I had to smile. “So… all that stuff about wearing aluminum foil hats is true?”
“If I had to guess, it was a distortion based on leaked information from the Stargate program. Remember, to most of the people in the DIA and CIA the program was a joke and a failure. Very few people know that it was actually successful.”
“Do I need to go out and buy a roll of Reynolds Wrap?”
“Something can be arranged,” said Church. He made a very fast call to Dr. Hu.
“Is Hu still working at the DMS?” I asked when he was done.
“Bolton offered to keep him on and to promote him to deputy director of the DMS.”
“I’ll bet he lunged at that like a bass.”
Church gave me a disapproving look. “Dr. Hu’s response was to file his resignation. As soon as he was out of the parking garage he sent a coded signal to activate a computer virus that has since frozen all of his records. All of his research, past and present, is now locked. Any attempt to unlock those records receives the response manducare stercore. I believe you can translate the Latin.”
I could. Eat shit.
“Hu did all that?”
“You have always underestimated him. Chemistry is against you both, but Dr. Hu is one of the family, Captain. Never doubt it.”
I thought about my dream, of Hu fighting to save me, and of what Junie said about him. “If we get out of this,” I said, “I’ll buy him a beer.”
“It’s likely he would turn you down. He is part of the family but he still considers you to be a mouth-breathing Neanderthal. His words, repeated often,” said Church. He looked at his watch. “My car will be here soon.”
“Look, if this is all true, then that sleep lab is somewhere underground. A basement or subbasement. I think there’s a full God Machine in there.”
“Do you have any insight into where?”
“No. Maybe. I… I don’t know. But there’s something else,” I said. “And I think it’s really important. Maybe the most important thing. It was something Santoro said when his eyes glazed over. When he was taken over, I guess. He said, ‘You’re nothing but a thug, Ledger.’ Sound like anyone you know?”
“Now isn’t that interesting,” said Mr. Church.
There was a knock on the door. Brick had arrived. Church got to his feet and glanced at me.
“We have been victims too long, Captain. It’s time to go to war.”
CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR
Brick led us to the marina parking lot where a gorgeous Mercedes Sprinter luxury RV was parked.
“Welcome to the Junkyard,” said Brick, patting the sleek silver-gray skin with real affection. When he opened the door and I climbed in I could see why Brick was so proud of it. The first time I’d met him he was driving a Mister Softee ice-cream truck that was actually a rolling arsenal. He had designed and kitted it out to provide massive tactical support for any kind of field mission up to and probably including a full-scale invasion of Russia. The RV was no different. Inside I saw a bank of advanced computer and communications equipment, but the rest of the interior was basically a gun rack. Rows of handguns and long guns, ranging from combat shotguns to the latest automatic rifles. Boxes of grenades — fragmentation, flash-bangs, smoke — and a bin filled with uniforms and Kevlar.
Brick chuckled. “Mike Harnick helped me trick her out. If it’s not here, Joe, you don’t need it. We got every single one of Dr. Hu’s little electronic gizmos. I got a minigun mounted in the overhead dome, front and back chain guns, and if I press the right buttons I can lay down a nice barrage of mortars that would entertain even the most blasé of houseguests.”
“Jesus H. Henry Christ on a hoverboard,” I said.
“Until further notice,” said Church, “the Junkyard is our mobile command center.”
“To do what?” I asked as I dug black battle-dress trousers out of the bin. “What’s our first move?”
There was a click behind me and the door to the tiny head opened and Harry Bolt stepped out. His face was flushed. “Maybe you should put some biohazard tape over that,” he said as he quickly shut the door. “Oh, hi, Joe.”
“Hey, kid. Where’s Violin?”
“No idea,” said Harry. “Once my dad started evicting everyone I lost track. Dad told me to get the heck out, too. He’s really in a mood.”
I started to say something foul and threatening, but Church cut me off.
“Captain,” he said, “would you please describe to Mr. Bolt everything you can remember about the chamber with the sleep capsules.”
“Everything?”
“Yes,” said Church. “Mr. Bolt has joined the family.”
So, as Brick drove and I went over the whole thing again, Harry listened with mingled surprise, reluctant acceptance, and horror. When I got to the part about the sign on the wall that read: PLAYROOM SECURITY NOTICE, Harry Bolt suddenly burst into tears. He caved forward and put his face in his hands and wept, and through his sobs I heard him say, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…”
It didn’t sound like denial, though. Not really. It sounded like the thing you say when your worst fears are realized. I sat down next to him and wrapped my arm around his quivering shoulders, and like a little kid he turned and buried his face against my chest. He kept saying no.
We both knew he meant yes.
I’d known it since that moment of dreadful clarity I had while floating out in the night-black ocean. Maybe I’d even come to suspect it before then, but it seemed so absurd, so impossible.
Except that it was neither. It fit all the facts, confirmed all the suppositions.
When he could speak, Harry told me the origin of that name. The Playroom.
It used to have pinball machines and a handball court and a six-lane bowling alley. Skee-Ball and video games, too. It’s where he played, almost always alone, when he was a kid.
In his house.
In the basement of his home.
In the basement of the Bolton family home.
CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE
We sat in a vehicle filled with guns and pain and drew our plans for war.
Even though I had a strong suspicion that Bolton was our Big Bad, having it confirmed really hurt. Even after everything he’d done to Church, to the DMS, to me, it hurt. It was a betrayal by one of my longtime heroes. I worshiped that guy. I wanted it to not be true. I wanted to wake up, maybe still out in the ocean, and discover that this was all just a dream.
Only a bad dream.
Even if it meant I drowned.
The world needs its heroes. We already have enough villains.
But… Harcourt Bolton, Senior?
Goddamn, that hurt.
“Dad has a big house in Rancho Santa Fe,” said Harry, his eyes red-rimmed, nose running, voice thick. “Huge, really. Too many rooms. It’s built on the grounds of an old Spanish monastery and it has two levels of basements where the monks stored the wine they made.”
He told us that the subbasement was expanded during Prohibition and became a speakeasy for rich locals. That’s when it earned the nickname “the Playroom.” When the Bolton family bought it, Harry’s grandfather had turned the subbasement into a real playroom, installing the bowling alley and handball court. It was Harcourt who purchased the video game machines, because, as Harry put it, those games kept Harry out of sight when his father had business friends, work colleagues, or women over. After Harry went to college, his father closed the subbasement, claiming that it had needed to be overhauled because of asbestos in the ceilings. Once the repairs were done it was scheduled to be converted into a wine cellar, circling around to its original use.