Total Immersion, page 27
If Travis Taylor was The Revenger, what was his connection to the bag lady, if any connection existed at all?
Sam turned away from the screen and looked down at the little piece of scratch paper: 863 North Caldwell Drive. He glanced at his watch: 6:30 p.m.
“Tell me I can get outta here, detective?” Digger asked, spinning the monitor back.
“I’ll walk out with you,” Sam said, and made up his mind that a trip to 863 North Caldwell Drive was in order.
fifty
Even in the dark of night, Sam remembered the street well. Flanked by old, rundown tenement buildings, the narrow street was littered with small one- and two-bedroom houses. The area dated back to the 1940s when the U.S. government built tract homes to accommodate returning G.I.s and their families.
Caldwell Drive has certainly seen better days, Sam thought as he stood across the street. He contemplated calling in for a search warrant, but that meant alerting the courts and at least a few judges to his whereabouts. He didn’t want somebody to tip Travis off, and something was pushing him to enter that house, illegal as it was. He felt it in his bones. The answer was in there. His career had started on this street. Maybe destiny wanted it to end here as well.
He pulled his gun out of the holster and quietly approached 863 N. Caldwell Drive. It took less than a minute to jimmy the front door lock, and before he knew it, Sam stood inside Travis Taylor’s sparse living room. Only the distant streetlights provided the slight illumination, but it was enough to see the living room had little to offer. The walls were empty and in need of a paint job. A beat-up sofa faced a blank wall. He heard a drip, drip, drip coming from the sink of the adjoining kitchen, where dirty pots, pans, plates, and glass cups waited to be cleaned.
With his finger wrapped tightly around the trigger, Sam made his way toward the dark hallway, which led to the bathroom and a single bedroom. He remembered Digger’s comment, Let’s see here . . . Taylor, Travis. Here we go. He pullin’ a double. Off at one a.m.
Sam glanced down at his digital watch. The glowing numbers read: 6:55 p.m. Always back right at seven. Diggers’ words calmed him as he entered the bathroom. A red-handled, non-electric toothbrush dangled precariously off the rim of the toothpaste-encrusted sink. Sam opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of aspirin, five Q-tips, a bar of soap, and a prescription of Ofloxacin. Sam remembered the medication from his childhood; it eased the pain of ear infections. Under the sink, he found two towels, a dried-out yellow sponge, and a bottle of unopened Liquid Drano.
With his tour halfway over, Sam knew he was dealing with an extremely isolated man with few friends, maybe no friends.
Whoever the mystery girl was from Travis’ locker, Sam concluded she probably had nothing to do with this simple man and was more about fantasy than reality.
The hallway came to an end at a closed bedroom door.
If the bedroom was anything like the rest of this sparse, sad house, Sam’s illegal breaking-and-entering escapade would be nothing more than a big goose egg. Surveillance would be his next option, and then an interview. Maybe at the end of the day, this case would hinge on finding the little old lady in the big green floppy hat.
Maybe Digger was right all along. Old Travis is harmless as a fly.
Sam turned the knob and pushed the door open.
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There was no greater sound to Travis’ damaged ears than the ringing bells of the alarm alerting the men that gas was present in the tunnels. Travis was transported up to the surface as men from the gas company were brought in to find the origin of the dangerous leak. They entered tunnel #445, dressed in hazmat suits, at exactly 6:45 p.m.
At 7:01 p.m., Travis got the good news he was hoping for.
“You’re finished for the night, Taylor,” his supervisor said. “We’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”
Travis grabbed his cutter and welder’s mask, and made a beeline for the locker room.
He would receive the full night’s pay and pick up hours of additional time with Kim.
A win-win all around.
Thank God for gas leaks, he thought, and whipped open his locker door. He stared at the photo of his beloved, a wicked smile lighting up his dirty face.
Most men would give their right arm for a night with Kim. Most men would kill to come home night after night to someone as perfectly perfect as Kim.
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Sam stood frozen, his gun dangling at his side.
This is going to end freaky. James’ words seared in his mind as he stood inside that small bedroom, staring down at the Total Immersion chair and powerful mainframe computer system. From the moment he laid eyes on the machine, Sam knew exactly where he had seen Travis’ diminutive face before.
“They have devices that fit right onto the drum,” he remembered saying to the sad, pitiful looking man.
“They’re expensive,” Travis had whispered back.
The connection between Carl Tyler and The Revenger had been made. What it all meant, and how the pieces fit together, was still a mystery. They clearly shared the same Total Immersion retail store. Sam remembered the name: A.I.F.—Adult Integrated Fantasy.
Most of the room was taken up by the chair and hardware. A twin bed, strewn with sheets and a blanket, sat in the corner next to a child-sized, wooden desk.
Sam approached the cluttered desk. On a yellow pad of paper, he spotted the name CLARENCE WHITEFORD poorly scribbled at the top of the page.
There were moments in every case emblazoned in Sam’s memory forever.
This was one of those moments.
Sam had his killer. The Revenger was finished.
