Sleeping Secrets: Heather Chase FBI Series Book 7, page 9
“Well Goodman says he doesn’t recognize him at all,” Bob said. “Sure you can put his face down for surgery—but what about his eyes? They’re the wrong color.”
“I couldn’t tell. But it’s probably dangerous to play tennis in contacts, so I’m guessing his eye color really is green and he was wearing contacts with Goodman. Plus we have Mr. X’s known associate, Monica Ingraham, who by several reports is an extremely attractive “uptown girl.” What if Ingraham and this Gwen character are one and the same?”
“Maybe. I mean it’s possible. Goodman’s coming up empty on Gwen too. Maybe Gwen is a new tool of Taylor’s. Or maybe Monica Ingraham never really existed after all—Goodman’s testimony on her is shaky at best. Most of what we know about her came from Mr. X’s mouth, not from reality.”
“What a useful witness Goodman turned out to be,” Chase said dryly.
“Anyway, all of that’s probably a dead end for now. My guess is we’ll never be able to tie Taylor to any earlier crimes unless we can catch him red-handed in this one.”
“I think we’re definitely in agreement over that,” Chase said. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks here, Bob—without SET, I’m going to go out on a limb and figure we can’t easily monitor Taylor’s emails or calls to Alden?”
“Not without a warrant.”
“Which means going to the DA...” Chase shuddered at the thought of meeting that recalcitrant blockhead again. “What about financial transactions?”
“As for that, it should be a little easier, given the recent SEC investigation into Novatide.”
“Then what I want you to do is—”
“Get Alden’s transactions and look for anything suspicious, correct? I’m already on it. Like I said though, it will take some time...”
“Okay. Let me know as soon as you find something. I have the sinking feeling that Alden’s in over his head.”
“Your intuition telling you that?”
“It’s telling me that in a major way. Anything else, Bob?”
“Actually, yes.”
“...And are you going to tell me what that is?”
He coughed another couple of times, then came back to the phone.
“Chase, I’m sorta running out of time here.”
“What—you got somewhere to be?” Chase said dryly.
“Uh, yeah. I have to give daily face-to-face reports now. To Section Chief Linar. It’s a drag, but what can you do?”
“You may as well not even have gotten that promotion.”
“No, no—I mean, SSAs have to give reports too, you know.”
“Stop evading the question. I know something’s happened, so just tell me.”
“Well, Section Chief Linar has made some... Moves.”
“Moves?” Chase’s heart started pounding. “What do you mean—moves?”
“After receiving your report, he was mighty impressed. So much so, in fact, that he decided that the best course of action would be to send another agent in to infiltrate.”
“Are you kidding? Why wasn't I brought in on this decision? Hell—I wasn’t even informed.”
“It’s something that only just happened. And believe me—our opinion wouldn’t have mattered on the decision.”
“Okay, so give it to me. Where has Linar sent this agent?”
“As a matter of fact, right into Respite.”
“...This is. I don’t know. Incredibly risky. What if they get caught? It will blow everything.”
“I tried telling the chief, Chase. But he seemed adamant. Anyway, our agent is going to pose as an insomniac with PTSD—hopefully, that will explain away any strangeness.”
“Explain away. Yeah, right. You think this Taylor was born yesterday? He almost made me, for Christ's sake.”
“He... Did?”
“Anyway, I handled it so don’t worry. Now what greenhorn is Linar planning on sending in there? Maybe I can still stop this from happening.”
“Actually, Chase, it’s too late to stop it. He’s already infiltrated the facility.”
“Who has?”
“In fact, it’s McEnry.”
“McEnry? As in, FBI Tactical Squad Leader McEnry?”
“Yeah—well, he’s not in FBI Tactical anymore. Took one too many near misses, it seems. He wanted a different post.”
“Oh sure, give him a less stressful position—like having him go undercover right in the enemy’s base of operations. Who the hell’s idea was this?”
“Well, you know how Section Chief Linar is. Plus, he figured McEnry would be a good choice given the rapport you two have.”
