a thing happening. The man was world-renowned for getting timely, accurate information—and he charged for it like a man who knew its value.

     So, O'Keefe was either a world-class liar or … well, O'Keefe must be suffering from some sort of memory loss. It was probably something brought on by whatever terrible trauma that he seemed to be repressing—the events in his dreams. She strongly suspected those had been real events.

     It all added up: the sudden starts and stops in conversation, the trailing off, the blur that was his childhood. Of course he didn't show any signs of lying! As far as he knew he was being completely honest with her.

     So here was O'Keefe with his paranoia. And then there was Wright, with his neuroses. These two men must be suffering from the after-effects of Labelle's TIER and WIERD experiments! 

     Labelle had created some strange animals, indeed.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 20: The Director

     "What have you got for us, Hanlon?" The woman behind the desk spoke sharply. "Have you learned anything useful?"

     Hanlon was perpetually uncomfortable in this office—and it was clearly designed with just that purpose in mind. The simple act of crossing the distance from the door to the desk left him feeling like an intruder into a sacred space. The Director's desk sat atop a dais, so that he had to look up in order to address her, and when she leaned back in her seat, he was forced to address the empty air. There was a large Labelle company seal etched into the Ashford Black Marble of the wall behind the chair, flanked by flags of the United States and the various branches of the armed forces. The room's primary lighting fixtures shone from behind the desk, which made it difficult to read the Director's expression.

     "I can't say for sure, ma'am," he replied. "But, of course I'm still not sure what this is really all about."

     "You know what you need to know."

     "I just had a call from my agent. She's with the target now."

     "And?"

     "And, well, she says there's some confusion about our records."

     "What records are those?"

     "O'Keefe's file. She seems to think O'Keefe spent some time in the military."

     "How ever did she discover that?"

     "So, it's true, then." He frowned.

     "What did you tell her?"

     "I gave her the standard line: I told her I could neither confirm nor deny."

     "So you had previous knowledge of this?"

     "No, ma'am. I had no idea until tonight."

     "Why didn't you simply deny it, then?"

     "Well, ma'am, as I had no knowledge, I assumed it was something we'd want to look into ourselves before—"

     She cut him off, "Are you a complete idiot?"

     "Ma'am?" Hanlon stiffened at the Director's reproachful tone. "I know I don't have all the facts, so I didn't want to commit to—"

     "You didn't know, because you didn't need to know. You were in a position to deny any such knowledge without being dishonest. Stop trying to think above your pay-grade, Sergeant."

     "Yes, ma'am."

     "Anything, else?"

     "Yes, the agent, she ...?says she thinks someone else may be watching O'Keefe, and she asked me about a Gary in maintenance—I assume she meant Gary Harold."

     "What about him?"

     "She wanted to know if we had Harold watching O'Keefe, as well."

     "And let me guess ... you told her you could neither confirm nor deny?"

     "Yes ma'am."

     "Fine, then. That will keep her distracted. If you're through, here ..."

     "There was one more thing, ma'am."

     "Spit it out."

     "She asked if I'd heard of a Project called Strange Animal. She seemed to think—"

     "I believe it's time we rid ourselves of the woman. Pay her in full, and terminate her contract. She's served her purpose."

     "Ma'am?"

     "You heard me. Just do it, and be glad you're keeping your own job after this little fiasco."

     "Yes ma'am."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 19: The Date (pt. 2)

Part II

     "OK," said Seth, leaning across the table. "I told you where I work."

     "Yes," replied Katie. "You work in this secret laboratory. But this is not so unusual. You said to me that you only clean the place, yes?"

     "Yeah, I only clean up, but I still see things, you know?"

     "What kind of things are you seeing?"

     "Things I … I'm not sure I understand them. But, there are weird things going on there all the time."

     "But if this work is for government, do they not already know of strange goings-on?"

     "Yeah, but maybe they worry about how much I know, and whether I'll tell the wrong person."

     "Did you talk to wrong person, you think?" Now she was finally getting somewhere—this is what Hanlon had hired her to do.

     "No," he replied. "I don't really talk much about work—at least not with people outside of work."

     "Then if government watches you, and knows you have done nothing wrong, you have no reason to fear, yes?"

     "I guess it depends …"

     "Have no others asked you about this work? Friends or family?"

     "I don't have any family to speak of—and few friends."

     "Besides," Katie said, "you are only worrying without proof. American government does not do such things like Russian—"

     "Wait!" Seth interrupted her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small electronic device. "This is my proof."

     "What is this thing?" Katie recognized it immediately as a data snooper. She reached out a tentative finger, as if she wanted to touch it but was afraid.

     "It's a snooper," said Seth. "It tracks electronic data signals that go through a particular device."

     "Why do you have this thing? Are you wishing to spy on someone at your work? Has someone put you up to doing this?"

     "No," Seth frowned. "The guy at the repair shop found it in my game console. Someone has been using it to spy on me."

     "Who is it that does this?" Katie was genuinely curious. Was someone actually attempting to use O'Keefe as a source of information from inside Labelle without his knowledge? Or had Labelle put this device in O'Keefe's house in order to keep tabs on him themselves? If the latter, why hadn't Hanlon shared this information with her?

     "I think it's the government. Though my friend Gary from work thinks it's Labelle that's watching me."

     "Your workplace? Why should they watch you with such devices?"

     "I don't know," he said. "But it's got me a little freaked out."

     "Are you sure such is what device is for?" Katie asked him, "Could this not just be part of console?"

