David Morrell - The Shimmer

First, the rhythm sank into him. It drifted, so hypnotic that it seemed to counteract his quickening heartbeat. Second, the notes vibrated in a way that made the colors in the room appear to intensify. Third, the melody-which didn’t have any pattern that he could detect-made his mouth feel as if he’d just sipped…

“You’re tasting orange juice, aren’t you, Colonel?”

Startled, he looked up. A researcher had noticed him draw his tongue along his lips.

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“We all are. Do the colors seem stronger as well?” The man’s eyes flashed with curiosity.

Raleigh nodded, squinting to subdue the sudden intense glow of the monitors.

“You can almost feel the music as much as hear it,” the man continued.

“Yes. A ripple of warmth along my skin.”

“It’s called synesthesia.”

Raleigh was blessed with an encyclopedic memory. He quickly identified the word. “A process by which the stimulation of one sense somehow causes other senses to be stimulated as well.”

“Exactly,” the researcher said. “In this case, we’re not only hearing these sounds, we’re also seeing them, feeling them, and tasting them.”

Raleigh glanced from one scientist to another. He thought of the projects his team had been developing. One of his favorites was a method of transmitting ultralow sound waves that affected the physical and psychological well-being of an enemy. The enemy wouldn’t be able to hear the sound and hence wouldn’t be aware of the aural bombardment. But the effects would be profound. In the 1990s, an early version had been tested around the isolated community of Taos in northern New Mexico. For months the valley had been saturated by a low-level frequency that in theory should have been beneath the range of what human and animal ears could register but in actuality turned out to be just barely detectable. Locals who were made nervous wrecks by it took to calling it the “Taos hum.” Dogs and cats showed visible pain, scratching at their ears until they were bloody. That glitch had been corrected so that no person or animal could hear the low vibration, and Raleigh had enjoyed the power of being able to make people irritable enough to lose their tempers-even at- tack one another-simply because he had flicked a switch.

But no project had ever offered so much baffling promise as this one. It had been in development for decades, since long before Raleigh had maneuvered his career so that he’d been put in charge of it in 1995. It dated back to before INSCOM had been established in 1977, and even before the National Security Agency itself had been created in 1952. This was the culmination of something that had obsessed him since he was a boy, and it presented the chance for him to fulfill a lifelong ambition.

Finally it’s my turn.

Leaning over the console and staring at the flickering lights, he addressed his next question to the entire team.

“Usually all we get is static. Why is this happening all of a sudden?”

“It’s not just Rostov,” a woman scientist murmured as she shook her head as if to free herself from the strange music.

Raleigh turned toward a large computer screen on which a world map showed four widely separated red dots. Each of the dots was pulsing.

“Rostov started first,” a man with thick spectacles said. “But then the others began doing the same thing. The static dissolved, and…” The man gestured in mystification. “And then we heard this.”

“The others?” Continuing to taste orange juice, Raleigh moved closer to the map on the screen. One of the flashing dots was situated in west Texas. That was the one he’d automatically looked toward be- cause that was the site on which the research had always been focused. But now he peered at the other locations. Norway, Australia, and Thailand-all sites known to display phenomena similar to those in west Texas.

“What you’re hearing is the one in Australia,” the woman continued.

“But those areas are even more out of the way than Rostov,” Raleigh objected. “Hell, the one in Thailand’s on a riverbank in a jungle. The one in Australia’s hundreds of miles into the outback. And we don’t have monitoring equipment anywhere near them, let alone a radio observatory like the one in west Texas.”

“In this case, there’s no need,” the man with thick glasses explained. “The signals are so powerful they’re leaking out into the atmosphere. We’re capturing them off special frequencies on our satellites.”

“You said Rostov started to do this first?”

“Yes. Then the others became active.”

Raleigh pulled his cell phone from his belt and quickly tapped numbers.

“Sergeant, assemble a team. Civilian identities. Concealed weapons. We’re leaving for west Texas at dawn.”

“It’s dark enough now,” Costigan said, his figure indistinct in the police car. Neither of them had spoken in so long that his voice seemed extra loud.

“Finally,” Page told him. “It’s about time I got the answers you promised.”

“I didn’t promise answers,” the police chief replied. “What I promised was that you’d understand.”

Page shook his head in annoyance, opened the passenger door, and stepped onto the gravel parking area. He stretched to ease the tight muscles in his legs and shoulders. His companion walked to the back of the cruiser, where he opened the trunk and pulled something out.

“Here.” Costigan reached across with a windbreaker. “In a couple of hours, you’ll want this. It gets cold out here.”

“A couple of hours?” Baffled, Page took the windbreaker but didn’t put it on. Everything was shadowy in the dusk. A faint light was mounted on the sidewall of the observation platform, but its effects were minimal. The last glow of sunset disappeared below the horizon.

As he walked past Tori’s Saturn, approaching the observation plat- form, he heard a vehicle behind him and looked back toward the headlights of a Volkswagen van that steered from the road and stopped a short distance from the police car. Puzzled, he stopped to see who had arrived. The van’s headlights went off. Then interior lights came on as doors were opened. Page saw the silhouettes of a middle-aged man and woman getting out. They twisted their shoulders, stretching the kinks out after what had evidently been a long drive.

“This better be worth it,” the man said irritably. “We’re a hundred and fifty miles out of our way.”

“You said you wanted to retire early and see the country,” the woman replied.

The man surveyed the dark, barren area around him.

“And we’re sure as hell in the country. That police car’s probably here to keep people from getting robbed. Well, come on, let’s get this over with.”

The couple shut their doors, extinguishing the van’s interior lights. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as they walked toward the observation platform.

Following their example, Page continued in that direction. Costigan veered off to throw the crumpled paper bag with the remnants of their burgers and fries into a trash can, then followed him across the lot. Before they made it another ten feet, Page heard a second vehicle approaching, then a third. Both turned into the parking area, their headlights sweeping across the structure, but he didn’t look back this time.

He came around the sidewall and found an area about thirty feet long and ten feet deep. It had a wooden floor, a roof, and a built-in bench that went all the way along the back wall. Anyone sitting there would face the grassland that stretched beyond the fence.

A solitary figure was in the middle, looking toward the dark horizon.

A woman. She wore sneakers, jeans, and a sweater. She seemed oblivious to the shadows of the middle-aged man and woman, who went over to the fence and stared past it toward the night.