“Rapport?” Chase repeated. “Bob, we’ve gone on raids together. Never full-blown undercover operations. Have you spoken to McEnry?”
“Not recently, why?”
“I just want to know what on earth has gotten into him.”
“Relax, Chase. McEnry is a professional FBI agent with years of service under his belt. He’s not liable to screw the pooch so easily.”
“Sure. A professional FBI agent undergoing a midlife crisis. I’m sure that totally won’t make things more dangerous. As if this case wasn’t already on the razor’s edge.”
Chapter 15
“It’s like I don’t even remember what real sleep even feels like anymore. In my head, I know you’re not meant to toss and turn for hours before dozing off. That you’re not meant to keep waking up. And I know, logically, that when I wake up my chest isn’t supposed to hurt like this. That I’m meant to have dreams. That I’m meant to feel refreshed. That I’m meant to feel warm and full of energy when I wake. But I don’t remember the last time I felt like that.” Ex-Tactical Squad Leader Tom McEnry looked around at the group—feeling a little embarrassed that he’d talked so much. But to his surprise, found a room full of understanding faces. One girl was even tearing up.
“We understand, Tom,” the group’s counselor Mickey told him—this salt-and-pepper-haired guy with the kindly middle-aged man looks going on, a permanent smile fixed to his roundish face He almost reminded McEnry of Bob Fairfax.
Mickey suddenly jumped up out of his seat and clapped his hands in a wild show of energy and told them all to get up now, get up now, and wiggle around like jello. They did so. Tom followed suit.
“Just let all that tension go now, come on now,” Mickey said, taking the tone of a Saturday morning kids' show presenter. “Jello jello jello jello...” He flipped on the stereo which started playing happy, relaxing music—the kind of thing you hear at the dentist—but with an added droning frequency in the background. “It’s so easy,” Mickey went on. “It’s so eeeeasy to feel loose and relaxed. Feel the warmth spreading inside. Feel the light running through your muscles and turning them to—?”
“Jello,” the group all said.
“That’s right. Just keep your thoughts in here, in this happy space. Don’t let them wander away. Don’t let them. Just stay here waving with me. With me. Turning to jelly with me. With me.”
“With you,” the group said.
“Just stay here loose and limber and don’t search, don’t try and think too hard or breathe too hard or be too hard—just stay soft and gentle and fluid. Fluid. Yesss, fluid like—”
“Jello.”
“With me,” Mickey said.
“With you,” McEnry said.
“That’s right,” Mickey said, his smile even bigger than before. “That’s good. Let yourself relax. Let yourself give in. Let yourself go...” His voice grew quieter with each word until it was just a whisper. Until McEnry found himself giving this man his complete attention in order to hear the next word—and the rest of the room slipped away, the people faded out, and even the music dimmed to a low volume. There was just this moment, McEnry was here and Mickey was here and they filled the whole space. And he was jello then, he really was. Not just his body, which suddenly didn’t feel so tense or stiff anymore—but his mind. That was the truly remarkable thing. After years spent steeling his nerves and thoughts against potential danger, always keeping himself on the edge of readiness so as to be able to respond to any sudden threat—now he was finally finding that steel trap unlocked, he was finding the gray pulp inside malleable and trusting and welcoming... He was finding himself turning from the standoffish, aloof squad leader to someone who wanted to make friends, someone who wanted to share his happiness... Someone who wanted to change. Who was changing, now, here, in this moment with Mickey. Until he stopped being Tom McEnry, FBI Squad Leader altogether, and just melted into this role, this persona, this “Tom McElroy,” army veteran, an insomniac trying to get better.
“Jello.”
...
Night came before he knew it. A light tap on his door as he sat on the bed in the evening. There was no TV or computer in the dorm room—nothing to keep him awake all night. No screen to be glued to.
“Yes?”
