The Cold War

By Joel Harrison Lee

1

“The cold war dragged on for years,” the man in the straightjacket began. Ted stopped writing on his clipboard and eyed the troubled gentleman cautiously over the wire rim of his glasses. “It started soon after the global collapse of federal government, when citizenship was divided between state and corporate seats in a last ditch effort to preserve what little order still remained. But soon after the division, conflict arose.”

“I see,” Ted responded, attempting to appease this man who, as even a first year psyche student could see, desperately needed someone to understand. Ted was there when the arresting officer brought the man into the station. He was handcuffed and was shouting something over the screaming reporters, something about guarding someone. The usual stream of miscreants, which seemed to daily fill the police station, made the scene chaotic enough, but the press was going berserk. You have to expect that kind of reaction when you torch such a respected member of the scientific community. In the few hours that followed the arrest, precincts all over the city reported similar incineration cases, some dating back as far as three years. It looked like the suspect had been pretty active for a while, as serial killers go, but that hadn't yet been proven in a court of law. The people, it seemed, had already made their decision. Of course, these days, that was nothing new, but neither was posturing as non-compost menti to beat a murder charge. The only real problem was figuring out which one this was.

The man shot Ted an irritated glance before continuing. “As a result, loyalty became as procurable a commodity as gold or wheat, available,” he said, thunder rolling in the distance as if to emphasize his point, “but only to the highest bidder. Outside of the walls of the MetroComs…”

“Outside of what?” Ted interrupted. It was a common practice to interrupt the accused during interrogation. It can leave them floundering, making their lies obvious.

“MetroComs,” the man in the straightjacket answered, over-enunciating to accentuate his condescension, “Metropolitan Complexes.” Ted showed no signs of comprehending. “They’re self contained city centers which the corporations have in every major commerce hub in the world.”

“Ahh,” Ted placated, attempting to feign understanding, “and these are the corporations which currently posses rights of citizenship?” The man in the straightjacket’s only answer was a contemptuous look. Ted suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “Please, continue,” he said clearing his throat.

“As I was saying,” the man proceeded, “outside of the walls of the MetroComs, it was impossible to tell who your allies were without revealing your own allegiance, and that could prove fatal. Boycotts were organized and embargoes were imposed, but proved less than effective in the run for supremacy. That’s when things turned bloody.”

“What do you mean by bloody?” Ted asked.

“Terrorist attacks on rival companies became the norm... anything to maintain the competitive edge. Thousands of lives were sacrificed in hostile takeovers. Every stretch of road was a potential battleground. Civility, as a result, became extinct. The streets, which were once filled with the delightful screams and laughter of playing children, became desolate expanses of broken asphalt.” Ted began to nod along, all the while scribbling notes on his clipboard. He got the distinct impression that this man wouldn’t be cooperative for long. He’d seen this type of psychosis before, but the detachment from reality was seldom this extreme, which, in some way, furthered his suspicions that this was all an act. Normally, in the more extreme cases, behavioral logic is affected, too. That didn’t seem to be the case here.

“Conversation became intra-corporate,” he hesitated, shooting Ted a condescending look, then leaned in and whispered, “that means occurring only between two or more citizens of the same corporation.” He paused briefly, as if waiting for him to nod, indicating that he understood, but decided to continue regardless. “No corporate business could be discussed outside the MetroComs. In fact, few corporate citizens even dared to speak at all outside and those brave few maintained whispered tones.

“When worldwide communication was banned…”

“World wide communication was banned,” Ted repeated, not quite asking a question. He wondered to himself if this man had ever heard of the Internet. He decided that it would be best not to press the issue and, in an effort to re-engage the man’s story, asked, “How did people stay informed?”

“For the awakened few, weekly board meetings became the only source of news and information. Nothing was disseminated without first being filtered and edited by teams of corporate censors. Gradually, the corporations were able to disconnect their citizens from societal integration, predicated on the belief that it would inspire them towards corporate piety. Hospitals were operating at record capacities and cemetery space was dwindling. What’s truly incredible is that almost no one noticed.”

“Almost?” Ted inquired.

“Yes. Initially, the awakened state was sought after and attained by only those of spiritual paths and with philanthropic intention. However, the teaching was corrupted by those who did not walk the path, who sought only the manifest abilities.”

“Manifest abilities?” Ted interrupted. He could see that this man, although hiding it well, was becoming slightly agitated.

“There are benefits to be acquired from every undertaking,” he answered rather curtly, “but, please, don’t interrupt me again.” Ted held his hands up apologetically but remained silent so as not to transgress again. “Even when the upper echelon corporate employees, executives, and board members were awakened to the reality of the situation, the masses remained asleep. When the more intuitive people began to wake up, they were first approached for recruitment. If that was unsuccessful, they were made to look like left-wing conspiracy theorists.”

“And why is that?” Ted asked.

“Because the best place to hide something is in plain sight.” The man in the straightjacket answered.

“Huh?” he grunted.

“The best way to cover up something is to make the facts seem unreliable. A good way to do that that is to call into question the integrity of the bearer of said facts.”

“If only the awakened could be aware of what was going on,” Ted asked, aware that this question would probably sacrifice the remnants of this man’s cooperative nature, “who was left the be fooled by a cover up?”

“The sleeping masses,” the man answered.

“The sleeping masses, that’s right.” Ted responded, attempting not to be to patronizing. “And what exactly was being covered up?” Ted pressed.

“The truth,” he responded flatly.

“The truth about what?” The man in the straightjacket only grinned. Obviously, Ted had just used up the last of his cooperation credits. Throughout the extent of the interview, this hardly seemed like the same man who, not six hours ago, was raving madly in a veritable sea of notepads and flashbulbs. With the exception of the fantastic nature of his story, this man seemed, at least through a cursory observation, of sound logic. This added a new possible dimension to the alleged homicide, intent.

“As individuals were forced further into an already shrouded existence, human evolution, in response, took a step forward.”

“Step forward?” Ted asked, shaking his head to accentuate his lack of understanding. He began to wonder if he should even continue with the interrogation if this man wasn’t going to be helpful. Obviously, this troubled soul in the straightjacket had no idea of the gravity of the situation he was in. Of course, when your illness is as advanced as this one’s could be, you could be killing to quiet the angry voices in your head. There was still the possibility that his mental illness could be a ruse. Ted didn’t want to rule out anything. He preferred to keep his options open.

“I can’t say who was the first to notice the change” the man said, once again taking no mind of the question, “but I do know who was the first to understand the implications.”

“And that was?” Ted asked, smiling and trying to seem genuinely interested, guessing that this was the only way to further his analysis.

The man in the straightjacket smiled back. “Dr. Kyle McWhirter.”

Ted’s smiled faded. “Dr. McWhirter? The man you stand accused of murdering?”

“One and the same. I opened his eyes.” The man in the straightjacket responded, the smile still touching his lips.

“Not according to the death certificate,” Ted said in an attempt at levity. He had never been much for making jokes, but he never let that stop him. “How did you come to know Dr. McWhirter?” he asked, attempting to re-establish the appearance of professionalism. He had a difficult time taking this assignment seriously. He was basically given this case to do the paperwork and ensure that the accused was competent to stand trial. A fixed evaluation, so to speak. He remembered the phone call from the night before.

****

The phone rang just after midnight. Ted had already taken the usual 500mg Halcyon to facilitate the sleep process. He had started at 100mg, just after he lost his wife and son, but within two weeks he was up to 250. A month later he went up to 500 and had been there even since. This dosage still worked for him, but he was sleeping less with every passing week. He was just starting to drift off when the call came.

“Dr. Welch,” the voice on the other end said, “we have received your request to return to work and it has been approved. Report to the 21st Police Precinct, tomorrow, 9am.”

“What?” he asked, still not sure if he was awake.

“You’ve been assigned to a case, sir. Per your request.” The voice grew silent, waiting for a response.

“Right, sorry,” he explained, “still a little drowsy.” Ted grabbed his pen and notepad off the nightstand and scribbled the details, repeating, “21st Precinct, 9am. Got it.”

“It would be preferred if he were found competent to stand trial. In fact, it is advised. Do you have any questions, sir?” The voice asked.

“No,” he responded, rather automatically, “none.” It turns out that he should have asked a few.

****

This man wasn’t being liberal with the information he needed, and he definitely didn’t trust Ted.

