first then, after a few moments, you will fall asleep. You will sink quickly through all stages of sleep, until you enter the so-called REM phase. That’s when you will start to dream.”
“How am I ever going to tell if the crawler has entered my mind?”
“From little things: misplaced objects. Jarring words. Details that don’t match. Observe what you dream, let the details sink in. Find what truly belongs to you, single out what does not. Anything can betray the crawler’s presence.”
The couch jolted lightly, causing Trumaine to turn to Matthews with concern.
“The couch is still adjusting,” she reassured him.
“Aren’t you going to strap me in? I mean ... it’s a long way to the bottom of the chamber.”
Matthews curled the corner of her lips into something that could be a faint smile.
“The built-in circuitry is very sensitive,” she said. “It shifts your couch according to the movements of your body. I promise you won’t fall.”
“I wish I was that confident,” groaned Trumaine.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Detective. Really. It will be like falling asleep,” said Benedict. “At the end of the standard eight-hour shift, you will be returned to this same position in the level.”
He nodded to Matthews, who tapped her pad one last time. To Trumaine’s dismay, the deckchair rose and floated away. Past where Benedict and Matthews were. Past the glass parapet of the gallery; it glided toward the chamber like a launch making for the high sea.
Trumaine’s face had suddenly turned green. He was fighting hard something he had never openly admitted, not even to himself: his fear of heights.
The couch drifted into the tide of the seemingly colliding couches, arriving at a preordained position in the mesh.
As Trumaine reeled his head in, forcing himself not to look below, the emerald glow emanating from the couch headrest started to pulsate. The movements of the deckchair became slower and smoother.
At long last, Trumaine’s eyes closed ...
Chapter Seven
Everything was cast in a bedazzling whiteness.
Little by little, the glow dissolved, revealing the dim interiors of a medium-sized house. Even if the shutters of the French windows were drawn, all the same, a thin beam of morning light sneaked in through the glass panes of the front door. It was enough to chase away the shadows, letting the eye glimpse bits of what was inside.
The house developed around one level. The space had been woven around the difference in the level between the lower living room, on the right, and the raised kitchen with the dinette, on the left.
The main entrance gave into the wide living room where a white sofa and a low glass table sat above a low-hair ethnic rug woven in earth colors. Nearby, a couple of armchairs faced a modern, stylish fireplace built into the wall.
On the far side of the living room, another door opened onto the remaining rooms: a master bedroom, a room for the guests, a couple of bathrooms and the laundry.
Above a quick flight of steps, was the dinette—with a square table, four chairs and a ceramic fruit tray—and, in the corner, the kitchen.
Large, bleached olive-wood planks had been used for flooring in the living room, looking cozy and warm, while the kitchen floor was plain ceramic tiles.
A plastic sheeting covered part of the living room. An aluminum ladder lay against the far corner, along with a folding platform, a bunch of water-paint cans, used brushes of all sizes, a paint roller and rolls of masking tape. Clearly, the house had just been through some restructuring and the vague, acrid smell of paint was still in the air.
The house was silent and motionless, except for the particles of dust caught in the beam of light coming in from the front door. They fluttered lazily around it, uncertain if they should keep floating or, at long last, yield to gravity.
Even the outside sounded quiet.
Then, all at once, a shrill carefree voice rang about, just beyond the
“How am I ever going to tell if the crawler has entered my mind?”
“From little things: misplaced objects. Jarring words. Details that don’t match. Observe what you dream, let the details sink in. Find what truly belongs to you, single out what does not. Anything can betray the crawler’s presence.”
The couch jolted lightly, causing Trumaine to turn to Matthews with concern.
“The couch is still adjusting,” she reassured him.
“Aren’t you going to strap me in? I mean ... it’s a long way to the bottom of the chamber.”
Matthews curled the corner of her lips into something that could be a faint smile.
“The built-in circuitry is very sensitive,” she said. “It shifts your couch according to the movements of your body. I promise you won’t fall.”
“I wish I was that confident,” groaned Trumaine.
“There’s nothing to worry about, Detective. Really. It will be like falling asleep,” said Benedict. “At the end of the standard eight-hour shift, you will be returned to this same position in the level.”
He nodded to Matthews, who tapped her pad one last time. To Trumaine’s dismay, the deckchair rose and floated away. Past where Benedict and Matthews were. Past the glass parapet of the gallery; it glided toward the chamber like a launch making for the high sea.
Trumaine’s face had suddenly turned green. He was fighting hard something he had never openly admitted, not even to himself: his fear of heights.
The couch drifted into the tide of the seemingly colliding couches, arriving at a preordained position in the mesh.
As Trumaine reeled his head in, forcing himself not to look below, the emerald glow emanating from the couch headrest started to pulsate. The movements of the deckchair became slower and smoother.
At long last, Trumaine’s eyes closed ...
Chapter Seven
Everything was cast in a bedazzling whiteness.
Little by little, the glow dissolved, revealing the dim interiors of a medium-sized house. Even if the shutters of the French windows were drawn, all the same, a thin beam of morning light sneaked in through the glass panes of the front door. It was enough to chase away the shadows, letting the eye glimpse bits of what was inside.
The house developed around one level. The space had been woven around the difference in the level between the lower living room, on the right, and the raised kitchen with the dinette, on the left.
The main entrance gave into the wide living room where a white sofa and a low glass table sat above a low-hair ethnic rug woven in earth colors. Nearby, a couple of armchairs faced a modern, stylish fireplace built into the wall.
On the far side of the living room, another door opened onto the remaining rooms: a master bedroom, a room for the guests, a couple of bathrooms and the laundry.
Above a quick flight of steps, was the dinette—with a square table, four chairs and a ceramic fruit tray—and, in the corner, the kitchen.
Large, bleached olive-wood planks had been used for flooring in the living room, looking cozy and warm, while the kitchen floor was plain ceramic tiles.
A plastic sheeting covered part of the living room. An aluminum ladder lay against the far corner, along with a folding platform, a bunch of water-paint cans, used brushes of all sizes, a paint roller and rolls of masking tape. Clearly, the house had just been through some restructuring and the vague, acrid smell of paint was still in the air.
The house was silent and motionless, except for the particles of dust caught in the beam of light coming in from the front door. They fluttered lazily around it, uncertain if they should keep floating or, at long last, yield to gravity.
Even the outside sounded quiet.
Then, all at once, a shrill carefree voice rang about, just beyond the
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