The door opened and a fairly attractive nurse came in. McEnry had been expecting a Ratchet type—thick and aging and hard-headed. But this was more like a Hello, Nurse. Wearing a form-fitting white uniform, her blonde hair brushed back but still stylish. Bright blue eyes and red lips and a pointy nose. A dollface, they’d sent here. If he really did see dreams tonight they’d surely be of her. She’d come in carrying a paper cup with his meds.
Of course, the idea here was that McEnry would cheek the pill and spit it out when the nurse was gone—then use the night to inspect the joint, try and find dirt on what Taylor had been getting up to. That was the plan, originally. But that was before McEnry got here and realized that they hired real sleep doctors—had real conversations, real healing activities going on.
So, was this really all just an elaborate front, or what? It seemed too far-fetched to believe that this Nicholas Taylor really had set up a legitimate sleep clinic staffed by competent—competent and attractive, he noted, as the nurse leaned over slightly to feed him the pill, the top of her uniform exposing slightly the bountiful riches inside... If Taylor had set up all of this as a scheme it didn’t make any sense. Sure, okay, maybe he made a few million bucks on the stock play, but then why go to all this trouble? Couldn’t he have achieved the same thing with a lousy fake? And how much would it have cost to do all of this? Just the interior alone would cost a good chunk of change, let alone hiring the staff. And... And also... But his thoughts slammed shut like a heavy door as the nurse looked into his eyes and said in a soft, sweet voice: “Now swallow.”
And then it was just so easy for McEnry to swallow that pill. After all, he could start an investigation tomorrow. Right now all he wanted to do was rest. He didn’t want to trick this beautiful young woman and disobey her request. And most of all—the thing that really clinched it: He wanted to sleep.
He did.
...
McEnry went out like a light. He went out like a light and then it was morning. And when he woke he finally remembered what it really felt like to have a good night’s sleep. His lungs were clear and he breathed easily. His chest didn’t ache, just rose and fell softly in his chest. The sunlight streamed in through the window and birds were chirping outside. A stillness in the room blanketed him and made him feel like a little kid again. Made him feel safe and protected in there, in that room with the blue pastel walls and the white satin sheets and the fluffy pillows, and that completely amazing mattress—he was even considering whipping the sheet off and checking what brand it was. But he didn’t really feel like he had to do anything at that moment. He was so at peace, so content just to lie there for a while and bask in the feeling of his own body—a body free of pains or soreness, or fatigue.
He got up finally and slipped into the shower—each room had an en suite facility. He stood there under the hot steaming water, letting the high-pressure head massage the muscles of his body, getting up a good lather of soap and taking his time, letting himself relax completely. By the time he walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, he felt like a million bucks. He grinned at himself in the mirror—finding not the usual tense, locked expression of his brow, but eyes that seemed placid and relaxed, a natural smile on his face.
Slipping on his clothes—soft, beige cotton garments worn by every patient—McEnry made his way out of the room and to the canteen. He was starving. Usually, he couldn’t stomach anything in the morning but maybe a giant mug of coffee—but now his body called for sustenance. It would get it—as he walked the line of the serving trays, every possible breakfast food was on display—scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, croissants, cereal, toast, omelets, hash browns, pancakes, you name it. He’d been expecting some kind of healthy fare, rabbit food like lettuce and carrots and what have you. But as he piled his plate with thick silver dollar pancakes, heapings of eggs, and meat, he realized that wasn’t necessary. That the point was to heal the soul—and you just couldn’t do that snacking on a stalk of celery.
As McEnry sat down, he thought boy, he should have switched to undercover years ago. This was better than any pleasure resort. He looked around the room—its large open windows looking out on a well-kept lawn, the interior tables of solid oak, the fancy curved sidings on the wall, the pretty glass chandelier.