“I don’t know that I can trust you. Never give pearls to swine lest they trample them into the dust. I think the Bible says that somewhere.” He glanced up at Ted, who appeared momentarily stunned. “Besides, if you were ready for what I have to tell you, you most likely wouldn’t have to ask me anything.”

Ted only shook his head in confusion. “Look, I’ve been appointed by the county to evaluate your mental fitness so that you can be brought up on charges for the crime which you’ve allegedly committed. Furthermore, I’ve been urged by my superiors to find you coherent so you can be tried. Is that what you want? To be rushed through trial and executed immediately afterward? If it is, tell me now and I’ll save myself the stress.” The gravity of this situation should have given him some leverage in this interview, but so far, it hadn’t. He hadn’t been briefed on what to expect, and he still didn’t know anywhere near enough about this man to arouse any self-confidence. What he felt, however, was that this man indeed posed a possible threat. To what, exactly, he couldn’t say.

“I’ve committed no crime.” the man in the straightjacket offered, seemingly in response to the unspoken analysis. “But I’ll cooperate, if it will help you understand.”

“Thank you,” Ted replied, dazed, but feeling almost as though he had achieved some measure of victory, “it will help. First,” he said, tapping his pen on the clipboard, “if I could just get your name.”

“First, you need to tell me how much you already know.”

“What’s that?” Ted coughed, growing more agitated. He should have known that it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Well,” the man explained, “we are dealing with extremely sensitive information, here. If I reveal too much, it could damage the very fabric of your reality.”

“You stand accused of murder!” he yelled finally losing his patience. Maybe it was too soon to return to work. Screaming at the patient was not what you’d call standard operating procedure and, for the most part, Ted went by the book, but this guy was pushing his buttons. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. “Don’t you think that warrants a bit more consideration?”

“I’ve committed no crime,” the man reiterated, “but if I unnecessarily divulge some forbidden truth, then we’ll all be engulfed by the turmoil. Is that what you want?” the man in the straightjacket asked, doing a fair impression of Ted, “to have your world warp before your eyes? Let me know and I’ll save myself the stress. Now,” he asked, turning to Ted and smiling, “don’t you think that warrants a bit more consideration?”

Ted nodded knowingly, finally thinking that he understood. As smug as this man in the straightjacket was, he was by no means faking a mental disorder. This gentleman sincerely believed everything he had just said.

If he were forced to make a diagnosis right now, he would admit that he was possibly dealing with a paranoid schizophrenic, not to be mistaken for multiple personality disorder (it irritated him that people confused the two). This meant that Ted would have to let him lead the inquiry. He had never been one to hand over the reigns, as it were. He preferred feeling like he was in control. Of course, he loathed the snap diagnoses that he mostly associated with populace psychobabble, but in a pinch, you go with what you have. Besides, the conviction in this man’s eyes was unmistakable. And there was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Alright,” Ted resigned, throwing his hands in the air. He realized that the only way into this man’s head was through whatever game he wanted to play. “Where should I begin?”

“With the good doctor, if you please.” the man in the straightjacket suggested.

Well,” he began staring into the file folder he held in his hands, the repository of all information relating to this case, “Dr. Kyle McWhirter, a geneticist, born in Glasgow, Scotland 1963; died,” he said looking to the man in the straightjacket, “today. He majored in Biology and Physics at MIT and graduated in 1979 – one of the first teenagers to do so. The Dow Corporation recruited him in 1981 and put him to work in their Developmental Bio-Genetics division. He won the Noble Prize in 1995, 1998, and 2001 for his groundbreaking research in Quantum BioChemistry. He was single with no children. Currently, he has been under investigation for possible involvement in the disappearance of a colleague. What else?” he asked himself as he flipped through the file. “It also mentions that he was researching a possible link between memory and DNA.”

The man in the straightjacket nodded. He studied Ted again, gauging his sincerity. “My name is Doyle.” Ted sighed in relief as he scribbled the name on the top page of his clipboard. They were finally beginning to break through the barriers. He could almost feel the lines of communication opening between them, as it were. Doyle went on. “Maybe, it’s time you were given some background. You see, before Dr. McWhirter’s research, it was already known that thinking causes a chemical response in the brain. For every thought a person has a group of chemicals is produced. In fact, every piece of information and memory stored in the brain is represented by the production of these chemicals, which are called neuro-peptides.”

“Yes,” Ted interrupted, “I remember watching Deepak Chopra on PBS one night, and he spoke of that.”

“Right, well, Dr. McWhirter’s research,” Doyle explained, picking up where he left off, “established that each series is unique and specific to the fact or memory represented. Since the key to manufacturing these neuro-peptides lies encoded within the DNA strand, he felt that the potential for any knowledge and memory pre-existed the experience itself. He went on to assert that the experiences themselves were merely instances of self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“But that would mean that our entire life experience was somehow preordained by our genetic code.” Ted concluded, shaking his head to express his disagreement.

Doyle only lifted his eyebrows and grinned. “His experiments would later reveal that not only the manufacturing code for the production of the neuro-peptides was encoded in the DNA, but the order of their production as well.” Ted shifted his gaze to the floor, trying to follow the details. This man in front of him might very well be insane, but he damn well knew what he was talking about. “This meant that a person’s life experiences could be completely charted, from birth to death, using nothing but a strand of their DNA. It would be years after before he was actually able to do it, though.”

“And how is it you know so much about McWhirter’s research?” Ted politely requested, not wanting to seem insistent.

“Did I not mention that?” the man in the straightjacket smiled. “I was the test subject that lead to his breakthrough.”

“Oh.” Ted would have been happy if at least that fact had made it into the file, but county wasn’t known for their information gathering abilities. Incomplete files were the norm, which truly didn’t help in this case. He honestly couldn’t decide in which direction the circumstances were leading him. At that moment, though, he believed that this man’s guilt could not have been more obvious. This man seemed intelligent, manipulative, and appeared to have no remorse for his crimes. These were classic sociopathic characteristics. But that didn’t explain the delusional state. It could be that this man’s problems were layered, one on top of another: a paranoid schizophrenic sociopath, riddled with moments of epiphany. But even that, far fetched as it was, just didn’t add up.

Evaluations like these were always so taxing; most mental health professionals wouldn’t touch a sociopath with a ten-foot couch. What the hell would they do with this guy? What was the right thing to do? Should he follow his superiors’ advice, ignore the investigation, and just find this man competent to stand trial? Justice served? Or should he simply proceed, loyal to his oath, and continue this evaluation, possibly finding this man unfit to stand trial? Who knew? The fact of the matter was that either road could lead to the same destination. So why was he laboring over this?

“Anyway,” Doyle said, attempting to return to the matter at hand, “Dr. McWhirter was able to locate and catalog what he called the death series.”

“Death series?” Ted asked. He hoped that this might open another doorway, as it were; get them a little closer to the goal.

“The series of neuro-peptides produced at the moment of death.” Doyle explained. “Once he isolated the series, he was able to determine not only when a person would die, but how they would die as well.” He looked to Ted smiling, and added, “Kind of took all the fun out of it, you know? As he began to catalog the various death series, he stumbled upon something.

“He had acquired DNA samples left by two different incineration victims. One reflected the normal neuro-peptides in a death series associated with fire or burning. The other suggested that something else occurred.”

Ted was silent, but hanging on every word. He almost felt mesmerized, not so much by the man, but by the information.

“The closest he could come to defining it was spontaneous combustion. He wasn’t far off. What really shook him up was when he catalogued the presence of that particular death series in his own DNA.”

The story was interesting, Ted had to admit, but how insane would a person have to be to believe all of this. When he went home that night, he would do a little checking of his own into the matter of Dr. McWhirter’s DNA research. Listening to Doyle’s ranting left him feeling nearly exhausted. He stood up and walked to the door. “Ready on twelve!” he called to the guard stationed on the other side. The heavy lock slid back with a loud clack. He looked back at Doyle as he exited. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll continue then.”

Doyle smirked. “I’ll be here.” he retorted, rather matter-of-factly. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked gently back into place. He watched as Ted talked to the guard outside for a moment before he finally left. It was going to be a long night. There was much to do.

2

Doyle opened his eyes as the lock slid back with a loud clack, heralding Ted’s arrival. The door opened and he started through, but the guard stopped him and took the umbrella, which hung in the crook of his arm.

“Welcome back,” Doyle said, still restrained by the straightjacket. “Expecting rain?” Ted walked over to his chair, sat down and began writing on his clipboard, much as he had done the day before. “How was your sleep last night?”

