The Man Who Lost His Shadow, page 23
I asked the doctor, you know? When I finally got a private moment with him, I whispered it so only he could hear. The way his eyes went wide, it’s clear he knows. It’s some sort of nerve agent. I know that much yeah, because once I had him searched…
I mean, one of the earlier times, you understand what I mean? I was just messing around, and I remember one of them, I think it was Agent Harris, asking why a CIA Agent would’ve wanted to inject me with a nerve agent. Of course, at that moment I thought nothing of it. The guy wanted to kill me, big deal. That’s what I was expecting. And sure enough, two times he had, you know, with that gas canister he dropped into the room? But this….I was never injected with that.
And the moment it hit my bloodstream, I knew there was something different.
It took me so many days, but finally the Doctor told me what happened. He said I was brain dead for almost a minute because of the nerve agent. That it didn’t do any lasting damage. Ha! That’s what he thought. If only he knew the damage it had done!
Man, all those months I’d searched for a way to break the loop, and all I had to do was shut down my brain and restart it. I never figured it out, you know, if it’s all in my head, or if I’m controlling shit, or if…. well, something magical or cosmic or unexplained.
And like I said, the only reason I’m able to tell you all this is cuz of that wonderful cocktail of meds coursing through me. Thank god for that, eh? It’s like I’m floating outside all the guilt and pain and horror that’s in my body. I think about my wife and my kids, and about the people, I’ve slaughtered, and I – I wish I could kill myself, to be honest. But yeah, I don’t even feel strongly about that. Like I said, it’s like it’s all been muffled.
God help me when it all feels raw again.
Chapter Twenty
Once the video finished playing, Harold Vailer asked his team for their opinion.
They carried a mixture of emotions. The youngest was the fiercest critic, savagely trashing the convoluted story that Mohamed Iqbal had spun.
It was scientifically reckless to even consider such an explanation, another member said.
They weren’t about to believe something that had no way of ever happening in real life.
Because science was all about evidence.
And there was no evidence of Mohamed Iqbal ever having lived the same day over and over again.
Unless they considered how he could have shot and killed 312 people within the span of 10 minutes. Using multiple weapons designed to capitalize on stealth, maximize the body count, and then manipulate the FBI, the CIA and the rest, not to mention plan on scaring an entire city with further shootings and orchestrate a riot….
But that wasn’t possible.
He was a patsy.
He was just an elementary school teacher, utilized by terrorists.
Terrorists who were gunned down around him, who never had any contact with him till then.
But perhaps there was a link with the CIA, even though the CIA itself wondered who the hell he was.
Maybe someone was lying. Maybe there was a Deep State conspiracy behind his surrender and subsequent imprisonment.
Or maybe….
Maybe he was telling the truth.
Sure, there would be no scientific explanation for it.
But if it ever happened, who’d be able to think of an explanation?
Just because something hasn’t happened yet, doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen, does it?
The six members of Harold Vailer’s team wrestled with the implications, tossed them aside, and then took them up again because it was the only thing that fit with some parts of the evidence.
And then it was taken away from them, the decision. The political landscape of the country shaped the investigation, instead of the other way round as it was supposed to be.
Mohamed Iqbal was never formally charged with involvement with shooting since there was no physical evidence that tied him to it. But the CIA and the FBI were both afraid of the man, of the inexplicable questions he posed. And so he was confined to a psychiatric hospital, as a high-risk suicide patient, using his own admission of guilt. His family was barred from seeing him, and his lawyer was told that he was “under observation”.
“For how long? For what?”
They were not at liberty to say. But for the time being, Mohamed Iqbal was locked away.
Eight months passed by. The nation seemed to forget about the elementary school teacher. Even among his friends and family, a satisfactory consensus seemed to have been reached. Iqbal had a mental breakdown, quite unrelated to the horrific mass shooting. He was simply being treated for it.
In fact, so comforting was this thought that it quickly took root within the community. Students made elaborate cards for their favorite teacher, neighbors dropped by to help Sabina Iqbal and her children with food and other gifts, leaving only after having enquired how the teacher was doing.
And Sabina, despite her sense of bewilderment and frustration, latched onto the lie herself. Her husband was getting better in increments, she told her friends. Every month the neighborhood rejoiced over the tiniest sign of improvement. Soon, they would have their beloved teacher back with them.
Despite the outward appearance of optimism, however, Sabina and her closest relatives dreaded the passage of time. With each month, the family’s financial condition deteriorated. Pretty soon they would have to move. First, out of the neighborhood. Then out of the municipality. And perhaps finally, out of the country.
Similar fears bounced around Mohamed Iqbal’s mind as well. Even with the medications, he was aware that his wife and children would soon be facing financial ruin. And though – he would never admit it, at least not until a few weeks later – he’d seemed to have lost the deep love and affection for his family that he once had, Iqbal still wanted them to live a happy life. Or at least the best possible one they could.
Which meant money. And there was just one way he knew of making that a reality.