It was like every facet of this place had been keenly designed to evoke an aesthetic sense of well-being, calm, and relaxation. As he sat there eating enough for ten men, McEnry slipped into an intense euphoria. They weren’t allowed caffeine and he didn’t have coffee—which at first had felt like the one thing that could shatter the enjoyment for him—but after sitting down sipping at the caffeine-free specially prepared chicory instead, he didn’t even miss it. All around him, cotton-garbed individuals with faces wracked from interminable nights of lost sleep, were now relaxed and smiled. Some people conversed in small, peaceful voices, but most didn’t talk at all. They all just sit there, watching nature unfold outside the window, and letting themselves be there—for the first time in forever.
McEnry was on cloud nine for the rest of the day. He had no worries or anything to distract him. He didn’t have to go to work, he didn’t have to even go grocery shopping. Everything was taken care of for him. He didn’t even have to think—the counseling sessions told him it was okay to relax, so he relaxed. They told him it was okay to be happy, so he was happy. They told him he could go outside, go barefoot if he wanted. Most did. He did. He felt the cool grass between his toes, and the warm spring sun on his face. He breathed in the clean scenic air and listened to nothing but the bird song. He felt in love with the world. And after a wonderful day doing nothing other than letting go, letting his tension go over and over, he took the nurse’s pill without a word, just smiled at her, let the pill go down his throat, and then floated back into the soothing frequency that seemed to emanate from the very wallpaper of the room—sinking deeper and deeper into that good sleep. On the next night, he slept even more deeply, losing himself in the pleasurable halls of beautiful dreams, where he was a free spirit unshackled from the tortured routine of the meat body, where every need was met, and where he frolicked in the sunlit fields with a beautiful nurse on his arm and ecstasy in his heart. And on the next morning, he woke even more refreshed than the day prior—so much so that he could barely contain his smile. He rushed from the room, love bubbling up inside, rushing through his veins like hot, sweet wine. He made his way past the doors of the dorm, greeting the others and wishing them a good morning with real, genuine affection. As if happiness was a contagion he had caught, that he wanted to spread to the whole world. He wanted everyone to experience this. Why was it necessary to be sad and depressed and uptight all the time anyway? What was the need for it? Why torture yourself? Paradise was right there waiting for you—and all it really took to find it was to change your point of view. McEnry had done it. He really had. It was incredible. Every cell of his body trembled with a newfound joie de vivre. And nothing, nothing could ever take him down from this high.
“Good morning, Tom,” one of the orderlies called to him as he sat at breakfast.
“Good morning to you too,” McEnry said, smiling back.
“I have something for you.”
“You do? Oh, why thank you.” McEnry took the slip of paper from the orderly and waved him goodbye, sat there unrushed for another five minutes before remembering the piece of paper and opening it.
Hello Tom! We at Respite Sleep Restoration Clinic hope you’re enjoying the process! You received a message this morning from a Mr. Lineman, who says the following: “Tom, get in touch when you can.” That’s all, and enjoy the rest of your day!
Enjoy the rest of his day... McEnry’s smile warped sideways and settled into a cynical grin. Yeah, right. Lineman was Section Chief Linar’s codename. He was basically telling him to report in. Geez, what was the hurry? But after all, he did still have a job to do. Putting the slight feeling of dissatisfaction aside, McEnry went back into relaxation mode as he sat and drained the rest of his chicory. After that, he calmly walked down to the reception, which was separated from the complex by a long winding path down the hill. On the way he tried settling his heart, tried to let the warm friendly breeze ease his soul—but that message had really put a dent in his mojo. So, this was what they called a bummer. Linar was such a buzzkill.
Suddenly, the culture war that went on in the latter half of the 20th century came into perfect realization in McEnry’s mind like a crystal forming from a solution. What had just been a loose collection of random facts now all made sense. It had never been about ideology—it was just a bunch of people who wanted to feel good, battling against an army of squares who wanted to make everyone feel as bad as they did.
“Say, man, why you gotta bring me down with your negative frequency?” McEnry said over the phone.
“Excuse me?” Linar said, his voice like gravel mixed with shards of glass to McEnry’s sensitized ears. “Tom, I’m asking you why you haven’t contacted us lately.” What he really meant, of course, was why McEnry didn’t report in. But he couldn’t say that over the phone in case it was being monitored.