Ted stopped writing but did not look up from his clipboard. “I slept well, thanks for asking.” But the way he hurried through his answer suggested he wasn’t being completely honest. In fact, what little sleep he was able to steal from last night’s tossing and turning episode was filled with very disturbing dreams of being chased, implants being placed in his head by aliens, and swords with blades made of fire. He blamed his recent loss of appetite. The man in the straightjacket only grinned with a deep satisfaction. “Now, you told me a lot yesterday,” Ted said attempting to place the focus back where he felt it belonged, “and I did a little looking of my own. Everything you told me about Dr. McWhirter’s research checks out, well, everything that I was able to access anyway, but that brings up a very good point.”

Doyle tilted his head slightly and answered the question that was yet unspoken. “How do I know so much about McWhirter’s research?”

“It does seem a little unusual for a test subject to have such a large amount of the research information.”

Doyle pondered over this for a moment and then uttered, “Unusual, but not impossible.”

“Okay,” the man in white resigned, already not liking the way today’s questioning was going “so then, you’ve decided not to cooperate with me? Is that right?”

“Your line of questioning is not expediting the process,” Doyle answered rather cryptically.

“Well then,” the man in white asked, feeling quite insulted “what exactly do I need to know?” The room seemed to grow darker as Doyle leaned in, looking so very determined.

“There is a difference” Doyle proceeded, his voice seeming to echo despite the padded walls, “between experiencing things for what they are and experiencing them for what they appear to be. From one perspective the difference is subtle, at best, but from the other, it’s unfathomable. Every experience we have is filtered through our own frame of reference - this frame of reference being the sum total of every experience we have and the significance we place on said experiences. Therefore, what we know, or think we know, clouds our perception of what truly is. Do you understand?”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with why you’re here,” Ted answered trying to sound polite, but at a deeper level he was growing quite uneasy listening to what this man had to say. He tried to ignore the rambling and focus on the point, but when Doyle spoke, it seemed that there was something else going on. He couldn’t quite explain it, but he was starting not to like the way he felt drawn into a different frame of mind in response to Doyle’s words. It made him feel like he was not in control.

“What would you do if you suddenly woke up to the fact that everything you knew was but a shadow of the truth?” Doyle asked, a sense of urgency filling his voice.

“What the hell are you talking about, Doyle? I’m trying to help you,” Ted insisted, “but if you don’t want to stick to the pressing matter at hand!”

“Ted,” he answered emphatically, “I’m just addressing the core issue of your inquisition. You simply have yet to realize that.”

Ted blinked. He suddenly felt almost as if he were dreaming. “Did you just call me Ted?”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, “but I never told you.”

“Of course you did, when you first came in…”

“No,” he interrupted, “I didn’t it. It’s against the ru-” he faltered, then finding a more professional demeanor, continued, “It’s against policy to divulge our names while working a case.” He glared at Doyle who only smiled in return. Ted dropped his gaze to the floor and began rubbing his temples. This back and forth was giving him a headache. He looked back up to Doyle and his breath hitched. He could see the air between them ripple, like heat coming off blacktop on a hot August afternoon.

In an instant, Ted’s head was filled with images of flaming swords and lightning. He could hear screams in the distance and could feel thunder shake the walls. He watched as the floor cracked beneath him and opened up. He felt as though he was literally going to be consumed by the earth. He looked up to Doyle and suddenly everything was as it was. No screams, no thunder, no swords, no lightning. Ted looked around, momentarily confused, and realized that he felt exhausted again.

The Guardian draws near, Ted.

“Times up!” the guard called through as the lock slid back into the door with a loud clack. “You have to go sir!”

Ted snapped his head toward the guard as if he had just been awakened suddenly. He glanced at his watch, but, according to the time it displayed, it had apparently stopped shortly after he had arrived this morning. “Right. We’ll, um…” he stammered, forcing the words out of a mouth that had long ago gone dry, “we’ll continue this tomorrow.” He stepped through the doorway and the door slammed shut behind him, the lock returning with a gentle click. Doyle leaned his head back, shut his eyes, and smiled.

3

As Ted opened the door to his efficiency apartment, the day’s events still burning through his head, he realized that he hadn’t eaten in over a day. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel hungry. Must be coming down with something, he thought to himself as he closed the door behind him. He reached into the refrigerator, grabbed one of the many cans of Coke which adorned the inside shelves, and popped the top. He brought the cold red can to his lips and threw his head back, guzzling the soda. He forgot to grab a drink before leaving the jail, and his mouth had never been so dry; not even the post-bong cottonmouth of his younger days compared to this. With a few swallows, the can was empty and being thrown in a little yellow bin marked Recycle.

He walked into his living room and sat down in his Lay-Z-Boy. Hr grabbed for the remote and turned on the television.

“Another incineration victim was found today,” the news anchor droned. “Authorities have yet to determine the cause of death, but the initial investigation suggests another case of spontaneous combustion. This is the third such case this month and authorities have yet to…”

Ted’s attention shifted to the picture he kept on top of the television. It was Christmas two years ago. His wife and his son were seated beside him, the picture of family togetherness. It was hard to believe that it had only been three months since the accident.

He blamed himself, of course. He had been working late, so he wasn’t there when his son, Ritchie, needed to take a last minute trip to the craft store for some poster-board. He had a project to do at school the next day. His kindergarten class was beginning to work on finger-painting, and he couldn’t be the only one not painting. So Karen drove him into town. They never made it. The investigators still weren’t’t sure what happened.

The car was found crashed into a tree along Highway 16, but there were no bodies in the car, and no blood at the scene. All that was found was two piles of ash on the front seat but no other signs of anything being burnt. There were no marks on the seat or the roof of the car to indicate a fire, either, just ashes. There was some speculation that it may have been spontaneous combustion, but nothing was ever confirmed. He placed his face in his hands and began to weep, aching to see them, even if only once more.

The last three months had been filled with intense therapy sessions, numerous prescriptions, and two near-suicide attempts. He got the barrel of the gun in his mouth, but just couldn’t pull the trigger. He probably should not have returned to work this soon, but he couldn’t sit around this little box of an apartment and stew about it any longer. He had to do something.

The Guardian, Ted.

His attention drifted back to Doyle. He didn’t know what to make of him. Despite this man’s obvious psychosis, there was something (bodhisattva) about him, something almost mystical. As he began to wonder how Doyle seemed to know so much and exactly why he killed Dr. McWhirter, exhaustion swept over him in waves, just as it had done at the police station, only more intense. He felt that if he didn’t make it to his bed right now, he’d be sleeping wherever he happened to fall, and looking down, the kitchen linoleum didn’t appear very comfortable. He lumbered into his bedroom and literally fell onto his bed. He was sleeping before his head hit the pillow. His dreams were filled with images of Doyle, aliens with implants, and his wife and son. He awoke the next day, feeling more confused than he would ever have imagined possible.

4

“You’ve done something to me, haven’t you?” Ted demanded as he walked through the door. Doyle only looked past him as the door closed and the lock gently slid back into place. His eyes met Ted’s in a look that Ted could only describe as empathetic. “You infected me with some kind of contagious mental disorder. Every time I try to focus my attention on something, I find myself racked with confusion.”

“Confusion is good,” Doyle explained. “Confusion establishes the perspective needed to achieve true understanding. It is rather difficult in the beginning, isn’t it? There is always so much to undo.”

Ted shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve progressed quite a bit, but not that far yet.”

“Would you please tell me what’s going on? Yesterday, I would have sworn that

you were faking a psychotic break in order to beat a murder rap, then last night, I’m thinking you’re the Dalai Lama. Kind of a discrepancy between the two, don’t you think?” Doyle only smiled. “Have you hypnotized me or something?” he asked, laboring to keep his voice down. “Why do I suddenly know things that I have no business knowing," he asked, thinking of the way he knew that his neighbor was selling drugs out of his apartment, “and why have I been hearing voices since I woke this morning?”

“You should try to think of consciousness as a collective force, rather than an

individual one,” Doyle elaborated. “Every living being shares the same consciousness, but most are only aware of their own use of it. You, on the other hand, are now becoming aware of the collective use.”

“Would you just cut the shit, Doyle? I mean, how is any of this possible? What are you, some kind of bodhisattva, magician or witch? Have you thrown some kind of spell on me?” Ted asked, his volume raising a notch. “Because I can assure you, I don’t like being fucked with!”

