______________________
A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
______________________
Chapter 1
WESTMOREHAM COUNTY
WASHINGTON STATE, SOUTHEAST REGION
SEPTEMBER 8
Dr. Abram Lemercier leaned forward over the steering-wheel, squinting. His thick glasses did not improve his view much in the compact haze that wrapped over the billowing fields ahead of him. He glanced at the satellite-linked roadmap on the tiny dashboard screen; a blinking cursor, representing the car, assured him of an absolute position in the world.
Lemercier, a man of fifty-three years with a worried face and beginning baldness, stroked his pointed, droopy white moustaches with his left hand and looked up at the rear-view mirror. His hand habitually drew across the short, graying beard and adjusted the bow tie of his brown tweed costume. That didn't make him look less tired -- his shoulder-long white back-hair suggested a considerably wilder life, which this middle-aged man in a rented car had left behind him long ago.
Abram sighed lightly and switched on the radio. "Urban" country music -- he switched to another station. Classic Seattle grunge rock -- he switched again. At the third switching came some obscure local station.
"...out for the fog, okay? You're listening to WRBC, reaching five thousand listeners twenty-four hours a day! The joke of the week: Where can you find the dumbest people in Westmoreham? In City Hall. And where can you find the smartest ones? When they found out who sat in City Hall, they ended up in the Institute!"
(Canned laughter)
"For our dear nutcases we will now play "They're Coming To Take Me Away, Ha-Ha!"
A monotonous, bizarre tune followed; the refrain was sung by a hysteric falsetto backed up by a stomping, tambourine-clapping beat, and a siren wailed in the background:
"They're coming to take me away, ha-ha
They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hi-hi, ha-ha..."
In the middle of the song, Lemercier's cell-phone started to beep inside his jacket; he switched off the radio. He pulled out the handset-shaped box and held it to his right ear, pressing the receiving button.
"Hello?"
A soft female computer-voice answered: "Incoming call from Langley. Use de-scrambling program number four."
Abram got a tauter, more alert expression around his mouth and eyes. With his eyes still on the road ahead, he pressed a button on the phone with his right hand middle finger.
A nasal, but deep Southern drawl came from the receiver: "Eh-bram? It's Wilson! How's the weather up there?"
Abram smiled briefly and relaxed a little.
"Hi, Ned! Unfortunately it's too foggy for me to see what kinda weather it is outside. Will you request a report?"
"Ha ha... nah, that can wait until you've reached Westmoreham. Y'know, it's the new policy of the Company to create a spirit of mutual understanding and easy communication between chiefs and employees, by scheduling time for more informal exchange... like, letting off steam."
The words sounded rehearsed, or ironically read from a script. Ned's tone went to the painstakingly casual.
"So, how is it, Abram? Is everything okay?"
Abram's face went taut again, and his brow wrinkled up to his scalp.
"I'm fine," he said mutely. "Last health check was in August, and the doctors found no problems."
"Ehxcellent, ehxcellent. No outbreaks of middle-age crah-sis, ah hope?"
His tone was joking, disarming. Abram replied in the same tone, obviously used to chatting with Ned Wilson.
"I'm an educated psychologist, Ned. I've been into self-analysis since I had my first pimples, so don't worry. How about you, Ned? Do you still hit your wife in the face very often?"
Ned's voice choked a laugh.
"But seriously, Abram, I'm sure you feel fine, and I'm sure that if there'd be anything, you wouldn't think twihce about telling me. See ya!"
"Yeah. Bye."
Abram put the phone back into his inside pocket, still looking straight ahead of him. He was now driving into the outskirts of the southern edge of the small town, a broad street lined with low buildings and a few people on the sidewalks. The mist had cleared somewhat -- or he had left it behind -- and the sharp blue sky was starting to appear above.
He saw the sign saying WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE 1.5 MILES and made a right turn. He took off from the short, uninteresting main street and drove into the soft, undulating farm landscape which abruptly succeeded the low, flat houses. Tractors were plowing up the earth on both sides of the road; a few farmhouses lay half-hidden between the dune-like hills. The mist was now reduced to steaming pools in the shadows between the dunes, and far ahead Abram was able to see the distant blue mountains rise above the landscape.
From a distance, the Westmoreham Institute stood out from the horizon, sharply outlined against the clear, late morning sky: a dark-brown brick building with whitewashed cornerstones, a pointed tile roof, and chimneys like steeplechases. The rounded chapel and the arched front portal with the fan-shaped steps increased its vague church-like appearance. But in contrast, metal bars blocked each of the two-story building's tall windows - and a high barbed-wire fence surrounded the spacious lawn of the estate.
Abram made a left turn into the parking-lot before the fence, and slid in next to the sentry-booth at the steel-bar gates. A security guard's head popped out through the glass booth, condensed air steaming from his mouth. He was heavily muffled up, with earmuffs outside his uniform cap.
"Good morning, sir," he called out with a clenched smile. "Do you have an appointment?"
Abram lowered the power-window and squinted at the raw, cold air. Keeping his head inside the car, he handed over a bundle of papers. A sudden gust almost tore them from his grip, but the guard quickly snatched them with his hand. Abram gave the guard a sheepish smile. He grinned back.
"Not the first time that happens, sir. If we'd had any trees or flags around here, people would be prepared for those squalls."
He pulled his hand into the booth and studied the papers.
"I'm Abram Lemercier, psychologist from Virginia," Abram said a little awkwardly. "Here to study a patient."
The guard looked up from the clearance papers and examined Abram's face with measured eyes, compared it with something on his table, and talked into the intercom next to him -- still with his eyes on Abram.
Then he said, in a more formal tone: "Dr. Oregon is awaiting you, sir. You may walk in now."
Abram frowned in mild amazement. Walk? The guard shrugged.
"Those are the rules, sir. All vehicles, including bicycles, must be left outside the fence. If you have a lot of baggage, I could ask a warden to help you carry..."
"No, that won't be necessary," Abram said quickly. "Thank you."
He backed the car into an empty VISITOR space, put on his coat and hat, grabbed his briefcase and stepped out, locking the car. Holding his hat with one hand on his head, Abram walked toward the gates. The guard gave the go-ahead and the gates rolled apart with a whirring sound.
Abram hesitated for a moment, turned in the wind and called out at the guard: "Tell me, why haven't you got a flag here?"
The guard shouted back: "We had to take it away, because the sight of it made our patients restless!"
Abram stared in disbelief at the guard for a second, then spun around and walked briskly through the gates. They immediately clanged shut behind him.