'This is state-of-the-art, Kendry,' Parker answered in the same flat voice. It was as if, safe on his home territory, he did not need to exhibit the blustering he had displayed in Pilgrim's office. Then again, Veil thought, Parker was no longer frustrated; indeed, he was beginning to look very much like a winner. 'It cuts through all the bullshit. I don't know what kind of drug-resistance training you've had, and I don't care to take the time to find out. Electricity and pliers have always made me a bit squeamish. I'm an American, not a goddam torturer.'
'Boy, am I glad to hear that.'
'We've discovered that a bit of rolling around in your own piss and shit, combined with a great deal of thirst, usually does the trick—and with less chance of permanent damage. We're just leaving you alone and letting nature take its course. You know the routine.'
'I sure do. So let's stop wasting time. Bring me a pitcher of water and tell me what you want to know.'
Parker grunted. 'That's good, Kendry. You have to respect a man who can make jokes while his throat and guts are turning to sand.'
'What the hell makes you think I'm joking?'
Parker said nothing. Sunset gleamed in his steel-gray hair like veins of gold in rock.
'You've already wasted a day,' Veil continued, his voice cracking. He coughed dryly, and pain that was not quite as severe as his desire for water flashed from his throat to his chest. 'You could've come to me this morning and I'd have told you everything you wanted to know.'
'Really? Then why didn't you simply come to me instead of trying to bust in here?'
'Because I had the sneaking suspicion that you'd still wring me out before you accepted anything I had to say. Also, there was no way you'd give me the guided tour of this place I need to answer my own questions. Now that you've got my ass, I have no choice but to cooperate.'
'I came back to the Institute for the same reason I tried to sneak in here: I need to find out why your man wanted to kill me.'
'Who are you working for? The Russians? Cuba? East Germany?'
'I'm not an intelligence agent, Parker, and I'm not working for anyone but myself. All I'm trying to do is find a way to protect my own ass.'
'I'll see you tomorrow, Kendry,' Parker said as he turned away.
'Parker!' Veil got up on his knees and gripped the bars of the cage with both hands. 'Let me explain! Why walk away?'
'Because I haven't got time to listen to bullshit,' Parker replied over his shoulder, waving his right arm in a casual gesture of dismissal. 'You're just not thirsty enough. Sweet dreams, jerk.'
Veil sank back down to the dank ground and watched Parker walk away toward the large building at the base of the horseshoe. His thirst and cold demanded that he call after the man, but his mind and heart told him that it would be useless to do so. Parker was not going to believe anything he had to say until Parker was certain that Veil was sufficiently—and thoroughly—broken. He was going to have to suffer.
Veil did a few isometric exercises against the bars, and the cramping in his muscles eased somewhat. He propped himself up in a corner, wrapped his arms around his legs, closed his eyes, and began a series of deep- breathing exercises in an attempt to relax and conserve energy. Whatever further ordeal lay ahead of him, he knew that he was going to need all of his reserves of strength and will to meet it. In the meantime, he was dead meat if his unknown enemy was in the compound.
He needed rest, and he needed to protect his mind as best he could. For a few hours, at least, he knew how to escape to a place that was safe and warm.
Chapter 18
______________________________
Veil dreams.
Dreams within the dream.
He sits bolt upright in his broken bed, sweat-pasty sheets sticking to his bare flesh like a shroud. He instinctively grabs for his rifle, but it isn't there. After a few moments the realization comes that he is not fighting in Vietnam or Laos, but living in a summer-smothered, roach-infested studio apartment not much bigger than a closet on New York's Lower East Side. He has been in the city now for three months, working as a temporary laborer to earn money, walking the streets to fight pain. He knows he is drinking far too much. He would like to brawl, but does not for fear that he will accidentally kill somebody. He has crippled three would-be muggers, possibly killed a fourth, and he knows that he is losing his mind.
For almost a month he has been experiencing a recurring dream—night after night, all night. The dream is not quite a nightmare, but it leaves him anxious and fearful in a way that combat never did.
In the dream he finds himself on a steel-gray path that stretches off to a horizon that is a brilliant blue and which he feels with his heart as well as sees with his eyes. Although the surface on which he stands is flat and level, he constantly fears that he will lose his balance if he takes a step in any direction. The surface has no 'feel,' but seems a natural extension of his own flesh.
The path is bounded on each side by walls of thick, swirling gray mist that seems to be alive; the walls hiss, although he is not sure if the sound is real or only in his mind. Figures of subtle, almost translucent color move through the mist and occasionally seem to stop and peer out at him. Some of the figures have teeth. However, he can only glimpse these moving things out of the corner of his eye, for he does not dare to look at either wall directly. He hates this fear and has never known anything like it; still, he cannot summon the courage to overcome it. Although he is deeply ashamed of his cowardice, there is no way he can bring himself to turn body or head and look at, or into, the walls.
He has come to believe that to do so, even in a dream, is to die. He will be sucked through the gray barrier, and there will be no way out.
Veil peels the sopping sheets from his skin, sits up on the edge of the bed, and buries his face in his hands. Sweat of both summer and fear slides through his fingers and drips on the floor. He is determined to find the courage to step or turn on this dream-path, even if it means his death.
But Veil does not want to die, nor does he want to go mad. Having survived in the jungles of Southeast Asia, he does not want to be killed by his own mind—nor transformed into a coward. If he cannot rid himself of the dream, Veil thinks, then he must find the courage to conquer it.
He rises, turns on the light, and goes to the indelibly stained washstand in a corner. He studies himself in the cracked mirror and is disgusted by what he sees. His eyes are chronically bloodshot from too much alcohol and not enough sleep, and there are dark rings under them. He feels his gut pressing against the dirty porcelain of the washbasin; the flesh of his face is sallow and puffy. He is getting soft.
He dresses in yesterday's clothes that smell of sweat and goes out to walk the streets. There is no breeze, and the night air sitting on the sidewalks is as stifling as the air in his apartment. He finds himself walking toward the West Village, purposely choosing the darkest streets and slowing as he approaches and passes alleys. He would like to be attacked so that he can fight to relieve his tension. However, stories of a strange, savage man with long yellow hair and incredible fighting skills have spread throughout the neighborhood, and Veil is not bothered.
He reaches the lights and mellow ambience of the West Village and wanders aimlessly through its streets crowded with jazz bars, coffeehouses, crafts shops, art galleries, and clinging couples. He passes an art supply shop and continues walking for almost four blocks while the seed of an idea takes root in his mind and grows to block out the sights, sounds, and smells around him.
His problem is finding the courage to turn and look directly at one of the gray walls in his dream, even if it means his death. Perhaps if he approaches the problem from a different perspective, in a different dimension; perhaps if he tries to draw or paint his dream on paper . . .
Veil returns to the shop and purchases art supplies— charcoal, drawing pencils, watercolors, brushes, oil crayons, paper—and starts home. He finds his pace quickening as his excitement builds. He has a feeling of anticipation, of being on the verge of an important discovery. For the first time since returning to the United States he is free of stress and anxiety and is actually looking forward to something. Awake, he finds that he is not afraid to deal directly with things he can only bear to glimpse peripherally in dreams.
