Christa Faust - Fringe The Zodiac Paradox

“Here’s the thing,” Bell said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to try to open the gate again in this house. This neighborhood, it’s just too densely populated.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Walter said. “We should try to find a different location, a place that is both secure and relatively isolated.”

The two of them looked over at Nina.

“Right,” she said. “I’m thinking...”

“Think faster,” Bell said. “We mustn’t forget that the longer it takes us to figure out how to reliably open that gateway, and keep it open long enough to put the Zodiac back where he belongs, the more time he has to act on his murderous impulses.”

“Yes, of course,” Walter said. “But that doesn’t justify risking the lives of innocent bystanders.”

“I’ve already said as much, Walter,” Bell responded brusquely. “There’s no need to belabor the point.”

“I’ve got it,” Nina said. “Roscoe and his band have a rehearsal space over in India Basin. It’s big, secure, and was specifically chosen because there are no neighbors to complain about the noise. The few neighboring buildings that have active businesses all close down before 6 p.m. and that block isn’t zoned for residences. It’s perfect.”

“The place where Violet Sedan Chair rehearses,” Walter intoned. “I would love to see it.”

The three of them packed up their equipment, piled into the Beetle and headed down to India Basin.

* * *

The Violet Sedan Chair rehearsal space really was perfect. It was inside an unmarked and unremarkable brick building on Spear Avenue, across the street from an abandoned shipyard. There wasn’t a single vehicle parked on the street, no sign of a living soul. Unless one wanted to include the fat brown wharf rats Walter spotted trundling over the piles of scrap.

They entered the building through a smaller door cut into a huge metal rolling door the size of a drive-in movie screen. Nina flipped a huge switch that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Doctor Frankenstein’s laboratory. For such an impressive switch, the resulting illumination was somewhat disappointing. Just a few motley antique floor lamps with red and blue bulbs, a single black light that made their teeth and eyes glow, and a small lamp illuminating the keyboard of a majestic old grand piano.

There was a giant Persian rug that made the rough shape of a stage in the center of the concrete floor. The piano and a garish, fluorescent green and orange drum kit were situated on it, as if the door were the audience. Along the back edge of the rug stood a wall of amplifiers that made Walter’s ears hurt just looking at them.

There were also several battered couches and chairs situated as if to observe performances on the rug-stage. A streamlined, 1950s refrigerator was off to one side, and a portable heater plugged into a long, snaking extension cord on the other. When Walter peeked into the fridge, he discovered that it was empty except for a single lonely can of beer and a package of Ho Hos.

Directly above the rug-stage was a large, grimy skylight.

“Yes,” Walter said. “Yes, I think this will be ideal.”

“It’s a bit chilly,” Bell noted, waving his fingers through the pale steam formed by his breath. He set down the canvas messenger bag that he had used to carry the alpha wave generator.

“Clearly that’s what this is for,” Nina said, cranking the knob on the heater and releasing a dusty hot electric train smell.

“I wish we’d opted for hot coffee instead of cola for the mixer,” Bell said, setting down the small cooler at Walter’s feet.

“Absolutely,” Walter agreed, opening the cooler and taking out a bottle. “But we want to keep as many variables consistent as possible.”

Bell took a bottle for himself, and then pulled out the tiny vial of their special blend. He dosed both of their beverages with the exact same amount as the previous experiments, then placed the vial and syringe on top of the cooler.

“Okay, boys,” Nina said, pulling her gun and a stopwatch from her purse. “Where do you want me to be?”

“I think it would be best if we lay down here, on this rug beneath the skylight,” Walter said, taking a swig of his medicated cola. “We can place the biofeedback machine in the center and Nina, you wait there by the piano.”

“We don’t know exactly where the gate will open,” Bell said. “But I can’t imagine it would be more than a few feet away.”

“What if I can’t see it?” Nina asked. “What if only altered minds are able to perceive the gateway?”

“Well, we have no prior data to assess,” Walter said, casting a meaningful glance in their direction. “So we won’t know until we try. That’s why we have to experiment like this, in a controlled area, so that when it comes time to confront the killer, we’ll be ready to put him back where he belongs.”

“But for now,” Bell said. “We’ll do our best to articulate what we’re seeing. That way, even if you don’t see it, you’ll know exactly when it opens and where it’s located in relation to us.”

Walter and Bell clinked their bottles together and drained their dosed colas, then went to work setting up the small, battery-operated biofeedback rig they’d modified to sync their alpha waves during the trip.

When everything was set, they lay down on the faded carpet and waited.

Walter concentrated on the soothing hum of the wireless machine, working on staying as calm and open-minded as possible, then focusing on the rhythm of Bell’s breath and trying to slow his own to match.

* * *

He was just starting to experience the first hints of hallucinogenic onset, simple geometric shapes hunching along the edges of perception like bulky, glowing inch worms, when the band showed up.

“Hey, Nina!” Roscoe said, a big inebriated smile on his usually dour face. “Great to see you, babe.” He paused, a comical look of surprise supplanting the grin. “Is that a gun?”

Nina plunged her gun hand into the suede purse.

“Um... no.” She took her now empty right hand from the purse, and ran it over her hair. “What are you guys doing here? I thought you usually rehearsed on Thursdays.”

“You know how it is,” Chick said, the sticker-covered guitar case in one hand. “Some times you just get bit by the inspiration bug.”

Two other men whom Walter hadn’t met yet came in behind Chick, both with guitar cases of their own. He didn’t need to be introduced to the other two members of Violet Sedan Chair. He instantly recognized Alex Chambers and Oregon Dave Ormond from the photo on their album cover, and his tripping mind painted their skin with the appropriate psychedelic colors and organic paisley shapes.

From an experimental standpoint, this was a disaster, but he couldn’t suppress his childlike excitement over the appearance of the whole band. He wanted to jump up and greet them, but he was surprised to find that his body had melded with the weave of the dusty rug beneath him, making it impossible to get up.

He watched Chick hug Nina, lifting her off her feet and spinning her in a circle. Her shimmering red hair and green suede heels left spiral trails in the air, distracting him until Roscoe found the vial of their special acid blend on top of the cooler, and held it up for the rest of the band to see.

“Check this, man,” he said. “This looks like some pharmaceutical grade shit right here.”

“You put that down,” Nina said, lunging at him.

Roscoe tossed the vial to Chick, like big kids playing keep away from a smaller child in a schoolyard.

“Look at these two,” Iggy, the drummer said, gesturing to Walter and Bell splayed out on the carpet. “They’re tripping balls!”