     "I'm sure. I have a friend who knows this stuff."

     "You said you have not many friends?"

     "Well, it's the same friend, actually, but he really knows a lot about electronics."

     "I am thinking," Katie scrunched up her face and titled her head to one side before continuing. "Is it possible this Gary fellow works for lab?"

     "He does, but he just works maintenance."

     "Could he not be working as spy for government?"

     "I seriously doubt it. I mean ... if he did, why would he show this to me?"

     "I thought that repairman discovered device?"

     "He did, but Gary's the one who pulled it out when—"

     "Yes," said Katie. "But perhaps when this was found out, Gary showed you just for purpose of you not suspecting him as source of device."

     "Wow," Seth smiled at Svetlana. "You have a devious mind."

     "I am trying to think like person who is spying on you." She leaned back in her seat triumphantly.

     "Seriously, though … that is twisted! I like that." His grin broadened. "That's just the kind of thinking—"

     She decided to seize the initiative by pulling on his wrists and leaning closer to him, half standing in order to reach. She planted a big kiss on his mouth.

     "Whoah," he blushed. "What was that for?"

     "I am glad you are liking my mind. I am liking yours as well." She winked at him as she dropped back into her seat. "And I am thinking you are cleverer man than you give yourself credit for being. Also, I am having much to drink and am finding myself happy in your company and I am thinking that I like you very much. That is all."

     "I, uh …"

     The waitress returned with their Irish coffees, their dessert and a pair of spoons. She gave Katie a knowing grin and said, "You two lovebirds want your check now?"

     Seth blushed profusely before responding to the waitress, "Yeah, sure—the bill. I'll take it."

     "Take your time." The waitress handed the faux-leather folder over to Seth with a wink and a smile. "I'll just grab that whenever you two are ready." She left them alone again.

     "Umm … I like you, too, Svetlana. I, uh—"

     "Open wide!" She interrupted him, grabbing up one of the spoons and using it to scoop up a bit of cake and ice cream. They fed each other two or three bites before Seth held up his hand.

     "Too much," he said. "The ice cream's going to give me a headache." He took a quick sip of his coffee, which only made it worse. He winced in pain.

     "I am being so sorry!"

     "No, it's OK. I just wasn't ready."

     "Before the dessert," Katie said, " you were telling me of your reasons for not trusting anyone. Is there more than this device?"

     "Yeah, there's more," he replied. "But I … I'm not sure I want to talk about it."

     "This is disappointment." Katie frowned. "But I am understanding. Though it feels we have been long time friends, you are only knowing me for three days. Such trust comes with time, yes?"

     "It's not like that. I'm sure I could trust you, but I don't know … the company. I, uh—"

     "Might I ask you something else then?"

     "All right."

     "Why do you work for this company? Surely, if you think they invade your life, or if government spies on you because of where you do work, would it not be easier to find different job?"

     "Well, the company is … I mean … Labelle has been good to me, you know?"

     "It has?"

     "Yeah, I mean … they gave me a chance when no one else would. I'm just a drop-out without many skills, and ... I can't believe I just admitted that."

     Katie laughed and took a drink of her own coffee. "I am glad you are being honest with me," she said.

     Seth continued. "They pay really well—for a janitor I make a pretty decent living. And they have … counselors. They help me when I …" He trailed off yet again, staring at a point in space just above her head and to his left, mouth agape.

     "Counselors?" Katie tried another nudge with her foot. "Seth?"

     He blinked several times again, before reaching for his wallet. He put a credit card in the bill and looked at Katie again. "That was really good."

     "Seth? Are you all right?"

     "Yeah, sure," he responded, smiling. "Why do you ask?"

     "You were telling me of these counselors? Why do you see them?"

     "Oh, I uh … I don't, uh …"

     "Seth, if there is something wrong, I would wish for you to tell me." Clearly there was something wrong.

     Suddenly he grabbed her hands the way she had grabbed his before, and leaned in close to her. He whispered softly, "It's the dreams. I have dreams. I think I have a lot more of them than I actually remember, but I'm starting to remember more of them."

     She put a finger over his lips. "Will you tell me of these dreams?"

     "Yes," he said, "but not here."

     "Shall we go to your place, then?" She pulled playfully at his lower lip.

     "No, I'm worried they might still be listening. Do you live nearby?"

     "Yes. But wait a moment." She stood up. "I am having to visit the ladies' room. Also, I am thinking we should not be driving, yes?"

     "Oh, I'm fine to drive," he said, standing alongside her. He wobbled in place for a moment and sat back down suddenly. "We … we must have had … more to drink than I realized."

     The waitress, who had just returned to take the check, noticed their predicament. "Why don't I call a cab for you two? You're in no fit state to be drivin'."

     "Umm … yeah, OK," replied Seth. "That would be great. Here's the bill, ma'am. We'll be right back after we hit the head."

     The two of them wound their way to the rear of the restaurant and to their respective destinations.

     By the time Katie was headed back towards their table, Seth had already returned, signed the receipt and left the tip. He sat in the booth with his eyes closed—whether thinking or on the verge of sleep, Katie was not sure.

     He was an odd character, this Seth Davis O'Keefe. Perhaps it was just the effects of the alcohol, but he appeared, for just that moment, to be at peace with the world. She studied his features. She supposed he wasn't such a bad-looking fellow, some might even call him ruggedly handsome. He was a bit out-of-shape, but with a little work, he could probably jump right back into the service. Surely he had been in the service—she didn't think Gavrilo's records could be so far wrong—but O'Keefe hadn't given any of the usual, subtle indications that most people do when they're lying. Was it possible that there had been some sort of mix-up?