“Oh—yeah, I was you know, healing.”
“Tom—can you stop with that?”
“I couldn’t tell. But it’s probably dangerous to play tennis in contacts, so I’m guessing his eye color really is green and he was wearing contacts with Goodman. Plus we have Mr. X’s known associate, Monica Ingraham, who by several reports is an extremely attractive “uptown girl.” What if Ingraham and this Gwen character are one and the same?”
“Maybe. I mean it’s possible. Goodman’s coming up empty on Gwen too. Maybe Gwen is a new tool of Taylor’s. Or maybe Monica Ingraham never really existed after all—Goodman’s testimony on her is shaky at best. Most of what we know about her came from Mr. X’s mouth, not from reality.”
“What a useful witness Goodman turned out to be,” Chase said dryly.
“Anyway, all of that’s probably a dead end for now. My guess is we’ll never be able to tie Taylor to any earlier crimes unless we can catch him red-handed in this one.”
“I think we’re definitely in agreement over that,” Chase said. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks here, Bob—without SET, I’m going to go out on a limb and figure we can’t easily monitor Taylor’s emails or calls to Alden?”
“Not without a warrant.”
“Which means going to the DA...” Chase shuddered at the thought of meeting that recalcitrant blockhead again. “What about financial transactions?”
“As for that, it should be a little easier, given the recent SEC investigation into Novatide.”
“Then what I want you to do is—”
“Get Alden’s transactions and look for anything suspicious, correct? I’m already on it. Like I said though, it will take some time...”
“Okay. Let me know as soon as you find something. I have the sinking feeling that Alden’s in over his head.”
“Your intuition telling you that?”
“It’s telling me that in a major way. Anything else, Bob?”
“Actually, yes.”
“...And are you going to tell me what that is?”
He coughed another couple of times, then came back to the phone.
“Chase, I’m sorta running out of time here.”
“What—you got somewhere to be?” Chase said dryly.
“Uh, yeah. I have to give daily face-to-face reports now. To Section Chief Linar. It’s a drag, but what can you do?”
“You may as well not even have gotten that promotion.”
“No, no—I mean, SSAs have to give reports too, you know.”
“Stop evading the question. I know something’s happened, so just tell me.”
“Well, Section Chief Linar has made some... Moves.”
“Moves?” Chase’s heart started pounding. “What do you mean—moves?”
“After receiving your report, he was mighty impressed. So much so, in fact, that he decided that the best course of action would be to send another agent in to infiltrate.”
“Are you kidding? Why wasn't I brought in on this decision? Hell—I wasn’t even informed.”
“It’s something that only just happened. And believe me—our opinion wouldn’t have mattered on the decision.”
“Okay, so give it to me. Where has Linar sent this agent?”
“As a matter of fact, right into Respite.”
“...This is. I don’t know. Incredibly risky. What if they get caught? It will blow everything.”
“I tried telling the chief, Chase. But he seemed adamant. Anyway, our agent is going to pose as an insomniac with PTSD—hopefully, that will explain away any strangeness.”
“Explain away. Yeah, right. You think this Taylor was born yesterday? He almost made me, for Christ's sake.”
“He... Did?”
“Anyway, I handled it so don’t worry. Now what greenhorn is Linar planning on sending in there? Maybe I can still stop this from happening.”
“Actually, Chase, it’s too late to stop it. He’s already infiltrated the facility.”
“Who has?”
“In fact, it’s McEnry.”
“McEnry? As in, FBI Tactical Squad Leader McEnry?”
“Yeah—well, he’s not in FBI Tactical anymore. Took one too many near misses, it seems. He wanted a different post.”
“Oh sure, give him a less stressful position—like having him go undercover right in the enemy’s base of operations. Who the hell’s idea was this?”
“Well, you know how Section Chief Linar is. Plus, he figured McEnry would be a good choice given the rapport you two have.”
“Rapport?” Chase repeated. “Bob, we’ve gone on raids together. Never full-blown undercover operations. Have you spoken to McEnry?”