Sam’s hands trembled as he carefully lifted the page, and on the second page, in that same scribble, was everything a killer would need to know in order to murder Clarence Franklin Whiteford: address, phone number, daily schedule. It even included a childish blueprint of the house—entrances, exits, placement of windows, security camera placement for nearly a mile.
There was one line that sent a cold shiver down Sam’s spine:
C. WHITEFORD BEING WATCHD BY COPS. NEED TO WATCH STREET FOR VANS. TIME COMINGS AND GOINGS. KIM SAYS BE XTRA PATINT. MUST BE PATINT.
Travis was not working alone. Was Kim the woman in the big green floppy hat, or the name of the stunning beauty from Travis’ locker?
The questions multiplied as Sam shifted his attention back to the Total Immersion chair. He glanced down at his digital watch: 7:12 p.m.
Only a few seconds inside, he thought. Less than a minute.
He would sit on the chair, his finger positioned on the kill switch. He would not allow himself to be tied down by the wrist and ankle cuffs. Thirty seconds was all he needed. No, twenty seconds.
“What the fuck am I thinking?” he whispered to himself.
Luck had been on his side all night, and now he was pushing it to the limit. He knew he should walk out, request a search warrant, arrest Travis Taylor, and spend the night interrogating his prime suspect.
Sam glanced over to the port where a shiny, silver disc sat halfway out, calling out to him. Teasing him. Like a moth driven to the flame, like an addict to the needle, Sam continued his approach to the chair.
“He retarded,” Digger had said, almost protectively.
“Physically?” Sam had asked.
“No, mentally. He slow. His mind don’t think too fast. Old Travis is harmless as a fly.”
Travis Taylor may have pulled the trigger, but Sam was now convinced somebody else ordered these murders.
From the letters on his little desk, and Digger’s comments, Sam concluded Travis, a mentally slow, emotionally handicapped sewer rat had been manipulated by a force far greater than himself.
Sam’s concern was no longer Travis, but rather whoever was behind Travis.
Who was calling the shots?
Who was Kim?
Who was the mysterious bag lady in the big green floppy hat?
He was close.
Sam stood over the computer and glanced down at his digital watch: 7:13 p.m.
His heart told him to get the fuck out of there, but his insatiable curiosity overpowered him.
As Sam’s hand reached down and switched on the mighty computer, one sad thought entered his mind: Travis Taylor and Sam Knight had more in common than he cared to think about.
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Travis impatiently glanced down at his watch: 7:15 p.m. He had been waiting at the bus stop for only ten minutes, but it felt like an hour. Every minute spent sitting here was a wasted minute he could have spent with Kim. He preferred the buses over the driverless cars, mostly because they were cheaper.
He would wait another couple of minutes for the bus. If it was a no-show, then he’d jump into a driverless and blow the extra money.
Kim was well worth it.
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Sam set his gun on the chair and lifted the Total Immersion helmet off its black hook. His mouth had gone dry, his fingers tingling, a sure sign his body was not reacting well to incredible stress he was voluntarily putting it under.
He glanced down at his watch one more time: 7:17 p.m.
Travis would not be home for at least another five hours.
He would only need a couple minutes at most. One minute, and then he would disengage, set everything back the way he found it, and get out of that sad, little house.
Taking several deep breaths, he fully committed himself, sat down on the edge of the chair, and placed the heavy, bulky helmet over his head. He blindly felt around for his gun, and set it on his lap, his left finger held tight against the trigger. He placed his right finger even tighter around the trigger that operated the kill switch on the machine.
He felt lightheaded as the headgear tightened around his neck and filled with moisture. He knew all too well what was coming next as he opened his eyes wide and waited.
The twin, red laser beams hovered in suspended animation, and like a bullet shot from a gun, they were upon him. His face grimaced as the beams hit their mark.
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Sam glanced around the ornate, stately elevator, complete with a mini-chandelier and a dark, oak bench. The programming was excellent, the details extraordinary.
The feel of reality was even sharper than Buzz’s work.
The elevator waited for a command. When one did not come from the user, it took matters into its own hands. “Forty-five,” a sultry female voice said.
Sam felt the elevator begin its silent ascent.
Every ten floors, the sexy voice made a location announcement. “Ten,” she said.
“Twenty.”
Sam felt the elevator’s pace quicken.
“Thirty.”
Thoughts of Tommy’s lifeless body lying on his Total Immersion chair crept into his mind. “It looks like the kill switch malfunctioned,” Kenny had said.
Sam pulled the trigger.
The two laser beams disengaged. Sam pulled off the helmet and glanced around the little room. The only sounds were the computer fans, and multiple motors, and the siren of a distant fire engine.
Sam set the helmet down on the chair and walked out into the hallway.
It was deadly silent. He glanced down at this watch again: 7:19 p.m.
The kill switch functioned perfectly.
He took one more look around the room and slid the helmet back into position.
Once again, he felt it tighten around his neck. A 3-D display appeared in front of him. Sam had seen this display with his own system; when the user engaged the kill switch and returned within a certain time, the program listed the following options:
1. AT THE BEGINNING?
2. WHERE YOU LEFT OFF?
3. CHAPTER SEARCH?
“Number two,” Sam whispered, and the display disappeared.