     There he sat—her target—lost in thought and apparently guileless. Goofy and inept though he seemed to be, he was a caring and thoughtful man. Svetlana had all but thrown herself at him, but he'd acted the gentleman the entire evening. He'd maintained his attentiveness and eye-contact with her, despite the generous amount of cleavage she displayed for him and the quantity he'd had to drink. If it hadn't been for the attention he'd paid to that dumpy little woman at the BMV the other day, she might have suspected perhaps he was gay. But then, as the evening wore on, she'd noticed him taking a peek or two at what she offered. He was very discreet about it, but his blushes gave him away.

     There was something more to this man than she had guessed upon first meeting him, but what was it? The growing suspicion that Hanlon had not been completely honest with her loomed ever larger in her mind. Something was most definitely not adding up. She thought was probably being used for some purpose other than the one for which she had been hired, and she didn't like it one bit.

     She crossed the room to the table and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. He opened his eyes, looked up at her and smiled.

     "The cab should be here any minute," he said. "So … where are we going?"

     "Somewhere where we can sleep this off," she said. "We will just have to come back to here and collect our cars in the morning."

     "That's fine," he said. "You know, I can just drop you off at your place, and we can talk again later. I don't want you to feel like—"

     "If it is all same to you," she replied, "I really would like to hear the rest of … your story. And I—" She hesitated.

     "What is it?" His genuine concern for her was plain on his face. This man was no spy.

     "I really don't want to be alone tonight."

     "I understand," he said. "But … just so you understand: nothing can happen between us."

     The surprise on her face must have been obvious to him. His own visage was a puzzle of fear and pity and concern.

     "We've had too much to drink. And I—" He hesitated again. "I … don't think I'm in the right place, emotionally …"

     "I understand this," she said. "I will be all right."

     "No," he replied. "I'll spend the night with you. I don't want you to be alone if you don't want to, but … we'll just talk, OK?"

     "This would be fine with me, Seth. And I thank you."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 18: The Date

Part I

     There is a certain class of dining establishment that is ubiquitous across the American landscape. These are the "mid-range" restaurant chains that sprouted up across the nation in the 1980s and 90s in order to serve the tastes of the aspiring yet faltering middle classes who had neither the time nor money to spend on higher quality fare, but wanted an option they felt was better than fast food and more "upscale" than the local mom-and-pop eateries that had supported the entertainment economy for so many decades. These chains not only drove many local restauranteurs out of business, but pulled the overall national food quality levels into line somewhere between mediocre and bland.

    After Katie and Seth exchanged a few text messages, arrangements were made and he had naturally chosen one of these godawful chain restaurants: that tribute to the lowest common denominator in American Cuisine known as Crabbapple's. Oh, and look! The walls were covered with re-creations of trinkets and signage from the Great Depression through the 1960s. Quelle suprise! Never mind the fact that O'Keefe had probably been exposed to all sorts of interesting cuisine from all over the world—no, he just had to choose the blandest among America's many bland dining offerings. The worst of it was that even though it had been many years since she'd been to the Columbus area, Katie knew it was full to the brim with high-quality dining options. Oh well—at least they have a bar.

          Katie walked into the abominable excuse for a restaurant, ignoring the hostess and going straight for the bar. She had chosen to wear a bright blue cocktail dress with a mid-thigh hemline and a deep-cut front. She hoped that with the combination of strong drink and a bit of flirtation she'd succeed in keeping O'Keefe distracted enough to talk freely.

     Politely yet firmly, she turned down the offer of a drink from the man sitting at the other end of the bar and ordered herself a dirty vodka martini. As she sat at the bar sipping on her cocktail, she made up her mind that come hell or high water, she was going to get some real information out of O'Keefe—tonight. She just wasn't sure she had it in her to meet with him yet again—besides, she wanted to determine whether she needed to commit to this job for a longer term or whether she could instead take up the promising new offer she'd received last night from Copenhagen.

     This is a surprisingly well-mixed martini. Katie nodded for the bartender's attention, though she knew she already had it. She wanted a different kind of attention from him, though, so she handed him a fifty and explained that a friend would be joining her shortly, and anything he ordered should be made especially strong. After a suspicious look from the man, she assured him that she wasn't up to anything nefarious.

     "He is dear friend," she explained in her Svetlana voice. "But he finds himself in much stress, as you say. He does not open up easily, and so I hope to help him relieve himself."

     After a snicker at her use of the phrase, the bartender agreed. "I'll be sure his garnishes are always gold," he said, offering her a sly wink. "Wouldn't want you to get them mixed up, now, would we?"

     There he is. She spotted O'Keefe through a window. (These places always had plenty of windows.) He'd done his usual job of parking—he was out in the middle of the lot near no other cars whatsoever. He approached the restaurant at a brisk walk. She could see that he was wearing jeans again, but these were less worn than his others. He'd also put on a dark green button-up shirt with a button-down collar and even tucked it in. What do you know? She thought. He owns something beside t-shirts after all. She watched as she told the hostess he'd be needing a table for two, but was waiting for the other party.

     She waved for his attention. Once he noticed her, he let the hostess know he'd be waiting at the bar, pointing out that his company was already there to meet him.

     "Oh, Seth!" She exclaimed as he approached her, pronouncing his name Set, as usual. She leaned over from her barstool and kissed him on the cheek, which produced exactly the effect she'd desired: he blushed. "I am being so glad to see you again. How was your busy day?"