“I’ve awakened you to a deeper level of perception, nothing more.” Doyle answered. Ted sighed in response. “You’re having trouble with this, I know, but believe me-”

“Believe you?” Ted yelled. “Reality check, Doyle, you’ve been arrested for murder. I’m here to evaluate your…”

“You’re here because you needed to find me,” Doyle answered, his grin never fading.

“I’m here to evaluate your mental fitness!” he screamed at Doyle. “Do you hear yourself? This is ludicrous! Try to see this situation from my perspective. I was sent here to make sure that you stand trial. And you’re telling me that, and let me see if I have this right,” Ted said, nearly laughing, “you’re telling me that I’ve been on some kind of quest to find you. Well, your holiness,” he said, emulating a bow, trying to be as sarcastic as possible, “when did this mystical quest supposedly begin?”

“The night Karen and Ritchie left you,” Doyle said, the smile had faded from his lips.

Ted’s breath hitched. “What did you say?”

“The night they died, Ted,” Doyle reiterated, “that’s when your quest began. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

Ted only shook his head. “How could you have known that? Who have you been talking to?” he asked as he glanced toward the door. Doyle dropped his gaze to the floor and inhaled deeply, he looked up and stared into Ted’s eyes and exhaled. Ted watched as the air between seemed to ripple.

“Have you been wondering why you haven’t felt the need to eat the last few days?” Doyle asked. Ted raised an eyebrow in response. “Do you know what enlightenment is Ted?”

“Of course,” he said, feeling as though his intelligence had been insulted, again. “It’s the state of awakened spiritual understanding.”

“Straight out of the dictionary, huh?” Doyle asked. Evidently, he was naturally sarcastic. “Enlightenment, is an awakened state, but spiritual understanding is one of the prerequisites, not the end result. You see, in the beginning, man was a being consisting of and sustained by pure light. He was light, or enlightened, as the case may be. Life was paradise. Biblically speaking, it was the Garden of Eden.” Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. At that, Ted attention snapped to Doyle. He had been thinking of the dream he had two nights prior. He remembered thinking that aliens were putting implants in his head, but upon reconsideration, he supposed that he thought they were aliens because they were beings made of pure light, like in the movie Cocoon. Doyle met his gaze to ensure he had his attention before continuing. “Seeking enlightenment, is seeking a return to that original state. Theologically expressed as man returning to Eden.” He stopped suddenly, then added, “I have seen Eden, Ted, it’s not a myth.”

He’s doing it again, he thought as Doyle words washed over him in an almost perceptible wave. He felt his breathing become deep and rhythmic. Then, he began to feel a slight vibration, first in his feet, but gradually rising up though his legs. As the vibration reached his torso it became more intense, and as it reached his head, it drowned everything else out. For a moment, there was nothing else, no cell, no Doyle, and no Ted. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Ted was left standing, breathless and shaken up. He looked over to Doyle, and it almost looked as if he were glowing. Ted blinked a few times and the cell looked as it had, nothing seemed different. Except something had definitely changed. Everything looked newer somehow. The colors, even the ones in this drab cell, looked brighter than before. The change was subtle, but not imperceptible.

“It has begun,” Doyle explained. “It will only take a short time to adjust.”

Just then, the lock opened with a loud clack, and the guard called in “Sir, it’s time!”

Ted glanced down at his watch, not astonished to find that it had stopped again. “We’ll uh, -”

“Continue tomorrow?” Doyle asked smiling.

“Yes,” Ted nodded, smiling back.

“There is one more thing.” Ted stopped and walked back. “I have a strange request of you.”

“What is it?” he asked. Doyle motioned for him to come closer. Ted leaned in and the guard shot him a cautious look as Doyle whispered something to him. Ted pulled away, brow furrowing, but something in Doyle’s eyes made him reconsider. “Okay,” Ted sighed as he turned to exit. The door closed behind him and the lock returned with a gentle click. Doyle closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It would be soon now.

5

As Ted walked down the long, dark hallway toward the exit, a rotund man in a much more elaborate uniform than the patrol officers wore called to him. “Doctor Welch! Doctor Welch!” Ted snapped out of his momentary daze and turned to greet the man.

“Hi, Dr. Ted Welch.” He said extending his hand. The man in the ornate uniform took Ted’s hand, pumped it twice and released. A corporate handshake? Ted thought to himself.

“Captain Briggs, Robbery and Homicide. So,” he said turning toward his office and directing Ted to do the same, “do we have a motive yet?”

“Not as yet,” he answered. “The accused exhibits severe signs of schizophrenic behavior. I don’t even know if he’s competent to stand trial yet.”

“Well, what’s taking so long? You know we’ve connected him with about thirty-eight other homicides with the same m.o., right? The brass wants this guy, bad. They’ve even offered a bonus if this gets wrapped up quickly and quietly,” the captain whispered.

“Bonus?” Ted asked, doing pretty fair at masking his building exasperation.

“If we can get this guy to trial before the weekend, there’ll be a bonus for the entire precinct!”

Ted flinched. He had always felt indignant about the materialism that had permeated society. Perhaps he spent too many of his younger years reading eastern philosophy and not enough supplementing his portfolio, but he always felt nauseated by his peers’ relentless pursuit of the almighty dollar. And now, this pillar of the law enforcement community was showing his true colors. He could feel his resentment toward this man building. It was as if loyalty had become commodity. He nearly froze at that thought. “Well, let me see what I can do about that,” he said back to the captain, forcing a smile as he turned to leave. He walked back down the long, dark hallway toward the exit, hoping that this time he would actually reach it. He felt sluggish, almost lethargic. Getting home was his immediate priority. Pushing through the door marked Exit he made his way down the front steps of the 21st Precinct. The remaining daylight lingered, an orange line on the horizon. The street, which normally bustled with activity, seemed unusually quiet and empty. It was as if the neighborhood had become a -

“Desolate expanse of broken asphalt” Doyle’s voice seemed to call from the gloom. He stiffened where he stood. Did the street look so deserted yesterday when he left? Then he vaguely remembered Doyle saying something about “It has begun” but it was all so hazy. He supposed, as he made his way home, that tomorrow Doyle might provide some insight into the conflict that had begun raging inside of his head.

He didn’t remember the drive home that night and barely remembered staggering up the stairs and into his apartment. Why did feel so drained lately? He was definitely asking Doyle about this. For all his schizophrenic delusion, it was possible, Ted admitted, that he could know something. He let his weight fall into the Lay-Z-Boy positioned strategically in front of his television. He used to sit with Ritchie for hours and watch cartoons and kids’ shows. He glanced at the black screen and began speculating on what actually happened that night. A little more information sure would have been useful. Little by little, his thoughts crept back to Doyle. What had really happened to Dr. McWhirter? What was happening to himself? Was Doyle’s psychosis somehow contagious, some sort of delirium brought on by an airborne virus? Or was Doyle really offering ---? What was Doyle offering? Salvation? Enlightenment? Infection? It was too soon to say, he supposed. Ted had almost drifted to sleep when he remembered the request that Doyle had made. He spent the next several hours reading all eighty-one chapters of the Tao Te Ching at the request of a man who could turn out to be The Guardian, Ted.

A mass murderer, for all he knew.

6

As he walked down the long, dark hallway to what the officers affectionately referred to as the holding tank, Ted again wondered if he was doing the right thing. He didn’t remember ever doubting his actions this much before taking this case. What was this strange hold Doyle had over him? He didn’t dare admit it, but Doyle inspired, at least in him, a sense of awe. It was a great feeling, but he couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about his own willingness to feel great. He guessed that made him about as sane as anyone else in his line of work.

As he approached the door to Doyle’s cell, he began to notice how different everything appeared. The guard who had been posted outside Doyle’s cell door for all of Ted visits wasn’t wearing a uniform. Ted began to think how odd that was until the guard spoke to him.

“Good morning Dr. Welch,” he said opening the door for Ted. He failed to notice that the door didn’t have to be unlocked first.

“Good morning,” Ted mimicked as he brushed past. He entered the cell only to find the appearance of it had definitely changed. It no longer looked like a cell; it looked more like an office, due in part, Ted guessed, because Doyle was no longer in a straightjacket.

“Good to see you Ted.” Doyle remarked standing to greet him. For the first time, Ted noticed that Doyle was only about 5’6”; a good six inches shorter than he himself.