Two weeks later, Harold Vailer was walking towards his study with a mug of steaming coffee. Just like every Sunday in his life since retirement, he set the mug next to his laptop and proceeded to check his mails. The legendary FBI agent wasn’t particularly tech-savvy, but he’d cultivated a habit of correspondence with lifelong friends through lengthy letters.
The first email in his inbox, however, wasn’t from one of them. It was from Mohamed Iqbal.
Even as he wondered how the teacher got his email id, the former investigator opened the email.
“Good morning sir,
You’re probably wondering how I was able to send you this email. Seeing as how the institute I’m locked up in doesn’t allow for it. To explain that, however, I need to first tell you what happened about two weeks ago. I thought of a plan to help my family earn some money….”
Aravind Kumar looked baffled. He shook his head and tried to understand what his best friend was saying. “What do you mean, make money? How?”
Iqbal leaned forward and whispered into the telephone. “Trust me, I know things. I can tell stories about the CIA and the NRA. Stuff the public doesn’t know.”
“Iqbal, I really don’t think –”
“It’s for Sabina, Aravind. Sabina and the children. Please, just get a journalist to meet with me. Someone who will pay for information. And you handle the money. Please, this is the only way I can make things right….”
“Aravind thought I was crazy, but he still followed through. Two days later, I met with a reporter from The Orion Network. I’m pretty sure he came along just to do a story about how I behaved. There was still some interest in the guy who “falsely” confessed to a mass shooting, I guess. But then I started talking, and his jaw dropped. Perhaps you are the only person who can understand, Mr. Vailer. I know what your final investigation said, but I still think you suspect what I’ve told you is the truth. So you can imagine how it must have sounded to this reporter when I began explaining about the CIA having an undercover agent among the terrorists. Thomas Trave. He asked me how I knew about it.
Do you think I could have told him the truth? That I’d stumbled across him during one of the 70 plus mass shootings I conducted at that hotel? That it took me 15 tries just to get his whole story out? Of course not. And I didn’t care about that. This wasn’t about me and the curse that fell upon me that day. This was just about money.
I talked to him for four consecutive days, giving him everything I knew. I told him how I re-watched Groundhog Day, finding the movie terrifying this time around. I told him how I’d come to feel like that groundhog, searching for its own shadow. I admit I was naïve enough to think the whole thing would go off without a hitch. I was expecting a lucrative contract to be written up any day now, putting enough money in trust for Sabina and the kids. I hadn’t counted on the CIA showing up.”
*
The day before Harold Vailer read this email, two orderlies at the State Psychiatrist Hospital were enjoying their mid-morning break in the staff room. Eric had been working at the hospital for almost a decade now, and in normal circumstances, he would’ve been immune to Toby’s persistent rants but this time it was different. This time, it hit a nerve for some reason.
“Just shut up, man!” he finally snapped, just as the wafer in his hands did before being dunked into the cup of tea. “How many times do I have to tell you not to talk to the patients? It isn’t healthy!”
Toby was momentarily stunned by his friend’s outburst, but his enthusiasm got the better of him.
“That’s the thing though, Eric. You talk to this Iqbal guy for a while, and – I’m telling you, there’s something legit about him!”
Eric sighed and leaned back, trying to compose himself. It’d been several months since the Bremmer Hotel shooting and he’d still not revealed the truth. The fact that kept gnawing at him. The secret that would definitely have made his supervisor transfer him to another ward. He kept wondering when someone would discover it.
“That guy is a fucking mass murderer, Toby! He’s Ted Bundy on steroids. You remember what you said after you’d seen that Bundy documentary?” Eric said, trying his best to keep his voice steady and his eyes fixed on his best friend. “You said, ‘How on earth could people be charmed by that monster?’ Right? Well, that’s exactly what’s happening to you! Stop talking to him!”
For a few seconds it looked like Toby got the message. He smiled, shook his head, and refocused his attention on his sandwich. But the silence didn’t last.
“But just consider it, Eric!” He enthused abruptly. “What if this guy is telling the truth? I mean, I know it sounds like sci-fi or fantasy, but hell, a century ago no one could have imagined the concept of multiverses, right?”
“What does multiverse theory have to do with this guy?” Eric asked before he could stop himself.
“That’s the thing! Just like multiverse theory sounds insane, doesn’t the concept of a person living one day in a loop sound crazy until it happens?”
“For god sakes, that’s exactly why he’s locked up here! Because that is insanity!”
“And what if it wasn’t?”
“Toby, this guy just watched Groundhog Day one too many times. Until science proves that this loop thing is possible, it remains, like aliens and ghosts, just another fantasy.”
“C’mon, Eric. Just think how it would be if you were in this loop and it broke? Of course, there would be no ‘scientific’ evidence for it. But that’s why the facts speak for themselves. I mean,” Toby said, lowering his voice to contain his excitement, “I just read this former ATF agent’s testimonial online. He knew the guys who were killed in the police precinct. And he believes that the whole thing was orchestrated by Iqbal. Think about it? How do you orchestrate something like that if you have zero experience? By living the same day over and over again!”