     He took the stool next to hers and responded, "Oh, fine, I guess. Just work."

     "Might I buy you a drink?"

     "Umm, sure … what are you having?"

     "Vodka martini."

     "Sounds good." He nodded, as if to someone across the bar, but there was no one there. "In fact, that's my favorite drink." That was odd.

     They made small talk as they sipped their drinks—his with a little gold-colored plastic sword through the olive, where hers was red—and discussed Central Ohio weather patterns and how they compared to the Baltic coast. Just as they were finishing their second round, a host arrived and guided them to their seats. He handed them menus and described for them the bland specials that were available, finishing up by inquiring as to whether they wanted more drinks, which they did.

     "Is tough cleaning up laboratories I expect, yes?" Katie wanted to keep the early talk light, but steer O'Keefe towards his work.

     "Yeah, well, you have to be careful, you know?"

     "How do you mean by this?"

     "It's these scientist-types. They're smart and all, but some of them tend to be sort of absent-minded. They work with some pretty dangerous stuff, and they're not always diligent about putting away their toys when they're done with them."

     "I see, so you mean they might leave out the dangerous chemicals and equipment and so?"

     "Yeah, there's that. Also, they eat while they work and just leave food lying around all over the place," Seth continued. "It's a wonder one of 'em doesn't die of eating some poison, or catch a disease or something."

     "They work with diseases?"

     "Sometimes, yeah," Seth winced almost imperceptibly, then blinked three or four times in rapid succession before continuing. "They're always looking for cures to things, but sometimes that means they have to cause the disease in a rat or a monkey or something before they can test the cures."

     "Why, this is awful! These poor animals!"

     "We try not to think about it too much," he said, frowning. "I mean, I feel bad for the animals, but if it helps cure some terrible disease, I suppose it's probably worth it, you know?" He hesitated and furrowed his brow. A look of pain crossed his face briefly. "At least, that's what I tell myself. I still—I don't know … I still feel pretty bad about it." He tossed back the remainder of his drink. "They make 'em strong here, huh? I don't think he put any vermouth in there at all!"

     Katie found herself surprised at the depth of emotion O'Keefe seemed to display about the lab animals. According to his records, O'Keefe had been through some punishingly brutal training—not to mention his involvement in some hard-core military operations. Could that be why he was no longer in the service? Had he not dealt well with violence? There was nothing in his file about problems acting under fire or signs of PTSD or anything of that sort—but then so much of his record was redacted, it would be difficult to know anything about his military career with any real certainty.

     Katie could recall the first time she had had to kill someone. It wasn't a pleasant experience, but she got over it. There had been half a dozen since—all in the line of duty, of course. It never grew easy—at least for her it hadn't—but you did what you had to do. That's why people like them had to have such extensive training. You had to have that to fall back on when things got tough—whether physically or emotionally.

     Lost in her reverie, she failed to notice the waitress addressing her. "I am being so sorry," she said. "I was lost in my thinking."

     "Oh, that's OK, dear," the woman said. "Are you ready to order?"

     "What you think I would like here?" Katie looked at Seth admiringly. "I am not eating in a place like this before. Is much nicer than we have in Russia." May as well flatter his choice of this terrible, bland place, she thought.

     "Oh, I don't know," he hesitated. "It depends—do you like spicy food? Or seafood? Or …" He trailed off.

     "What is it you are having?" She smiled coquettishly.

     "I guess I'll just have the steak and shrimp platter, medium, with the garlic potatoes."

     "I will have same," Katie said. "But medium-rare and with rice." She addressed Seth, then. "Are you sure of this garlic potato? It seems like it might make the breath not so good, yes?" She winked at him.

     It took him a moment to realize what she was implying, but when he did his cheeks flushed. There was no way in hell this man had been a sailor!

     "Um, yeah, I'll uh … change mine to rice, too, please. I forgot how much I like rice."

     More drinks. More small talk about food, weather, video games, and local news items. Food was served and eaten. During this time Katie took every opportunity to make O'Keefe feel relaxed, familiar, at-ease. She touched his hand or arm whenever possible. She took her shoes off and instigated little foot games under the table.

     O'Keefe was very attentive and asked follow-up questions to everything she had to say, which made it difficult for her to keep up her end of the conversation. She had prepared a basic background for Svetlana long ago, but she'd never had to carry on an in-character conversation at such length.

     "You seem to know much of many things," she said. "Tell me, Seth … have you traveled much?"

     "No, I haven't really," he replied. "I grew up around here. Outside of a few vacations, I haven't spent much time away. I —" He faltered and then stopped, looking at the ceiling. The act of thinking appeared to suddenly come very difficult for him. "I—I think I remember wanting to join the … Air Force, maybe? I know I wanted to go to … space—walk on the moon. I … I wanted to travel—to see the world. But, I—" He sat silently for a moment.

     "Seth?" Katie nudged his knee under the table with her foot. "You did not join the services?" Katie waved at the bartender for another round of drinks.

     "Huh? No," he suddenly snapped out of his fugue state. "No, I—I never joined. I think I wanted to fly. But, I never finished—never finished college. I just sort of … never did … anything."

     "But you seem to me like a man who has had training," Katie replied. "You carry yourself like military man." She sat up straight and stiff and gave him mock salute, then smiled and leaned forward, taking both of his hands in hers. "I do not think you learn this in boy scouts, yes?" She winked at him.

     "No, I just never left—never got around to ... you know ... going anywhere. Though to be honest a big part of my life is a blur."