“Not recently, why?”
“I just want to know what on earth has gotten into him.”
“Relax, Chase. McEnry is a professional FBI agent with years of service under his belt. He’s not liable to screw the pooch so easily.”
“Sure. A professional FBI agent undergoing a midlife crisis. I’m sure that totally won’t make things more dangerous. As if this case wasn’t already on the razor’s edge.”
Chapter 15
“It’s like I don’t even remember what real sleep even feels like anymore. In my head, I know you’re not meant to toss and turn for hours before dozing off. That you’re not meant to keep waking up. And I know, logically, that when I wake up my chest isn’t supposed to hurt like this. That I’m meant to have dreams. That I’m meant to feel refreshed. That I’m meant to feel warm and full of energy when I wake. But I don’t remember the last time I felt like that.” Ex-Tactical Squad Leader Tom McEnry looked around at the group—feeling a little embarrassed that he’d talked so much. But to his surprise, found a room full of understanding faces. One girl was even tearing up.
“We understand, Tom,” the group’s counselor Mickey told him—this salt-and-pepper-haired guy with the kindly middle-aged man looks going on, a permanent smile fixed to his roundish face He almost reminded McEnry of Bob Fairfax.
Mickey suddenly jumped up out of his seat and clapped his hands in a wild show of energy and told them all to get up now, get up now, and wiggle around like jello. They did so. Tom followed suit.
“Just let all that tension go now, come on now,” Mickey said, taking the tone of a Saturday morning kids' show presenter. “Jello jello jello jello...” He flipped on the stereo which started playing happy, relaxing music—the kind of thing you hear at the dentist—but with an added droning frequency in the background. “It’s so easy,” Mickey went on. “It’s so eeeeasy to feel loose and relaxed. Feel the warmth spreading inside. Feel the light running through your muscles and turning them to—?”
“Jello,” the group all said.
“That’s right. Just keep your thoughts in here, in this happy space. Don’t let them wander away. Don’t let them. Just stay here waving with me. With me. Turning to jelly with me. With me.”
“With you,” the group said.
“Just stay here loose and limber and don’t search, don’t try and think too hard or breathe too hard or be too hard—just stay soft and gentle and fluid. Fluid. Yesss, fluid like—”
“Jello.”
“With me,” Mickey said.
“With you,” McEnry said.
“That’s right,” Mickey said, his smile even bigger than before. “That’s good. Let yourself relax. Let yourself give in. Let yourself go...” His voice grew quieter with each word until it was just a whisper. Until McEnry found himself giving this man his complete attention in order to hear the next word—and the rest of the room slipped away, the people faded out, and even the music dimmed to a low volume. There was just this moment, McEnry was here and Mickey was here and they filled the whole space. And he was jello then, he really was. Not just his body, which suddenly didn’t feel so tense or stiff anymore—but his mind. That was the truly remarkable thing. After years spent steeling his nerves and thoughts against potential danger, always keeping himself on the edge of readiness so as to be able to respond to any sudden threat—now he was finally finding that steel trap unlocked, he was finding the gray pulp inside malleable and trusting and welcoming... He was finding himself turning from the standoffish, aloof squad leader to someone who wanted to make friends, someone who wanted to share his happiness... Someone who wanted to change. Who was changing, now, here, in this moment with Mickey. Until he stopped being Tom McEnry, FBI Squad Leader altogether, and just melted into this role, this persona, this “Tom McElroy,” army veteran, an insomniac trying to get better.
“Jello.”
...
Night came before he knew it. A light tap on his door as he sat on the bed in the evening. There was no TV or computer in the dorm room—nothing to keep him awake all night. No screen to be glued to.
“Yes?”
The door opened and a fairly attractive nurse came in. McEnry had been expecting a Ratchet type—thick and aging and hard-headed. But this was more like a Hello, Nurse. Wearing a form-fitting white uniform, her blonde hair brushed back but still stylish. Bright blue eyes and red lips and a pointy nose. A dollface, they’d sent here. If he really did see dreams tonight they’d surely be of her. She’d come in carrying a paper cup with his meds.
