Page 121 of Last Seen
Call him on it? Or get the hell out of there? He opts for the latter. Something is rotten here, and he needs a plan. And firepower. And backup. But before he goes ...
“One last question. I’ve heard tell there’s an anechoic chamber here in Brockville.”
Miles smile widens in delight. “As it happens, yes. I had one built many years ago. I don’t know how much you know about my background, Agent Donovan, but as much as I take pride and joy inthis little community we’ve built, I so enjoy silence. As a youth, I spent time in the wilderness, first in Alaska, then in Maine. I was able to be alone, truly alone, just myself and the earth and the sky, and that’s not something we can often do in this world. I try to bring that experience to those who live and visit here. There are a wide variety of sensory-deprivation therapies that we use for people who seek to quiet their minds.” He leans against the thick slab table, letting his weight sit in his palms. “We are bombarded by sensations. Overwhelmed by them, I would say. The world we find ourselves in now, with computers and phones and the internet, all the dings and bells, it is not a natural state. The way we stare at screens is not something our primordial brains can handle. Oh, we convince ourselves otherwise, let children watch dancing bears and tell ourselves they are being entertained, but the truth of the matter is we are ruining them. Ruined children grow into ruinous adults. Technology has seen to that.”
“Interesting theory.”
“When you have children, you will understand. You will watch them and realize they are never happier than when they can see the sky. It’s incontrovertible. It resolves everything. Beach, a forest, a park, it matters not so long as there is sun and rain and wind at their backs. As for the rest of the time, when we are overwhelmed, there is nothing the brain wants more than to be placed back in its embryonic state. Its biologically appropriate state. That’s what my therapies do. Goodness, that’s the very mission of Brockville. We help people recalibrate.”
“People willingly recalibrate with sensory deprivation? From what I understand, the anechoic chamber can cause serious problems for people.”
“Oh, no one is allowed in that chamber but me and a very few investors who are familiar with its effects. I have trained my mind, you see, to be able to withstand the lack of senses. But for a normal person just seeking an escape, the float tanks are our state-of-the-art treatment. Why?” His eyes twinkle; the amiable old man is back. “Do you find yourself needing an escape?”
“I’d like to see it. The chamber.”
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. But I’m sure we can get you over to Canter and into one of the less intense sensory tanks right away.”
Impasse. Miles Brockton is a cool customer.
“I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time.”
“Whenever you’re ready. It’s ironic, I’d just suggested the same to your wife before she snapped. Her energies were all over the place. She needed to be brought back into equilibrium. Sadly, I was too late to help her. Now, shall we?” Miles gestures toward the door.
“Sure. I’ve taken up enough of your time. Appreciate it. If you hear anything about Halley, please call me. Think I’ll go bend your son’s ear for a bit. You say he’s in Canter?”
“The sheriff’s office is in Somer. You can follow me.”
“No, that’s fine. I can find it.”
Is he going to allow this? Letting the ATF agent with the missing wife and a whole lot of questions wander the town unattended?
“I’ll let Cameron know you’re on your way.”
He holds the cottage door for Theo, who has no choice but to walk through into the Japanese garden. It smells different from when they went in. Instead of cedar and holly, there is a faint scent of char in the air.
Just as his brain registersSmoke, Miles gasps. “Oh my God. It’s burning.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Halley
Halley is startled from her uneasy slumber by a noise.
It is magnified in this soundless space, and she tenses, realizing what’s happening.
He has come back.
She opens her eyes. Blackness parades in, and she closes them again. She is safer within her own head than she is in this infinite place; she learned that quickly. Physically, though, she has more challenges. She is still tied down. Her legs and arms have gone past excruciating pain, cramping, itching, tingling—finally going numb with a burning fire that belies the term. She knows she is doomed in this position, weakened and trembling, but now she fights back as best she can, rolling her ankles, curling her fingers, willing blood to her limbs.
Ian has done nothing but talk and stroke her hair and intimate what horrors lie ahead for her, but she knows in her soul that won’t last much longer. He likes to talk. Likes to hear his own voice in this deadened space. He is a cat with a mouse already caught in the trap, pinioned to the earth by its tail, waiting for whatever horrors will come before its death.
She realizes the door has opened. Light spills in, blinding her with its intensity. She jams her eyes shut tighter. The brightness is too much to take.
Hands on her now. This person does not smell the same as Ian. The hands are softer and smaller. She risks opening one eye. In the darkness, she sees a murky face, one she knows as intimately as her own but still belongs to a stranger.
“Cat?”
“Shhh.” The familiar stranger puts a finger over her lips. “We don’t have much time,” she whispers.