     "You did the drugs?"

     "What? Drugs? No, I never really—" He trailed off again, shook his head. He added, "I smoked a little pot in college, but doesn't everyone?"

     "Perhaps in the States," Katie replied, laughing. "I have been doing no such thing, and I am college student!"

     "I guess it's probably different in Russia, but over here almost everyone smokes a bit in school. I think. Well, maybe not. I guess it just seems that way thanks to movies and TV. I wasn't in college long, though, so I don't have a lot of first-hand experience."

     "So, you did not finish school and did not join service. You are local boy. Now you work as cleaner." Katie arched a skeptical eyebrow at him. "And yet you worry that government is watching you in secret?"

     "Are you trying to say I'm crazy?" Seth finished off yet another martini.

     "Far from this," Katie said. "I think you are very interesting man. I think you are hiding things." She leaned back in the booth, pouting. "I think you are still not trusting me."

     "Don't feel bad, Svetlana. I don't trust anyone."

     "Why is this?"

     "You really want to know?"

     "Of course I wish to know!"

     "All right, I'll tell you."

     "Save room for dessert?" The waitress grinned down at the two of them.

     "I am thinking not," said Katie. "Unless you would split a little something with me, Seth?"

     "Umm … I guess so, sure," said Seth. "What did you have in mind?"

     "This chocolate cake with the ice cream looks pleasant," she said, winking. "But you must promise to eat at least half or I will not order it."

     "Sure," he replied, turning to the waitress. "We'll have one of those to split."

     "Also bring us Irish coffees, please?"

     "I'll have it right out," she said, and left them again.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 17: The Café

     Another day. Another café. Sometimes—when on the job—Katie felt as though all she did was go from one coffee shop to another; talking to different people in each one, exchanging notes or packages. She could imagine a worse life—sometimes she felt as though she'd lived several worse lives already—but it grew tiring at times.

     This one was quite busy; unlike the book store she'd spent the evening in with O'Keefe. She suspected Lewis Wright had known it would be busy. He had been more than a little skittish and didn't want to meet with her at first, but when she had said they could meet in public and even let him pick the location he finally relented. Why is my life so full of fearful, paranoid men?

     The table he'd designated wasn't open when she'd arrived, but she had watched and waited like a vulture and snagged it as soon as the occupants had left. That was one of many reasons why she always arrived early to these things. 

     She wore a dark blue pin-striped pantsuit with a white lily pinned to the jacket. This was how she'd told Lewis to identify her. She had her hair tied back in a tight bun and wore a pair of wire-frame glasses with non-prescription lenses. All of this, of course, helped her get into her May Parker: Serious Scientist persona. 

     She sat in the corner, reading a local arts paper, sipping a latte and watching various people come and go. 

She looked at the clock painted onto the wall which was designed to look like one of Dalí's watches pouring out of a coffee mug. Cute, that. The face read 12:47—seventeen minutes late. She had just begun to wonder whether he would show up at all, when that tingly feeling struck her—that feeling that told her she was being watched.

     Turning the pages of her paper, she took the opportunity to look about the room in as nonchalant a way as she could manage. There! The skinny man seated near the counter. He was definitely watching her from the corner of his eye.

     He had short, light-brown hair that was greying in places. He appeared to be tall, though it was difficult to tell, due to the slouched-over way he was sitting. He also had a large book with which he was trying to conceal his surveillance of her. Initially she thought perhaps Labelle had sent someone to keep tabs on her. A few seconds of watching him told her this was a man with absolutely no experience in spy-craft. This led to her second hypothesis, which was that he might have something to do with O'Keefe. He certainly had that way about him. She dismissed this thought almost immediately, however, as she believed O'Keefe would be more likely to put on a bad disguise and try to follow her himself.

     Then it occurred to her that this man was likely to be Lewis Wright. He'd probably decided to watch her for a bit before committing to the meeting. I don't have time for this, she thought as she drained the remainder of her coffee, put down her paper, stood up and grabbed her briefcase.

     "Mr. Wright," she said, approaching the man while reaching out her hand in greeting. "You are Lewis Wright, yes?"

     The man looked up at her, startled, before replying. "Umm … er, who … what now?"

     "Mr. Lewis Wright?"

     "Yeah." He put his book down on the small, round table, stood up and took her hand. "How—how did you—?"

     "It's quite all right, Mr. Wright. I'm Dr. Parker." She gave him one of her warmest smiles. "I understand your reticence. May I?"

     She motioned to the seat across from him.

     "Huh?" His response was slow, but he got there. "Yeah, please," he said and they both sat.

     "Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Wright."

     "Yeah, sure—no problem."

     "As I said on the phone this morning, I represent Labelle Research Laboratories. In addition to our own research, we often partner with various universities for mutual benefit—"

     "Yeah," Lewis interrupted. "I get that. And yes, I was part of a couple of experiments in college."

     "What can you tell me about the experiments?"

     "You probably know more about them than I do."

     "I'm afraid you're mistaken," she replied. "Unfortunately the records of a number of projects from the 1990s are incomplete."

     "Don't government contractors have to keep better records—?"

     "You are correct, Mr. Wright," she interrupted him. "But, let me explain. You see, I don't actually work for Labelle. I'm an independent investigator hired by the new administration to look into some of the things the previous administration funded—to find out why there are so many gaps in their records and to do my best to fill them. To that end, I am following up with every lead I can find, and you are one such lead."

     "I see. So … the old guys, they were up to some shenanigans?"