Of course, the idea here was that McEnry would cheek the pill and spit it out when the nurse was gone—then use the night to inspect the joint, try and find dirt on what Taylor had been getting up to. That was the plan, originally. But that was before McEnry got here and realized that they hired real sleep doctors—had real conversations, real healing activities going on.
So, was this really all just an elaborate front, or what? It seemed too far-fetched to believe that this Nicholas Taylor really had set up a legitimate sleep clinic staffed by competent—competent and attractive, he noted, as the nurse leaned over slightly to feed him the pill, the top of her uniform exposing slightly the bountiful riches inside... If Taylor had set up all of this as a scheme it didn’t make any sense. Sure, okay, maybe he made a few million bucks on the stock play, but then why go to all this trouble? Couldn’t he have achieved the same thing with a lousy fake? And how much would it have cost to do all of this? Just the interior alone would cost a good chunk of change, let alone hiring the staff. And... And also... But his thoughts slammed shut like a heavy door as the nurse looked into his eyes and said in a soft, sweet voice: “Now swallow.”
And then it was just so easy for McEnry to swallow that pill. After all, he could start an investigation tomorrow. Right now all he wanted to do was rest. He didn’t want to trick this beautiful young woman and disobey her request. And most of all—the thing that really clinched it: He wanted to sleep.
He did.
...
McEnry went out like a light. He went out like a light and then it was morning. And when he woke he finally remembered what it really felt like to have a good night’s sleep. His lungs were clear and he breathed easily. His chest didn’t ache, just rose and fell softly in his chest. The sunlight streamed in through the window and birds were chirping outside. A stillness in the room blanketed him and made him feel like a little kid again. Made him feel safe and protected in there, in that room with the blue pastel walls and the white satin sheets and the fluffy pillows, and that completely amazing mattress—he was even considering whipping the sheet off and checking what brand it was. But he didn’t really feel like he had to do anything at that moment. He was so at peace, so content just to lie there for a while and bask in the feeling of his own body—a body free of pains or soreness, or fatigue.
He got up finally and slipped into the shower—each room had an en suite facility. He stood there under the hot steaming water, letting the high-pressure head massage the muscles of his body, getting up a good lather of soap and taking his time, letting himself relax completely. By the time he walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, he felt like a million bucks. He grinned at himself in the mirror—finding not the usual tense, locked expression of his brow, but eyes that seemed placid and relaxed, a natural smile on his face.
Slipping on his clothes—soft, beige cotton garments worn by every patient—McEnry made his way out of the room and to the canteen. He was starving. Usually, he couldn’t stomach anything in the morning but maybe a giant mug of coffee—but now his body called for sustenance. It would get it—as he walked the line of the serving trays, every possible breakfast food was on display—scrambled eggs, bacon, sausages, croissants, cereal, toast, omelets, hash browns, pancakes, you name it. He’d been expecting some kind of healthy fare, rabbit food like lettuce and carrots and what have you. But as he piled his plate with thick silver dollar pancakes, heapings of eggs, and meat, he realized that wasn’t necessary. That the point was to heal the soul—and you just couldn’t do that snacking on a stalk of celery.
As McEnry sat down, he thought boy, he should have switched to undercover years ago. This was better than any pleasure resort. He looked around the room—its large open windows looking out on a well-kept lawn, the interior tables of solid oak, the fancy curved sidings on the wall, the pretty glass chandelier.
It was like every facet of this place had been keenly designed to evoke an aesthetic sense of well-being, calm, and relaxation. As he sat there eating enough for ten men, McEnry slipped into an intense euphoria. They weren’t allowed caffeine and he didn’t have coffee—which at first had felt like the one thing that could shatter the enjoyment for him—but after sitting down sipping at the caffeine-free specially prepared chicory instead, he didn’t even miss it. All around him, cotton-garbed individuals with faces wracked from interminable nights of lost sleep, were now relaxed and smiled. Some people conversed in small, peaceful voices, but most didn’t talk at all. They all just sit there, watching nature unfold outside the window, and letting themselves be there—for the first time in forever.