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“Forty,” the sultry voice said as Sam found himself standing in the elevator.
“Forty-five.”
The doors silently parted, and Sam cautiously stepped out into the foyer. The penthouse was extraordinary. An almost overpowering scent of fresh flowers floated in the air.
Sam turned to the right and came face to face with his reflection in a large floor-to-ceiling mirror encased in a baroque wood frame. He wore casual but expensive clothes, complete with designer jeans, a button-down black silk shirt, and comfortable loafers. His hair was handsomely slicked back and looked a little darker than it really was.
He liked what he saw.
He had grown accustomed to programs built on tension, and violence, and blood. They felt more like action movies than real life. Within seconds of entering this serene, perfect world, he was already at ease.
Maybe it’s the smells, he thought. Buzz’s programs had no smells, and that drastically took away from their overall effect. These programs smelled like real life. He smelled the cedar wood polish, and even a mild, sweet cologne wafting off his body. Whoever was behind this brilliant feat of computer programming desperately wanted the user to lose themselves completely.
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Travis was one second away from jumping into a driverless when he caught a glimpse of his bus chugging down the busy street.
He made his way to his favorite seat toward the back, positioned next to the center exit ramp. He lifted his cutter, placed it in the metal overhead rack, and sat down on the cushioned double seat. His thoughts turned to Kim, and a happy grin lit up his dirty face. Twenty minutes, and he would be home.
In less than half an hour, he would be back in her arms.
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Sam turned away from the mirror and glanced down to find the black-and-white marble tiles had been replaced by a series of little, yellow bricks. They started off small, and circled and wove around, growing larger and larger, eventually creating a golden path, which led through the foyer and down the hallway. He had seen them somewhere before but couldn’t place exactly where. It was on the tip of his tongue when a strange voice called out, “Follow the yellow brick road.”
Momentarily startled, Sam nearly pulled the kill switch. Then the connection between the mysterious voice and the golden bricks hit home.
“Follow the yellow brick road,” the voice repeated.
As he took his walk along the famous pathway, the music swelled, and the chorus sang out, “Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick road . . .”
Sam stayed on the golden pathway and continued to be astounded at the breathtaking detail of the spectacular penthouse. Paintings from the masters lined the walls: a Picasso here, a Monet there. As he entered the long, grand hallway, the paintings were all French impressionists.
“We’re off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Oz . . .” the chorus sang out. “If ever, oh ever a Wiz there was, the Wizard of Oz is one because, because, because, because, because, because . . . because of the wonderful things he does . . .”
The yellow bricks came to a stop at the imposing door of the master bedroom.
Not wanting to waste any precious time, Sam pushed the door open.
If he was dazzled by the elevator, thrilled by the penthouse, then no words were sufficient to describe the sight of that converted master bedroom. Emerald City shinedne as brightly and gloriously as it ever had. The moving images of painted horses pulling carriages, their colors miraculously changing every few seconds. The fabulous ceiling with the white, puffy clouds shaped as Dorothy’s traveling companions. The mesmerizing emerald spinning from its base, emitting rays of brilliant green light, and of course, the king-size, revolving emerald-shaped bed.
“Ha-ha-ha! Ho-ho-ho! And a couple of tra-la-las! That’s how we work the day away in the merry old land of Oz. We get up at twelve and start to work at one. Take an hour for lunch and then at two we’re done. Jolly good fun!”
Sam soaked in the unbelievable scene playing out in glorious Technicolor before him.
Suddenly, the music came to an abrupt stop as a gigantic cloud of black smoke formed in the middle of the bed.
When the dense smoke cleared, the dazzling beauty from Travis’ locker appeared before his very eyes, dressed as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.
The Wizard of Oz would never be the same for him again.
Kim raised her eyebrows and said in a high-pitched, trembling voice, “Are you a good witch? Or a bad witch?”
Sam, now bathed in the fabulous green light, responded, “I’m a good witch.”
“Dorothy!” Kim called out. “Bring this good witch before me.”
A small hand fell onto Sam’s shoulder. He spun around and came face to face with Judy Garland. She looked older than she appeared in the movie, and from the neck up, it was Dorothy, but the body was a different story altogether. Dorothy sported a black dress and leather miniskirt, her breasts teasing out of the ultra-tight outfit. The famed ruby slippers were replaced by three-inch ruby pumps.
Sam stared at her sweet face as she smiled at him, and said most innocently, “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”
Sam pulled the trigger, causing the red laser beams to disengage. He quickly lifted the helmet off his head. This time it took his eyes a good twenty seconds to make the adjustment back to reality.
This is going to end freaky. Sam now wondered whether James knew something he didn’t.
He stared down at his watch: 7:25 p.m.
Sam knew what the next steps would be: he would issue search warrants on 863 North Caldwell Drive and the A.I.F. center. The Revenger would be behind bars shortly after. Interviews with the staff of the shop would follow.
Another long night was ahead of him as he stopped breathing and listened carefully. He heard an occasional car pass, along with a symphony of crickets.
One more minute, he thought, and lifted the headgear back into place, waiting for the display.