     "I doubt Labelle would characterize it in quite that way, but that is the concern. Of course, it may simply be a case of bad record-keeping."

     "So, you just want to ask me … what, exactly?"

     "Primarily, we just want to know more about the experiments," began Katie. "But after my talk with your ex-wife, I grew concerned that you might be having some … problems as a result—"

     "Are you two going to order anything?" The young man who interrupted them had an impatient air about him. "There are waiting customers here who could use this table, you know."

     "Oh, of course—I'm sorry," apologized Katie. "I'll have another latte. What about you, Mr. Wright? It's on me."

     Lewis sat, frozen, staring at the menu board behind the counter. "I—I—I don't—can't … I want—no, I—" he stuttered.

     "Mr. Wright?" Katie had never seen anything quite like the scene before her. Lewis seemed to be attempting to cover his eyes and ears at the same time. "Are you OK?"

     The barista stepped back in surprise. He held his round tray up before him as if to shield himself from the waves  of crazy he imagined to be emanating from Lewis.

     Lewis clenched his fists and slammed them into his lap, before saying in a small but clear voice: "I am having trouble with this."

     "With the coffee?" Katie realized she was beginning to pull away from the table and stopped herself. She made herself lean forward instead. "Is it the crowd? Should we go outside?"

     "No. It's—choices. Can't make choices. Can't decide on coffee. Espresso … cappuccino … latte … hot or iced? Fat? No fat? Soy? Caramel, chocolate, cinnamon, hazel … it's … too much."

     "Let me order for you," said Katie. She turned to the frightened man. "Get a nice cup of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream—two of them. Forget the latte."

     "Yes, ma'am!" He fled behind the counter and set to work.

     "Thank you, Dr. Parker." Lewis began breathing deep, calming breaths. "Thank you so much."

     "Take your time, Mr. Wright." She reached across the table and put a reassuring hand on his arm. "Everything is fine. We'll just sit here and have a nice cup of hot chocolate, and we'll just talk. How does that sound?"

     "Good, Dr. Parker," came the response from Lewis, whose breathing was now beginning to come more easily. "I think that's—that's good."

     "Good, good—and please call me 'May' if that helps, Mr. Wright."

     "Sure, Doc— May. Sure. And you can call me Lewis."

     "Now, Lewis, let's just sit a minute. And when you're ready—but not before—I want to ask you a few questions. They will be simple questions. They will be about things you should know, and not things you will have to make decisions about, understood?"

     "Yeah, sure," he said. He sat more upright now. "I think that will help."

     They sat quietly for a while and waited on their drinks. Katie began to wonder just what sort of disorder was afflicting Lewis Wright. He clearly had a difficult time making decisions. This was, as his ex-wife had told her, exactly the opposite of the effect the TIER program had hoped to achieve. She wasn't kidding, Katie thought. No wonder this guy had experienced a breakdown.

     After the nervous server returned, Lewis regarded Katie over his cocoa. She tried another of her friendliest, most encouraging smiles, which seemed to help him a bit.

     "All right, Dr. … er, May," he began. "I'm sorry about earlier. I think I'm ready to answer your questions now."

     "That's quite all right, Lewis." She patted his arm again. "Tell me—what do you recall of the experiments in which you were a subject in 1993 and 1994?"

     "Not a lot, I'm afraid." He took another sip from his mug. "I remember they had us do some exercise. I think they were testing the effects of physical stress on our thinking, maybe?"

     "Is that what they told you?"

     "No. They didn't tell us much of anything, really."

     "So … what was the rest of it?"

     "Well, after we'd exercise they'd give us a drink, or in some cases we'd be hooked up to an IV. I guess to make sure we kept hydrated after the physical exertion. Then they would have us perform various mental exercises, such as solving complex equations. Sometimes we played video games."

     "What kind of games?"

     "Puzzle games, mostly. Stuff like Minesweeper or Tetris. Though occasionally we'd play combat games—you know, the ones where you're going through a maze or a cavern complex or something, and you'd have to shoot the other players. Sometimes we'd be on teams, other times it was a free-for-all."

     "Did you enjoy the games?"

     "I—I don't know. I mean, sometimes. The puzzle games I liked, if they weren't too fast-paced."

     "And you took part in these sessions for how long?"

     "It was just from late 1993 through the summer of 1994."

     "I'm sorry, I meant how long were the sessions?"

     "Oh! They were usually about two or three hours."

     "Tell me … about your condition—your problem with making decisions. Have you always …?"

     "No," he said, "I mean, I was never like, a super-decisive, take-charge kind of guy, but I never used to … to think so much about how my decisions … could—all of our decisions—could affect everything."

     "So, when did this start? Was it right after taking part in these tests?"

     "No, it wasn't," he replied. "In fact, if anything, I felt the need to be more decisive for a while."

     "How long did that last?"

     "Oh, I don't know … I guess just a few months."

     "So you started having these … issues about 1995?"

     "No, there was some time in between," Lewis said. "I didn't start having … this crippling sort of trouble until after Izzy was born."

     "Your daughter?"

     "Yeah."

     "Do you think maybe the sudden responsibility that comes with fatherhood could have triggered—"

     "No," he cut her short. "It wasn't that. It didn't start to get bad until she was a couple of years old."

     "Yes," said Katie, "but do you think maybe that could have played a part?"

     "No!" She was taken aback by his sudden forcefulness. "It wasn't Izzy's fault!"

     "That's not at all what I'm saying, Lewis," Katie said softly. "It couldn't possibly be her fault—of course not."

