Wade?”
Wade shrugged. “So where am I?”
“Still in Seldom Seen.”
Wade looked around again, noted the dirt walls around the bank of television screens, and nodded. “The basement, right?”
Cochran smiled, exposing brilliant white teeth. “Right.”
“Why?”
“We’re conducting a project here.”
“And it’s not arts and crafts.”
“No. No it isn’t. It’s a little more elaborate than that, though I suppose there are similarities. Both require the coming together of certain elements to work.”
“And I’m an element.”
“You are, yes. A vital one.” Cochran seemed to be enjoying their exchange, which baffled Wade somewhat.
“So what does the project entail?”
“Rehabilitation.”
“By what means?”
Cochran raised his eyebrows. “Oh, but you’ve already seen the means.” He looked up at the ceiling, which consisted of a network of wires and rotting beams Wade didn’t think would take much to bring down. “Upstairs.”
“The ghosts?”
The old man shook his head. “They’re not ghosts.”
“Holograms then.”
“In a way, if you think of yourself as the projector.”
“So you put on this show of things from my past in the hope that I would—what? Drop to my knees and pray for forgiveness?”
Cochran sat back and folded his arms. “That’s the gist of it, though given your history, we’d all have been rather astounded if your reaction had been so dramatic, or so easily attained.”
“What were you hoping for then?”
“Gradual dawning.”
Wade pondered this a moment, then said, “Well if by “dawning” you mean figuring out your game, then I won, didn’t I? What’s my prize? Few hookers and some Cuban cigars? One-way trip to Mexico?” He grinned, but let it fade when he realized it wasn’t being returned. Cochran suddenly looked all business.
“Wade,” he said, leaning forward again, his palms flat on the table. “You’re a psychopath.”
“That’s kinda strong, isn’t it?”
“It’s fact.”
“Well, so’s the fact that you’re an old fart, but you don’t hear me pointing it out.”
“You killed a man three weeks shy of your fifteenth birthday. There was a boy with you. Do you remember?”
Wade remembered the man clearly, the boy only vaguely.
“Not the kid. Only met him that one time,” he said. “But the guy had it coming.”
“Or so you were told. That he deserved to die. If they’d said the same about anyone, whether it was true or not, you’d have done what they asked of you, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Wade said. “It was the way things were.”
“And it was the way you wanted it to be.”
Wade frowned. “Have we entered the psychological evaluation stage of our relationship, Mr. Cochran?”
Cochran ignored him. “The boy’s name was Eddie Scarsdale. Like you, he wanted to be a gangster, wanted some way to make a lot of money so he wouldn’t get mocked at school anymore for having holes in the soles of his shoes, but he didn’t have the
Wade thought of the kid in the bathroom upstairs and shook his head. “So it’s
Cochran just stared, his face unreadable.
“Whatever,” Wade said. “So who was the old floating bitch in the bedroom?”
“My wife,” Cochran said evenly.
“Whoops.” Wade chuckled. “I’d put my foot in my mouth if it wasn’t tied to the chair.”
“She was never the same after Eddie’s death.”
Despite the lingering skeins of disorientation, Wade was able to connect the dots fairly quickly. “Your wife?”
Cochran nodded.
“So then, this Eddie character was your son?”
“No.”
“All right then, I’m lost.”
“He was already dead by the time I met and married his mother.”
“Gotcha.”
“But I saw how she suffered. Saw how it ate away at her worse than any cancer.” A distant look entered his eyes. “I think she married me just so she wouldn’t be alone. Not sure there was any love there. At least, from her.”
Wade leaned forward as much as his restraints would allow. “Can I interrupt you for a sec?”
Cochran waited.
“Thanks. Um… how did you get the impression from my record, which I assume you’ve read in detail, that I would give a cartwheeling fuck about anything you’ve just told me?”
Cochran shook his head.
“Hey, look, I am sorry about what happened to your…whatever he was to you, and your wife. Really, I am.”
Cochran gave a feeble smile. “Perhaps you should care, Wade. It is, after all, part of the reason you’re here.”
“Okay, so what’s the other part of the reason?”
“Do you know what nanotechnology is?”
“Computer classes for grandmothers?”
“Funny,” the old man said. “But no, it refers to control of matter on the atomic and molecular scale.”
“Sounds fascinating. And is it safe to assume that it also means we’ve moved from psychoanalysis to psychics? Because if we have I’d like to apologize in advance if I nod off during your lecture.”
“In this case, they’re interlinked.”
“Your losing me again.”
“Then I’ll condense it for you,” Cochran said patiently. “In 2000, my company announced a breakthrough in psychotherapy following a fusion of two distinct but radically different departments of the University of Ca—
“Jesus Christ, get to the point already,” Wade said around an exaggerated yawn.
“Very well. What we developed was called “nanoreality”—a means of using nanotechnology to construct realistic visual images, or as you so rightly guessed, “mental holograms” based on the memories of a subject.”
“Interesting,” Wade said, sounding bored. “But it makes me wonder why you felt the need to strap me to a chair when just listening to you would have been enough to bore me into a coma.”
Cochran continued, unfazed. “It was primarily developed as a way for doctors to abandon professional speculation and actually