Ted only looked around confused and extended his hand. Doyle grasped it and shook it firmly for a few seconds, all the while measuring Ted reactions. Ted began shaking his head and asked, “Okay, what the hell is going on? Did you execute some sort of coup de tat’ to take over the police station?”

“This place,” Doyle said, gesturing out to his sides, “was never a police station. You perceived it as such because that was the only way to bring you here.” Ted silently continued to look around.

“This is all too strange, Doyle.”

“Only at first,” Doyle responded. “Trust me, in a few hours, you will see all you need to. You do, however, deserve some kind of explanation.

“You see, two worlds exist in a single perceived space.” Doyle saw the confusion in his eyes and decided to elaborate before moving on. “What the majority of the population perceives as the real world is only perceptual data flooding their senses. The corporations knew that eventually people would start to wake up to the reality of the situation, so they began emitting electronic signals on a wide band radio broadcast that would stimulate the production of only specific series of neuro-peptides, inducing a similar perception by all affected individuals. Television sets, radios, computers all became carriers of this broadcast stimuli. Eventually, cell phones, streetlights, and stoplights, as well as household appliances, became conduits for the signal. And they weren’t really altering perceptions as much stimulating the brain to do so. They created a collectively perceived illusion. Most people see only what they know anyway, and for those, this was a kind of reinforcement.”

Ted looked around nervously. For a moment, he thought that maybe he was right about Doyle’s contagious psychosis, but he didn’t feel the irrationality associated with schizophrenic behavior. In fact he felt completely lucid for the first time since ...

“Since the crash?” Doyle asked.

Ted blinked. Doyle was definitely something different. “Yeah,” he said studying the floor.

“Do you know what transcendence is Ted?”

Ted’s brow furrowed. He vaguely remembered reading something about transcendental meditation, but he was unable to recall what, exactly. He shook his head.

“Transcendence is when you rise above involvement in worldly issues and dilemmas. It was thought for centuries that this was purely a spiritual and mental exercise. It seems, however, that there was an aspect that was lost or omitted from the teachings: transcendental ascendance.” He looked to Ted and saw that understanding had yet to dawn, so he elaborated, “That is when you progress to a higher level of being, so to speak. Human evolution hadn’t manifested the ability to take advantage of that particular aspect until recently. The process leaves behind the dust of impermanence lost. The transubstantiation of energy produces a brief flash of heat, which incinerates the dust leaving only a fine pile of ash.”

Ted’s gaze snapped up, as he pictured the two piles of ash on the front seat of Karen’s station wagon. He opened his mouth opened to speak, but found himself unable. Doyle smiled and nodded. All of the stress, all of the self-destructive thoughts and actions over the last three months seemed to melt away from his memory and he was left with a feeling that he could only describe as purity. His breath hitched a couple of times as breathed deeply, regaining his composure. “Am I going to be with them again.”

The smile faded from Doyle’s lips. “Well, that brings me to some unpleasant business.”

“I won’t be able to see them?” Ted asked, feeling an ache build in his chest.

“That all depends.” Doyle answered.

“On?” Ted said, moving his hands in circular motions, indicating that he would like a little more information.

“On you.” Doyle looked toward the door. “Come on,” he said, taking Ted by the arm, “let’s take a little walk.” The door opened as they approached and the guard nodded as they passed. They exited and stood on the steps outside for a moment. After a few deep breaths, Doyle began walking down the steps and Ted paced him, not wanting to be left behind in case he should miss something.

“I get the feeling that there something you haven’t told me.” Ted said, attempting to instigate the conversation. Clearly, Doyle would have preferred not telling, but Ted got the feeling that that wasn’t really an option.

“Soon you will enter Purgatory.” Ted’s eyes widened, but Doyle was quick to allay his fear. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s really just a waiting room, of sorts. It’s the first stage of the transcendental ascension.” Ted’s eyes, though still questioning, showed some relief, so Doyle continued. “What lies all around you is the world as it truly exists.”

Ted looked around. He could see high concrete walls topped with razor wire. MetroComs, he thought to himself. In the distance he could hear gunfire and small explosions. What he didn’t see was people. With the exception of the two of them, there wasn’t a soul on the street.

“Don’t worry,” Doyle said, “you won’t be staying long. You’re here to prepare yourself. You see once you’re awakened and begun the ascent, it won’t be long before he comes.”

“He?” Ted asked cautiously.

“Have you ever heard of the Guardian of the Threshold?”

Ted froze. Finally he managed to shake his head. “No. Who is he?”

“He stands at the gate,” Doyle answered. “In order to transcend, you have to pass him first.”

“I still don’t think I understand,” Ted confessed.

“The Guardian,” Doyle explained, “is the embodiment of all of your worst fears. He is the walking repository for every nightmare dreamed. And you will have to face him. If you fail to do so, you will be lost.” The words echoed in Ted’s ears. They stood for a moment, silently facing each other.

“What will I do? Is there anything I can do?” Ted inquired.

“Did you do what I asked you to do yesterday?” Doyle asked in return.

Ted thought for a moment, not knowing what Doyle was referring to, but, in a flash memory saw himself in his Lay-Z-Boy squinting at small print in bad light for several hours the night before, and that triggered his recollection. “Yes, I did, but what’s…?” he began.

“No more questions,” Doyle smiled, “let’s get started.”

Ted suddenly found himself sitting at a table across from Doyle. He looked around for a moment only to realize that they were back in the cell. Did they return there? Had they been there the whole time? He wasn’t sure. Things had a strange way about them lately.

It had been a long time since Ted had done any LSD, but what he was feeling now felt a lot like he remembered acid trips feeling. He never remembered tripping this much though, not even when he took six hits simultaneously.

“Is this supposed to help?” Ted asked, feeling a bit shaky.

“You’re experiencing a change in awareness, an enhanced state of consciousness,” Doyle elucidated, “it will permit an easier exchange of insights.”

“I’m not following you,” Ted lamented, thinking that Doyle couldn’t just give a straight answer. He also had a habit of gesturing when he spoke, which created multicolored arcs in the air around his hands that Ted couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of. Suddenly, Doyle’s gaze pierced through his hallucination.

Doyle leaned in slightly and Ted noticed that his eyes were glowing from the pupils. “You should try to relax.”

“What…” Ted began to say but was cut short by a radiant blast of energy from Doyle eyes into his. He could sense the essence of his perspective change as the luminescent barrage pushed him further back into his seat. The exchange, which seemed to go on for hours, lasted only a few seconds and came to an abrupt halt. Ted sat in a cloud of smoke, jaw agape, trying to catch his breath. “What was that?”

“That was an enhancement to your frame of reference.” Doyle answered.

“A what?”

“Think of it, as instant enlightenment. It’s a way of seeding all that spiritually remains fallow. I’m hoping that it will make use of the philosophical and mystical studies which you undertook as a younger man.”

“What for?” Ted inquired. “None of that stuff ever did any thing for me.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong. All of those esoteric teachings which you so astutely poured yourself into were simply in need of a catalyst.” Doyle elaborated.

“A catalyst?”

“Yes,” he continued. “Your beliefs were keeping these teachings dormant. All you needed to do was abandon your beliefs and these things would have come to fruition.”

“You know,” Ted interjected, “this sounds like one of those sermons I used to hear as a kid when my mom would take us to church on Sundays. The preacher would say that the devil would offer you anything if you would abandon your faith.” He looked cautiously over to Doyle. “I’m in that position, aren’t I?”

“Not at all. You see, the mistake most people make is believing. Knowing is much more useful. You can believe an apple is blue all you want, but that won’t change the fact that you know it’s red. Beliefs can be quite powerful, but nothing can change what you know to be true. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m hoping it will help as you prepare to face the Guardian.”

“How about helping me when I face the Guardian?” Ted asked, trying to insert a bit of levity into an otherwise tense situation.

Doyle shook his head. “Sorry, you have to face him alone.”

“So what do we do now?”

Doyle stood up and smiled, “Training.”

7

Ted didn’t know what to expect when Doyle said “Training,” but after what seemed like hours of zazen, he guessed it meant a lot of sitting. Mountains loomed in the distance. Ted would have guessed that they were in some kind of desert if they truly were anyplace. Doyle called it the barren plain. He said that it was a place of awakening and Ted was starting to realize a little about the nature of this newly discovered reality. Location and time, for instance, were illusions. Limitations that were voluntarily invoked at some point that no one ever thought to change. After a few thousand lifetimes, it became ingrained into the collective belief system. Ted didn’t understand exactly how or when he came by this knowledge, but then he realized that he didn’t remember not knowing. Oddities such as this characterized this experience for him.