     "OK, just so you understand that." He closed his eyes and sipped his cocoa.

     "Have you been to see a therapist?"

     "Yes," he replied, squinting at her suspiciously. "But, it didn't work. And neither did any of the drugs: Prozac, Lexapro, Paxil, Cymbalta, Inderal … you name the flavor of the month, and I've tried it. They either had no effect, or they just made me depressed. Or worse."

     "Worse?"

     "Yeah, worse—angry and violent, in some cases."

     "I'm sorry to hear that. On another topic: have you ever heard of a psychological testing program called TIER?"

     "Tear? Like crying?"

     "No, T-I-E-R."

     "Can't say that I have."

     "And have you ever met a man by the name of Seth O'Keefe?"

     "No," Lewis arched an eyebrow at her before asking. "Why? Should I have?"

     "Not necessarily."

     "Was he another test subject?"

     "I'm sorry, I can't talk about that," replied Katie.

     "Of course you can't."

     "Well, Mr.— er, Lewis. Thank you for your time," Katie stood.

     "Wait just a minute, here! I have some questions for you, you know!"

     "I'm sorry, Lewis." Katie sat again. "I'll do what I can, but I may not be able to answer all of them completely—NDA, client privilege, you know … legalities."

     "Yeah, that figures," he scowled. "I knew I should have had coffee."

     "Pardon?"

     "You ordered hot cocoa. That was the wrong choice. I think. I mean, I think I should have had … well, maybe tea would have been better. I just—"

     "All right, Lewis," she smiled at him again. "What would you like to know?"

     "OK," he leaned forward, lowering his voice. "First of all, what was the point of those tests? The real point, I mean."

     "The real point?"

     "Yes," he replied. "Look—you don't spend a decade married to a psychologist without learning a thing or two: like the fact that the experimenters never tell the subjects what the test is really about."

     "Oh, I see. Well, that's not always the case—"

     "Yes it is. And don't give me any of that 'testing effects of physical stress in problem-solving' bullshit."

     "Well, that really was what the experiment was about … at least partly."

     "And the rest of it?" He was beginning to feel edgy—like he was on the verge of doing something important, but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He continued, "In fact, why don't I just cut to the chase here? What did they put in the drinks? What was in the IV bags?"

     "As far as I know, Mr. Wright, those were simple glucose drips." Katie tilted her head and furrowed her brow, feigning confusion. "I don't understand … why would they put anything in—"

     "Let me just stop you there," he interrupted. So we're back to 'Mr. Wright' are we? He knew he had to press her now. "I know you're concerned about long-term effects on the test subjects. A little exercise and some paperwork or video games wouldn't have any long-term effects. So, it must have been a drug trial of some kind, right? So what did they give us?"

     "I'm sorry, Mr. Wright." Katie knew she'd stepped in it now. Labelle was not going to be happy about this. "There's nothing more I can tell you."

     "Nothing more you're allowed to tell me, you mean. You have to protect your corporate paymasters, right, May?"

     "No, Mr.—I mean, Lewis, it's nothing like that. I just don't have any more information. That is why I wanted to meet with you, remember?"

     "Sure it is." He clearly wasn't buying it.

     She stood up, holding her bag. "I'm sorry Mr. Wright. There really is nothing more I know."

     With that, she turned and exited the café.

     Lewis waited for her to leave before going to the door to see where she went. He watched her get into a white Toyota. He stepped outside, phone at the ready, and snapped a few shots of her and, more importantly, her license plate.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 16: The Subject

     "Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line was hoarse and slurred. Who would be calling at 5 o'clock in the morning?

     "Doctor Jacobs?"

     "Yes, this is Doctor Jacobs. Who is this?"

     "This is Lewis Wright. You might remember me from a few years ago—"

     "Yes of course, Lewis. How may I help you? Is everything all right?"

     "I'm not sure."

     "Can you come into my office later today? It's very early, you know. I believe I can squeeze you in later this—"

     "Um, no, I'm afraid not."

     "Now, Lewis, I know you weren't always fond of our work together, but we really did make a lot of progress."

     "No, Doc, you don't understand. I'm out of town. I can't get to your office. I'm in Ohio."

     "All right. Well, perhaps you should begin by telling me what issues you're facing, and we'll talk through the problem."

     "Please, Doc, just listen!"

     Silence.

     "I need to get in contact with Celia—my wife. My ex-wife, I mean."

     "And you're calling me?"

     "Yes," Lewis replied." I'm sorry, Doc, but I'm running out of options."

     "Lewis, if she's broken off contact with you, I'm sure—"

     "Listen to me, Doctor Jacobs. Please! I think she and Izzy might be in some kind of trouble and I really need to speak with her, OK? Do you think I wouldn't have tried another method—any other method—before calling you, if this wasn't vitally important?"

-----     -----     -----     -----     -----

     "Hello?"

     "I need to speak with Celia."

     "What?"

     "This is Lewis—her ex-husband."

     "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

     "Listen … William, is it?"

     "Yes. It's William. I'm her current husband."

     "William, I'm fully aware of the time, but this is important, OK?"

     "Look, Lewis. I understand you may be having a problem, but Celia's asleep right now. Why don't you try calling back later—"

     "Put her on the goddam phone! NOW!"

     Lewis could hear the receiver being muffled, followed by a sharp mumbling drone of voices.

     "Lewis?"

     "Celia?" His voice was shaking now.

     "Yes, Lewis," she responded. "It's me, it's Celia. What's going on?"