McEnry was on cloud nine for the rest of the day. He had no worries or anything to distract him. He didn’t have to go to work, he didn’t have to even go grocery shopping. Everything was taken care of for him. He didn’t even have to think—the counseling sessions told him it was okay to relax, so he relaxed. They told him it was okay to be happy, so he was happy. They told him he could go outside, go barefoot if he wanted. Most did. He did. He felt the cool grass between his toes, and the warm spring sun on his face. He breathed in the clean scenic air and listened to nothing but the bird song. He felt in love with the world. And after a wonderful day doing nothing other than letting go, letting his tension go over and over, he took the nurse’s pill without a word, just smiled at her, let the pill go down his throat, and then floated back into the soothing frequency that seemed to emanate from the very wallpaper of the room—sinking deeper and deeper into that good sleep. On the next night, he slept even more deeply, losing himself in the pleasurable halls of beautiful dreams, where he was a free spirit unshackled from the tortured routine of the meat body, where every need was met, and where he frolicked in the sunlit fields with a beautiful nurse on his arm and ecstasy in his heart. And on the next morning, he woke even more refreshed than the day prior—so much so that he could barely contain his smile. He rushed from the room, love bubbling up inside, rushing through his veins like hot, sweet wine. He made his way past the doors of the dorm, greeting the others and wishing them a good morning with real, genuine affection. As if happiness was a contagion he had caught, that he wanted to spread to the whole world. He wanted everyone to experience this. Why was it necessary to be sad and depressed and uptight all the time anyway? What was the need for it? Why torture yourself? Paradise was right there waiting for you—and all it really took to find it was to change your point of view. McEnry had done it. He really had. It was incredible. Every cell of his body trembled with a newfound joie de vivre. And nothing, nothing could ever take him down from this high.
“Good morning, Tom,” one of the orderlies called to him as he sat at breakfast.
“Good morning to you too,” McEnry said, smiling back.
“I have something for you.”
“You do? Oh, why thank you.” McEnry took the slip of paper from the orderly and waved him goodbye, sat there unrushed for another five minutes before remembering the piece of paper and opening it.
Hello Tom! We at Respite Sleep Restoration Clinic hope you’re enjoying the process! You received a message this morning from a Mr. Lineman, who says the following: “Tom, get in touch when you can.” That’s all, and enjoy the rest of your day!
Enjoy the rest of his day... McEnry’s smile warped sideways and settled into a cynical grin. Yeah, right. Lineman was Section Chief Linar’s codename. He was basically telling him to report in. Geez, what was the hurry? But after all, he did still have a job to do. Putting the slight feeling of dissatisfaction aside, McEnry went back into relaxation mode as he sat and drained the rest of his chicory. After that, he calmly walked down to the reception, which was separated from the complex by a long winding path down the hill. On the way he tried settling his heart, tried to let the warm friendly breeze ease his soul—but that message had really put a dent in his mojo. So, this was what they called a bummer. Linar was such a buzzkill.
Suddenly, the culture war that went on in the latter half of the 20th century came into perfect realization in McEnry’s mind like a crystal forming from a solution. What had just been a loose collection of random facts now all made sense. It had never been about ideology—it was just a bunch of people who wanted to feel good, battling against an army of squares who wanted to make everyone feel as bad as they did.
“Say, man, why you gotta bring me down with your negative frequency?” McEnry said over the phone.
“Excuse me?” Linar said, his voice like gravel mixed with shards of glass to McEnry’s sensitized ears. “Tom, I’m asking you why you haven’t contacted us lately.” What he really meant, of course, was why McEnry didn’t report in. But he couldn’t say that over the phone in case it was being monitored.
“Oh—yeah, I was you know, healing.”
“Tom—can you stop with that?”