During the meditation, Doyle would occasionally speak up, offering a sentence or two, then grow quiet again. At one point, the liturgy lasted for half an hour, Ted guessed, covering everything from the importance of cessation to the destructive power of surety.

“Thoughts are not your allies. They are a distraction, a weapon against you. There is no true opponent outside the self. Clinging to the belief that everything will be okay will only serve to condemn you. Fear does not exist, pain does not exist, death does not exist. These are elements of dualistic existence, which is impermanent. Your only weapon is that which you know to be true.”

The words weighed heavy on Ted’s mind. In the distance he could hear the rumbling of an approaching storm. It was impossible to determine how long he had left, but he guessed that he’d be looking for shelter before the time came. All that was really left to do was to figure out how not to think. A breeze tussled Ted’s hair as he closed his eyes for a moment, in an attempt to relax. When his eyelids closed, however, he was treated to a haunting vision of a faceless man wielding a flaming sword. His eyes snapped open as his body recoiled from the vision.

He found himself sitting at the table in the cell facing Doyle, who, once again, was wearing the straightjacket. Doyle’s eyes were closed and Ted had a moment to wonder whether he was asleep before they snapped open.

“You have twenty-four hours.” Doyle said, seeming a lot more distant than he had. “I would advise that you rest up.”

“Times up, sir!” the guard called as the lock opened with a loud clack. Ted shook his head to clear the cobwebs as he stood to leave. The cell, the police station, Doyle, all of it, had returned to as it had been.

“Twenty-four hours.” Doyle repeated. Ted, still feeling somewhat disoriented, left without saying a word. The door closed behind him and the lock slid back with a gentle click. Ted slowly walked down the long, dark hallway leading to the exit. Every step seemed to drain his energy.

Unconsciously, he began drawing long slow breaths in through his nose, and slowly exhaling through his mouth. It was a trick an early martial arts instructor had taught him for building up power. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing it until he felt it working. Gradually he began to feel almost recharged. A lift came back into his step as he headed for the door. Perhaps the trip home wouldn’t be as inexorable as he had suspected. He was about five yards away from the exit when a voice called to him from behind.

“Dr. Welch!”

Ted stopped and grudgingly turned around. It was Captain Briggs, Robbery and Homicide. He wasn’t happy.

“Dr. Welch, I had it on good authority that you knew what was expected of you involving this case. Now what the hell’s the matter with you? Isn’t the bonus large enough?”

“What?” Ted asked, taken aback by the verbal assault.

“If you’ve got some moral qualms about doing the job as it’s been assigned, then, say the word, and we’ll get someone fresh to replace you! And you can go back home, take your pills, and wallow some more in self-pity!” Captain Briggs blasted.

“No,” Ted said, not wanting to let this prick know that he was getting to him, “that won’t be necessary.” All he needed to do was play along for the next twenty-four hours.

“I’ll need a signed release from you on my desk first thing in the morning.” Briggs demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Ted said, his disdain showing through.

“Watch that attitude, boy, or corporation or no corporation, I’ll bury you.”

“What did you say?” Ted asked carefully.

“You heard me.” Briggs answered. “I know you’ve been awakened, so let’s put the charade aside. The corporation wants an execution and since you’ve acquired the knowledge, you’ve become a liability. So, you’re left with a decision. You can A) sign the release and send the man off to be executed; or B) take his place. What’s it going to be?” Briggs looked from one eye to the other, waiting. After a moment, he concluded, “Your silence is answer enough.” He turned and walked away. Ted stood for a moment, loathing the Captain, before turning to leave also.

As he exited, he began to wonder why, once awakened, he was only a liability, whereas Doyle was considered a threat. What was the difference? Was there a difference? Was Doyle bodhisattva the exception or the rule? As these and countless other questions raced through his head, Ted became aware of something. The awakened state is not without it’s advantages. For instance, once awakened, the individual can exert a certain amount of influence over collective perception. One also develops the ability for spontaneous right action as well as immediate intuitive extrapolation. As he drove home, he pondered over what his right action would be and whether or not he possessed insight needed to venture forth. It was a quiet drive.

8

Ted sat in his Lay-Z-Boy and stared into the distance. He let his eyes drift apart slightly, so that each one stared straight ahead. His vision began to swim before assuming a clarity he had never known. Everything seemed to take on more of a three-dimensional look. He wouldn’t have been able to explain it. He just sat there momentarily being awed. As he scanned his apartment with his newly found vision, he began to notice a sort of shimmering effect within the image of certain items. If he stared long enough, the image would change slightly. It was such a subtle difference that he doubted that it would have even bore mentioning, but here he was totally enthralled.

He stood up and began to move about his place, liking the gliding feel his movements seem to have. As he wondered what could be responsible for this sudden change, the answer came to him in an intuitive flash. As his eyes weren’t fixed on a specific point in time and space, thus his attention was permitted outside spatial boundaries. When this occurs, one can manifest outside said spatial boundaries; therefore the limitations of the physical plane can be bypassed, in a sense. Manifesting outside spatial boundaries, however, does consume a great deal of energy, as Ted quickly noticed. Exhaustion took over and he collapsed back into his Lay-Z-Boy, his attention once more focused within the time/space continuum. Neat trick, he absently thought to himself. He found the process somewhat unsettling. He was forced to sit for a while longer before he was able to get up.

He started feeling a little nervous when, at first, he was only able to move his eyes. He had never realized that it was possible to be this tired. Gradually, his strength returned, and he rose from his chair and shuffled into the kitchen to retrieve a cold can of Coke. As he drained the can into his upturned mouth, he made his way to his bookcase and began running his left hand across the spines of several texts in one section of shelf. He glanced down, not even realizing what he was doing, and withdrew the one his hand happened to be on. He turned the cover to see what he had selected and a small grin crept over his lips. He sat back down, stared at the book, and began to leaf through the pages, slowly at first, but increasing speed as he proceeded. He reached the end and sprang to the shelf to grab another. By the early morning hours, he had absorbed every book he owned on the subjects of Yoga, Tai Chi Ch’uan, and the Chakras, which was quite an extensive collection. When he finished he sat back, closed his eyes, and waited for the dawn.

The dawn arrived with its usual splendor, Ted guessed, having not seen the sun rise in years. He inhaled deeply. It felt as if he were almost breathing in the light. He felt renewed. He couldn’t help but notice how alive the day appeared. He could sense the energy coursing through all things. It was a spectacular sensation that left him feeling light-headed, the way, when he smoked, that the first cigarette of the day used to make him feel. It was indeed quite a rush. Despite his exultation of the morning, the ominous forbearance of what was yet to come remained. It was a weight on his chest. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. He breathed deeply again and turned away from the window.

He decided, as he headed for the shower, that he should try to talk to Doyle again before he had to… had to… what exactly was it he had to do? Facing the Guardian admittedly was a little vague. What was expected of him? How should he react? More importantly, how should he not react? Was any of this really happening or was it a part of some grand hallucination induced by whatever contagion Doyle was carrying? So many questions still remained. Maybe he would have time to think in the shower.

The shower proved not be as conducive to the thought processes as Ted had hoped. For some reason, his awareness was continually drawn to the water. He couldn’t stop pondering over its formless nature. He was enrapt by the pure simplicity of it, right down to its molecular structure, three particles posing as one. Thinking of it, even now, brought a thin smile to his lips. After he was dry and dressed, he looked around the apartment and wondered if he would ever see this place again. Something told him that he wouldn’t. When he left, he didn’t look back.

9

He arrived at the police station shortly before 9 am. He checked in and made his way down the long, dark hallway, which seemed unusually short and bright today. As he neared the door marked number twelve a feeling of uneasiness swept over him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Captain Briggs approaching.

“A word.” Captain Briggs said. He wasn’t asking.

“Sure,” Ted answered, turning to meet him.

“Walk with me,” Briggs said, gesturing with his left hand. Ted began walking and Briggs paced him, but stayed a step behind. Ted cast a distrustful eye over his shoulder. He wanted to be sure that Briggs hadn’t just assumed the role of Brutus in an impromptu rendition of Julius Cesar.

“It has come to my attention that you might be harboring sympathetic thoughts for that murderer back there.” Briggs said, pointing a chubby thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh, no,” Ted lied, trying not to be obvious, “I’m just giving him enough rope to hang himself.” The reply was vague enough, he hoped, to preclude the possibility of any further inquiry. This time, however, hope fell short.

