Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-eight

With the gloomy daylight from the bathroom cut off, the concealed prison cell behind the closet door was abruptly drenched in midnight. Gideon heard a faint hissing. An uncharacteristic burst of optimism offered up the possibility that an emergency generator had automatically come on, pumping fresh oxygen into the space.

This kind of irrational speculation was what came of hanging around with Amelia. All that positive energy made a man lose his sense of perspective. Of course it wasn’t fresh air flowing through the unseen duct. It was gas. The only question was whether it was intended to kill him or merely render him unconscious. Probably the latter, he decided. Whoever had trapped him would have questions. They would want answers before they killed him.

He tried to recall the survival and emergency items on the shelves around him. He did not remember seeing any masks.

He yanked off his button-down shirt, wrapped it around his nose and mouth, and secured it with a bulky knot.

Satisfied he had done all he could to protect himself, he checked his phone. He did not expect to get service. He was right.

Dropping the phone into a trouser pocket, he groped for and found one of the flashlights. He switched it on and was mildly amazed when a beam of light speared the darkness. Given the way his luck had been running today he had been prepared for dead batteries.

He listened intently for a moment but there was only silence from the bathroom. Evidently no one was anxious to open the cell door. Probably waiting for the gas to take effect. He began the possibly pointless search for a concealed exit.

He considered the layout of the house and concluded that if there was a concealed way out of the cell it would go down, not through one of the walls. Anyone trying to escape would want to get as far away as possible. There wouldn’t be much point in walking into a bedroom or a hallway.

Working on that theory, he pushed the shelving out of the way and began methodically tapping the floor with his cane. He had covered about half the space when the visions began to appear.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Now, at least, he could confirm the purpose of the gas: It wasn’t supposed to kill him outright. It was designed to make him delusional. Someone wanted him kept alive long enough to be questioned while under the influence of a powerful hallucinogen.

He was able to suppress the effects at first, but the nightmares were coming at him in waves. Reality began to sink beneath the rising tide of disorienting visions.

Not real. Not real. Not real.

But the silent chant could not hold off the flood. The gas was suppressing his ability to control his psychic senses. He was drowning in a dreamscape that came straight out of his own private nightmares.

Was this what it was like for those he targeted with his talent? No wonder they retreated into unconsciousness. The waking mind could not handle the wild storms of dream energy. Was he on his way into a coma?

No, he decided, at least not yet. He would be questioned first.

He tried to move the cane more quickly around the floor but he was having trouble with his balance. He misjudged the position of the walking stick. It slid sideways. He grabbed at the metal shelving but only succeeded in toppling it against one wall.

He went down hard. Pain jolted through his injured leg. The flashlight fell from his hand and rolled across the floor, the beam of light twisting and turning until it came to rest on a wall.

The visions intensified. He knew then that if he did not gain control he would go mad. He groped for the cane, struggling to get back on his feet.

The disembodied voice came to him out of the darkness.

“Can you hear me, Gideon Sweetwater? You are hallucinating now. But you have the power to make the dreams stop. All you have to do is answer my questions.”