Midway through his delivery, Eric had gotten up from the table and moved towards the sink to wash his mug. Toby was far too excited to notice how aggressively Eric was scrubbing the mug. Until it sailed in the air and barely avoided his face before slamming into the wall behind him.
“Jesus Christ!” Toby cried out, taking a few seconds to realize his friend was actually crying.
And that’s when Eric finally revealed that his cousin brother was one of the ATF agents killed at the Precinct. Like a dutiful friend, Toby hugged him. Instead of heading back to the front desk, he sat down and listened as his friend unburdened his mind. Neither of them noticed the nondescript man who passed by their staff room, and the man walked with the self-assured nature of one who knew how to remain unnoticed.
Two minutes later, he slipped into Mohamed Iqbal’s room, having picked the lock with ease. He’d be out of the room in less than a minute. He’d be miles away from the hospital before anyone even realized something was wrong.
*
“It’s funny how things turn out in the end. In the eight months that I’d been locked up in the psychiatric hospital, I’d wondered why I never experienced a time loop. Don’t get me wrong, I was glad that I didn’t have to experience the same torturous day within the walls of that hospital over and over again. But I kept thinking I’d wake up one day to realize the loop had started all over again. I came to dread it.
Of course, in hindsight, I realize I shouldn’t have. But let me first tell you about Martin.
That’s the name of the man who slipped into my room yesterday.
Of course, he didn’t introduce himself. We hardly had ten seconds of face time, so to speak, before everything faded to black.
But the next time, well, I was prepared.
Do you get it now, Mr. Vailer? It’s actually pretty ironic, isn’t it? The CIA sends an operative to silence me so that they won’t have to think about the uncomfortable possibility that I experienced a time loop…only to end up triggering one!
If you’re shocked right now, think how it felt for Martin. To enter my room and within a minute become a captive of mine. Sure, it took me fifteen tries. But what else do you expect when dealing with a highly skilled assassin?
Thirty minutes after the mug was shattered, Eric and Toby were back at their desks, completely oblivious of the slender man who’d just slipped out of Iqbal’s room and disappeared through a side exit. As they slowly began doing their evening rounds, Martin got into a waiting car that shot out of the parking lot.
“All good?” the driver asked.
Martin hesitated for a moment, causing the driver to take his foot off the pedal. “What is it?”
“Ah, nothing. It – it’s done. He’s taken care of.”
They drove in silence for almost five minutes before Martin sighed. “Something weird happened.”
The driver cursed under his breath. He’d been partnered with Martin for almost two years now, and he wasn’t fully convinced of the man’s abilities. After pulling up to the side of the road, he sighed theatrically and turned to look at his partner.
“Alright, what happened?”
Martin took a moment to figure out the right words. “First of all, don’t freak out. Just – just listen to the whole thing before – before you react, alright?”
His partner nodded silently.
“Okay, I slipped into the target’s room. The lights were out, the shades were completely drawn, and only later did I realize a sheet had been put over them. The room was completely dark, and I hadn’t expected that.”
His partner nodded again, picturing the bright florescent lights in the reception, followed by the abrupt darkness of a room.
“Then I took another step,” Martin said, unconsciously lowering his voice. “And I slipped.”
“You slipped?”
“The – the floor was completely – lubricated. I fell headfirst.”
“Fuck! Where was the target?”
Martin looked up, fixing his eyes on his partner, trying to gauge his thinking.
“The target dropped a noose around my neck. Yanked on it till I slide forward and slammed into the metal bed frame, through which the rope fashioned out of sheets had been looped.”
He watched as his partner’s eyes went wide with shock. “Yeah, imagine how I must have felt. But that wasn’t all. He pressed a syringe to my neck, told me he’d pump me with enough drugs to make my heart stop if I didn’t answer his questions.”
Martin was glad his partner instinctively reached for a pack of smokes and even-handed him one. Neither man could light their cigarettes on their first try.
“What did he ask you?”
“Well,” Martin said after taking a deep drag. “He figured I was sent by the CIA. He kind of understood why. But he wanted to know other things.”
“Like?”
The CIA operative shook his head, trying to figure it all out as he recollected the conversation. “Random stuff. He wanted to know where the psychiatric hospital was. He didn’t know which state he was in, can you believe that?”
“Well, he was pretty out of it when they brought him in right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured too, later on. I figured he was planning his escape. He kept asking detailed questions about the layout of the building, who was working on which floor, those kinds of things.”
“And you told him the truth?”
Martin paused, and to his partner, it looked like guilt was spreading across his face. But when he spoke again, it became clear the expression was one of bewilderment.
“He made me a deal,” he said softly, eyes gazing out of the window at the clouds. “He knew I wouldn’t tell him the truth. So he told me I could kill him.”
The driver shifted in his seat, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “What does that mean?”
There was silence in the car for almost a minute.
“He – he took the knife I had on me – he knew where it was,” Martin added, “and he swore to me that he just wanted to know the truth of it all. And then he slit his wrists.”