“Now what in the hell does that mean?” Briggs demanded, growing angry. Ted blinked. For a moment it seemed that Briggs’ shadow was expanding. “Don’t think that you can placate me with indistinct responses. I’ve heard the tapes of your interviews. You haven’t put any serious pressure on him at all. All I’ve heard is hours and hours of banter. Now, if you can’t produce a conviction today,” Briggs said, hitching up his belt, which, Ted guessed, was under some serious pressure of its own, “then I will. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Captain.” Ted glared.

“Good then,” Briggs said as he turned to walk away, “come see me as soon as you’re done.”

Ted lifted an indignant, middle finger in defiance, but lowered it quickly when Captain Briggs glanced back. Thunder rolled as Ted made his way down the hall, which still seemed brighter than usual. As he reached the door marked number twelve, he nodded to the guard who smiled, then nodded back. The lock slid open with a loud clack and Ted stepped through the opening door. Thunder rolled again; the storm was drawing closer.

Doyle greeted him with a smile. “You’ve progressed some overnight,” he observed, thunder rolling overhead.

Ted’s brow creased. “I feel that there are some things I need to come to terms with before I can progress any further.”

Doyle nodded. “Of course.”

“First, about Dr. McWhirter,” Ted began.

“You want to know more about his research?” Doyle feigned.

“No, I want to know more about him,” he said, but then corrected, “well, you and him.” Doyle only smiled. Ted continued, “You said that he opened your eyes. What did you mean?”

“He prepared me to face the Guardian,” Doyle began.

“As you now have to prepare me?” Ted questioned. Doyle’s only response was a nod. “Okay then, next question: Is there anything that I specifically should not do when I face the Guardian?”

“Fear is your enemy and thoughts are obstacles. Awareness is your only ally,” he answered sounding a lot more like the man Ted first questioned. Now, however, he felt better equipped to decipher Doyle’s cryptic answers.

“Okay, good,” Ted answered, believing he understood. “Last question: about the Guardian, is he the Devil, or something?”

Doyle smiled. “No, the concept of Satan comes from an error in the original translation of the Book of Isiah from Hebraic to Latin. The only embodied evil lies within the hearts of men.”

“So then who is he?”

Doyle shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything else about him.”

“Why not?” Ted asked. “What? Is it against the rules, or something?”

“No, you understand. I can’t tell you anything about the Guardian that you should already know.” Doyle answered. He could see by the look in Ted’s eyes that he wasn’t following. “Think about it,” Doyle emphasized. Thunder rolled and Doyle snapped his gaze toward the door. He looked back to Ted. For the first time, Ted noticed, Doyle looked alarmed.

The lock slid back with a loud clack as several officers, including the ample Captain Briggs, filed in.

“You were warned.” Briggs whispered.

Ted watched as the other officers dragged Doyle away. He caught a glimpse of Doyle’s face. He was smiling.

“Come with me,” Briggs insisted. He turned and headed for the door, pausing once to ensure that Ted was following. Once outside the cell, Briggs stopped. Ted guessed that he was waiting for something, or someone. He noticed that Briggs’ attention was focused on the far end of the hallway. Ted had never been in that part of the building. He hadn’t found it necessary to go any further than the interrogation rooms at the front. The odd thing is that he had never even noticed that the hallway even went that far back.

Ted realized that that part of the building had been shielded from his perceptions, as it was from the rest of the sleeping masses. But why? What could be worthy of such secrecy? Their donut expenditure probably, Ted thought. A small chuckle escaped his throat and caught Briggs’ attention.

“This is no laughing matter, boy.” Briggs admonished.

Ted’s brow furrowed and he turned a spiteful toward the captain. “You can take your condescending tone and shove it,” he said to Briggs, offering a little smirk for punctuation.

Briggs’ face turned red as he took a deep breath. Ted guessed he was about to get both barrels when the door at the end of the hallway flew open with a loud crash that made everyone jump. The hallway seemed to darken as a shadowy figure emerged. The expression on Briggs’ face was a lot different. Ted would have guessed that Briggs was terrified. Thunder rolled overhead. It seemed as though it shook the building. As the figure neared, the thunder strengthened. Ted could see that the figure appeared to be an older man, maybe in his late fifties. A shadowy haze clung to him like a black aura, partially obscuring his features.

“Is this the one?” the shadowy man asked.

“Yes, yes,” Captain Briggs quickly answered, “this is him.”

“And the guide, what of him?”

“He’s upstairs in a holding cell.” Briggs was fast with the answers today. The shadowy man studied Briggs for a moment then turned his attention to Ted. Briggs seemed relieved.

“So,” he said to Ted, “you must be next.” He looked back to Briggs. “Bring him.”

Briggs looked to two officers who were nearby and nodded. They each took one of Ted’s arms and began escorting him behind the shadowy man. Briggs lingered for a moment before following. He preferred to have as much space as possible between them.

As they approached the end of the hallway, Ted could see that it was just an ordinary office. There was a desk, a couple of chairs, and what looked like filing cabinets. Ted knew, of course, that it wasn’t the office that needed to be hidden, but what it contained. The shadowy man had an eerie feel about him. Ted quickly became aware that a chill accompanied his shadowy gaze. No wonder Briggs felt so uncomfortable.

The shadowy man sat behind the desk and gestured for Ted to sit. He did so and the man smiled a little. Despite the threatening vibes, he seemed downright personable

“There, it’s not always so difficult to be civil. Is there anything you need, a drink perhaps?”

“Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

The man laughed. “Straight to the point. I can respect that. Who am I? Who am I? Well, I’ve had many names. So many, in fact, that not even I can remember them all. I think that my favorite name was Legion,” he said, turning toward Ted, “for we are many. But what’s in a name? Naming is the origin of all particular things, isn’t that what your Taoist philosophy taught you?”

Ted was speechless. Maybe it was best not to know.

“Besides, knowing my name isn’t going to help you. I’m afraid, however, that you have made a small mistake.”

“Mistake? A mistake about what?” Ted wondered.

“You seem to be suffering under the illusion that I have brought you here, Ted. I haven’t. You have brought you here. Every step you have taken since you met the guide has led right to me. So let’s stop the finger pointing and get down to business, shall we?”

“Fine,” he said curtly. It always irritated him when his questions were evaded. That’s why he lost his cool with Doyle at first. This shadowy man was different from Doyle, though. There was something ominous about this man, even when you didn’t take into consideration the fact that an ethereal black haze surrounded him.

“I’m here to make you an offer,” the man smiled and began to walk around the room. Ted shivered. “You see, you are stepping on some toes down here. Many lives have been sacrificed to preserve the veil, and you can very well be counted among them.” He looked to Ted, “Or…”

“Or what?” Ted answered after a brief silence. It was evident that the shadowy man was trying to engage Ted. It occurred to Ted that he had spent most of his time trying to do the same. Surmising that it would expedite this process, Ted played along.

“Or, you can walk away,” the man offered.

“Just like that?” Ted asked, finding it difficult to conceal his rising suspicion.

“Just like that,” the man answered, snapping his fingers as he sat down behind his desk. Nothing is ever that simple and Ted knew it. There was always a string or two attached.

“And what is it that I have to do to earn this opportunity?”

“An excellent question!” the shadowy man exclaimed as he rose from his seat. He put his hands on the desk and leaned over to Ted. “Leave here. Forget all about the guide, Doyle, forget all about facing the Guardian, and leave here. Don’t look back, and don’t ever think about it again.”

“I can’t,” Ted began to explain, but the shadowy man interrupted.

“Do you know how many people would jump at a chance like this?” the man seethed. “You undeserving piece of shit, I should gut you where you sit instead of wasting my time.” The man turned away disgusted. He was clearly not pleased. He straightened and turned back to Ted. The smile had returned, though it appeared somewhat more menacing than before. “What if I offered you something, anything you wanted, would you leave?”

“I can’t,” Ted replied. He couldn’t help but notice that the black haze, which previously had hung so tightly around this man, was expanding, billowing outward. The room seemed to grow colder. Ted could hear thunder from outside, and feel it shaking the building.

“Damn you! Don’t you know that the Guardian will destroy you? I’m trying to save your life!” the man snarled.

“My life,” Ted said, “is not yours to save.”