     "Are you OK?"

     "What? Of course I'm OK. What's wrong with you?"

     "What about Izzy? Is she all right? Where is she right now?"

     "Izzy's in bed, Lewis. It's  5 o'clock in the morning!"

     "Are you sure?"

     "What?"

     "Are you sure she's in bed? When did you see her last?"

     "She went to bed a half an hour before I did last night."

     "Not good enough. Go check on her right now."

     "Dammit, Lewis! What is this about?"

     "Go check on her!" 

     "OK … just … just hold on." The panic in Lewis's voice told Celia that he was going to brook no argument.

     After a few seconds that seemed to Lewis to stretch out into an eternity, Celia's voice came back on the line: "She's fine, Lewis. She's sound asleep in her bed, breathing just fine … looks like she's in REM. Now … are you going to tell me what the hell this is all about?"

     "Yeah," he said, letting out a breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. "Yeah, I'm—I'm sorry, Cee."

     "Well?" Her voice grew sharp.

     "It's just … I had this idea that someone might be after you."

     "And where in the world would you get an idea like that?"

     All in a rush Lewis began telling her about Nita's visit to the book store, carefully leaving out as much detail about Nita herself as possible—referring to her only as his friend.

     "A Russian woman," Celia asked. "And she used my name, you say?"

     "Yes! And she even mentioned Seattle, apparently."

     "This friend of yours … how trustworthy is she?"

     "Very. She's not prone to flights of fancy … she's—she's not like me," he answered her unspoken question.

     "I can't imagine what that would be all about. I don't know very many Russians, and most of the ones I do know are here."

     Lewis went quiet.

     "Besides," continued Celia, "what if some Russian woman is looking for me?"

     "It's not just that she's looking for you, it's why," Lewis said. "They were talking about surveillance and exchange students hacking phones and there was something about secret government research labs—"

     "Wait!" Celia interrupted him. "What about research labs?"

     "The guy this Russian lady was talking to … said something about working at a lab. Labelle, I think?"

     "Did you say Labelle?"

     "Yeah. It's this big government research facility here in town." Lewis paused to swallow before asking, "Why? Have you worked with them?"

     "No, not exactly, but …" She trailed off, thinking.

     "What is it, Cee?"

     "Lewis, I don't think they're after me at all. I think they're trying to get it touch with you."

     "What—me? What the hell would they want with me?"

      "I had a call from a Doctor Parker—two calls, in fact—about some project they seemed to think you were involved in—back in college."

     "College? What kind of project?"

     "Psychological testing."

     "That sounds more like your area of expertise, Cee—"

     "They said you were part of an experiment. Didn't you take part in some trials or something for one of your psych classes?"

     "Yeah—everybody did. We had to in order to pass the class. It was just a bunch of heart monitors and an IV drip while they had us solve math problems and sometimes play video games."

     "Well this doctor from Labelle said they had funded some of these studies, and they were looking for you."

     "But why?"

     "It wasn't just you. They're looking for all the test subjects. I guess they're worried about long-term effects … she …"

     "She what?"

     "She said she couldn't be sure, but she was worried their experiment might have had something to do with …"

     "With what?"

     "It might have had something to do with your nervous breakdown—with your … your condition."

     "Really? Wait—how did she even know about that?"

     "I talked with her about it, though …" she trailed off again. "Come to think of it, I don't think she knew about your episode until I mentioned it to her. She was definitely interested in you, though."

     "What else did she say?"

     "Not much," Celia lied. She was afraid to tell Lewis everything she knew, or to bring up project TIER. She didn't know how he'd react, and she didn't want to cause him to have another breakdown. "She, uh … she just said that there had been a change in management and that the new supervisors had asked her to check on test subjects from the previous regime. You know … just to make sure there weren't any long-term problems."

     "I see … and she thinks my problems were caused by them?"

     "She didn't exactly say that, but … it sounds like a possibility."

     "Huh." Lewis thought a moment. "I swear, Celia … if they caused this—I'll sue them for everything they've got!"

     "I don't know, Lewis. I expect you had to sign a lot of waivers—"

     "I don't care! They ruined my life! They ruined our lives—our marriage."

     "We don't know that," said Celia. "You would need a lot of proof to be sure—especially to prove it in court."

     "They must think there's evidence!"

     "What makes you think so?"

     "Because," said Lewis, "why else would they be discussing hacking into my phone?"

     "Lewis," Celia slipped into her Calming Friend therapist voice. "Is that really what they said? That they're hacking into your phone? Or are you building up a case from unrelated bits and pieces in your mind?"

     "No, but they—" He stopped short.

     "Now, think, Lewis. Before you get upset, before you act on anything, think about what you actually know."

     "OK. You're right, Cee. I'm getting paranoid." He took a deep breath. "But, why would they be talking about—"

     "It was probably just shop talk." Celia interrupted him before he could get going down the path to panic. "It sounds to me like they were just talking about their projects at the lab when one of them just happened to receive a call mentioning me because they were looking to track you down. It's probably all above-board and just an unlikely coincidence that your friend happened to be there to hear it."

     "You really think so?"

    In that moment she was reminded of that day six years ago when he'd appeared so weak and worried—like a traumatized child who simply hadn't the wherewithal to understand the bad things that had happened, or the why or the how of his troubles—just that they were there and they left him hurt and afraid. She longed to reach out to him through the phone and give him that reassuring hug that he so clearly needed. 

     All she could offer now, though, was her words:  "I'm sure of it."