The man’s snarling abated. He smirked, straightened up and said, “Fine, piss on you then.” As if on cue, two officers accompanied Captain Briggs into the office where they promptly escorted Ted into the hallway. The door slammed shut behind them. For a moment, Ted was sure that he smelled brimstone. Thunder rolled overhead and the walls shook violently. The officers looked up as though they expected the ceiling to come down. Ted thought that this seemed like a good time to attempt an escape.

Just then, thunder shook the walls again and Ted noticed that the vibrations continued even after the thunder abated. The vibrations grew stronger and soon, even the thunder was inaudible. Ted closed his eyes, pressed his hands over his ears, and dropped to the floor. The officers seemed too distracted by the thunder to notice. He could actually feel the vibrations inside his head. It was deafening, and suddenly, it was go

10

Ted opened his eyes. He could see mountains in the distance. The station, Briggs, and the other officers were all gone. Now that was an escape. Thunder rolled all around him. Lightning strikes illuminated the darkness, and Ted realized that he was back in the Barren Plain.

“It’s happening,” he said to himself under his breath. It took a minute to come to terms with such an abrupt change. He felt disoriented, almost dizzy. He had a split second to realize that he felt nauseous before his stomach heaved and he vomited a thick brown liquid into the pale sand. I just threw upon the Barren Plain, he thought to himself. A nervous chuckle escaped him.

He sat up, crossed his legs into a half lotus and waited. As the thunder grew louder, his pulse began to race. This wasn’t good. He had to get his fear under check or this would end badly. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. Under the circumstances though, it seemed a pointless endeavor. This was, metaphorically speaking, it. Everything for which he had studied as a boy, and everything for which he suffered as a man. He rose to meet his fate head-on.

“Time to burn and rage.” He whispered to himself. He turned to find himself staring into the empty face of the Guardian. Ted felt dwarfed in his presence. Fear found its hold over Ted, and he turned to flee. His movements felt uncoordinated and his escape was proving unsuccessful. From behind, Ted could hear the thunder of the Guardian’s pursuit. Despite his size he was quite fleet and keeping up with Ted’s disjointed exodus proved to be little challenge.

Ted tried to recall everything he was supposed to remember, but his mind was blank. He felt utterly helpless and alone.

“No escape!” The thousand voices of the Guardian called from not too far away.

Ted searched frantically for a place to make a stand, but the mountains seemed to remain in the distance no matter how far you traveled toward them. Obviously, the Barren Plain was going to live up to its name, providing not even so much as a bush to hide behind. Ted stopped and turned. No escape, he thought to himself.

The Guardian rose up before him. Ted looked into his face, and stood his ground. The Guardian grasped the hilt of his sword and freed it from its sheath. Flames billowed up like smoke, surrounding them both in a fiery ring. He swung the burning blade in Ted’s direction. A flaming arch expanded outward, engulfing Ted in a momentary blaze. His body began to tingle, then went numb. He found himself unable to move.

The Guardian moved closer. He swung again. Released from his momentary paralysis, Ted scrambled from its path, imitating the duck and roll that the cops always did on the TV shows he watched as child. He was surprised to find it effective. He lurched forward and jumped to his feet. He turned, expecting to have gained a little ground, but was disappointed to find the Guardian at his heels, swinging at him unmercifully.

At that moment Ted felt betrayed by his own mind. All of the information he needed was at his fingertips, but he was unable to access it. There was just no catching a break, there was just no defeating the Guardian, and there was just no way this could be happening.

As the Guardian closed the small distance between them, Ted remembered an excerpt from one of the books he had spent last night studying. A thin smile touched his lips as the information come flooding back to him. He looked up at the Guardian, took a deep breath, and began to feel the flow of Kundalini (life energy). He felt it first in his feet as he began to draw it up through his legs. With every breath, he could feel more and more energy drawing up into his body.

The Guardian advanced closer. Ted, feeling a little pressed for time, shifted his focus on the heart chakra. Just above his sternum, a small circle of about the size of a quarter began to glow, first green, then gold. Ted drew in a deep breath and it began to glow brighter. As the Guardian converged, Ted felt his heart chakra open and a green/gold luminescent surge billowed forth, pushing the Guardian backwards like a child struggling against the tide. This was only a temporary solution. These blasts of Kundalini were only slowing the Guardian down, not stopping him. The Guardian rose and converged again. Ted fled yet again, feeling hopelessness seep into his will.

Intuition comes in flashes, instants of epiphany. As Ted continued his retreat, he began to realize that there indeed was no hope. Then something happened. Ted’s realization triggered a kind of chain reaction. He realized that there was no hope because there was no mercy. Then he realized that there was no mercy because there was no conflict. When Ted realized that there was no conflict, he stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Guardian.

The Guardian stood motionless. Ted, not quite believing what he was seeing, cocked his head slightly to the side. To his surprise, the Guardian imitated the move. But he didn’t just imitate the move. He seemed to perform it simultaneously with Ted. Just then, Ted remembered what Doyle had said about the Guardian. It was something about not being able to tell him anything about the Guardian that he shouldn’t already know. Ted looked up and into the Guardian’s face.

The two stared across at each other. Ted let his eyes drift ever so slightly apart and, like the night before in his chair, removed himself from the confines of time and space. Slowly, the Guardian’s face began to materialize. The eyes that Ted was staring into were his own. He remained staring into his own face, as if seeking a deeper answer, but there was none. There was only him.

“It’s hard to face the fact that you’re holding your own progress back,” Doyle said. Ted spun around to find Doyle, sitting in a cell. Ted looked around to find himself there, too. This was a different cell. Must be where they took him earlier. He looked down and realized that he was holding the Guardian’s sword, the blade still aflame.

“So,” Doyle smiled, “you were able to face the guardian.”

“Yes,” Ted nodded, finally realizing what it meant to face the Guardian. “you know, you could have said that it was just an expression.”

“Sorry, friend,” he retorted, “rules are rules.”

Ted smiled and looked back down to the sword. After a moment, he looked up to Doyle, who sat, with eyes closed and palms facing upward, and asked “So, are you ready to go?”

Doyle opened his eyes and looked up to Ted. He looked relieved. “Yes,” he remarked simply, “I’ve been ready for a while.” At that, he lowered his head. It almost looked as though he were praying.

“I don’t feel right about doing this Doyle.”

“Ted, sometimes you just have to do your job,” he insisted. “Surely you’ve realized that by now.”

Ted had realized that, and a few other things. He faced the Guardian. The last to do so successfully was Doyle. Now, it was Ted’s shift and Doyle had to be freed from physical incarnation. Ted took a deep breath and raised the sword above his head. “Goodbye, my friend,” he whispered as he brought the blade down in a fiery arch. It passed through Doyle effortlessly. There was a brief flash, the settling of dust, and that was it. Rather anticlimactic, if you ask me, Ted thought as the sword faded from view.

The lock slid back with a loud clack and a team of five officers wearing helmets and brandishing riot batons rushed in. Ted initially thought they were there to help him, but the first blow to the face from one of the baton-brandishing boys in blue changed his mind about that. Ted felt several other strikes as he reeled backwards. After being wrestled to the ground, he was put in a straightjacket and sat up on the bed. He looked up to see them file out. The doorway was clear for a moment and he actually considered making a break for it, but he had a job to do. A shadow appeared in the doorway, and Ted could tell by the sizable girth that it was Captain Briggs.

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Briggs asked, the irritation in his voice was unmistakable. “You thought you were something special, thought the rules didn’t apply to you. Now look at you.”

Ted’s only response was laughter. It started quietly at first and Briggs actually thought that he was crying. As the volume increased, there was no mistaking it. Briggs became enraged.

“What the hell is so damn funny?!” Briggs demanded, screaming into Ted’s face.

“I was just wondering something, captain.”

“Yeah, what?”

“Ever hear of the Guardian?” Ted asked.

“No, why? You think he’s going to be able to help you?” Briggs interjected triumphantly. Ted smiled and turned his face toward the only window in the cell. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, as if heralding the approaching storm.

THE END

© 2002 by Joel Lee. Joel Harrison Lee was born December 12, 1968 at Bethesda Memorial Hospital in Boynton Beach, Florida to Jack and Hattie Lee. Joel was the third of four children and began writing at an early age. After graduating from Santaluces Community High School, he attended Palm Beach Community College. In November of 1998, Joel married and a year later, welcomed his daughter into the world. Currently, he lives in Jupiter, Florida with his wife, his daughter, and his dog. He can be reached by E-mail at joelhlee@adelphia.net.