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The rumors began, of all places, on Twitter. A concerned co-worker of a young man named Caleb Smith posted a photo of the two of them from a long ago holiday party with the remark that Smith had gone radio silent after leaving for a work-related trip. That the Twitter user noted their employment with Blue Book in their profile caught the attention of an FBI agent after said tweet went viral as a missing persons notice.
Blue Book and its founder, Nathan Bateman, had been on the radar of various government agencies for some time. A man with Bateman’s money and skill sets stood to become the country’s greatest asset or liability, depending on which way he turned. Until this point, all the various government agencies remained content to monitor Bateman from afar.
Missing employees, though… that raised a few eyebrows and adjusted a few pairs of glasses. A case was assigned. The life of Caleb Smith was investigated. Agents were dispatched to Smith’s place of work to discreetly interview co-workers and piece together the man’s last forty-eight hours of existence before he was flown to the eccentric Bateman’s private compound. A pilot was found and interviewed. A team was assembled. Bateman’s remote hideaway was located and raided.
A decomposing body lay in a hallway. A defunct artificial intelligence slumped nearby.
Sealed in a separate wing, unable to escape, a young man clung to life and fell unconscious with a sigh of relief when agents liberated him. An accompanying med team transported Caleb Smith to the nearest hospital while the FBI picked apart Nathan Bateman’s life’s work and carted away box after box after box.
~*~
Three weeks later, Paul Sevier of the National Security Agency pressed pause on video footage recorded from one agent’s body camera and jotted down a few sentences on his notepad. He was called in to speak with Caleb Smith and had yet to meet the man. Following a short hospital stay, the government transferred Smith to an on-base medical facility to aid in his recovery and eventual reintroduction into society. As Paul understood it, Caleb had been trapped in Bateman’s compound for about a month and had yet to speak with anybody about it.
The poor man had yet to speak, period. Caleb suffered serious physical and mental trauma. Paul’s heart panged as he read the FBI’s reports. Caleb was found malnourished, weak, and unintelligible when the agents found him. Presently he received occupational therapy and counseling, but remained unresponsive when anyone attempted to engage him in conversation.
He barely ate. Nurses shaved him clean, then had to brush his teeth and sponge bathe him. The man spent days on end staring at the walls.
I don’t want to say you’re our last hope, Sevier, Paul was told. But you are. The man is completely shut down.
Paul nodded and made arrangements to meet Caleb once he finished his briefings. As far as the government knew, only two people knew what went down after Caleb joined Nathan Bateman for their so-called experiment. One of them was dead.
If what Caleb suffered stood to impact the nation’s security, it was up to Paul to learn it.
~*~
Once past all the necessary checkpoints, Paul followed his guard escort to where Caleb stayed. It resembled a typical hospital room with an adjustable bed, decades-old furniture and a cold tile floor. The guard waited outside while Paul knocked and entered without waiting for acknowledgement.
“Mr. Smith? Good morning.”
Caleb was out of bed, sitting in one of the stiff padded chairs and facing the window. He wore a dark blue tracksuit with the jacket zipped up to his throat. The curtains were half-drawn but they allowed enough light in to create a glow off the young man’s pale face. Paul thought it was good for Caleb to sit and absorb some Vitamin D.
Paul took the opposite chair and faced Caleb, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He introduced himself first, and talked as much about his position with the NSA as allowed. He offered up his sympathies toward Caleb with regards to his ordeal, and assured the man that the government wanted to help him. As Caleb had no living relatives, Paul indicated that when Caleb was ready to communicate in some form, that he might point them toward a trusted emergency contact.
Rather than ask questions, Paul informed him of the questions he intended to ask once they reached a better place in their acquaintance. The NSA would want to know the full purpose of Caleb’s visit to Bateman’s compound, what Caleb discussed with the man, and how–if he did–he interacted with any of the artificial intelligence found in the house. Paul told Caleb he would ask about the fate of the AI that resembled an Asian woman, and about how Bateman died. He’d ask how Caleb survived an entire month locked in one wing of the ultra-secure house.
“However much you want to tell us, Caleb,” he added, “we are ready anytime to listen. We will not put any pressure on you to reach out to us, but know that the more you tell us, the better we can help.”
Paul waited, and watched Caleb for his reaction. After a beat, Caleb blinked at him and the tension in his face slackened, but he remained mute. Paul, having nowhere else to go, sat with him until a nurse arrived to bring lunch.
She traded one laden tray for another, taking away Caleb’s untouched breakfast.
“Has nobody attempted to feed him?”
The nurse glared at Paul. “Of course we’ve tried. You can lead a horse to water,” she said. “Give it a shot if you like, maybe he’ll respond to you.”
The portions were small, presumably to waste less food. Paul tamped down his anger. He’d assured Caleb of the government’s help and here they couldn’t be bothered to lift a spoon to the man’s lips.
Paul brought the steaming cup of chicken noodle soup over to where Caleb sat. “Caleb,” he said, “I understand you haven’t been eating much. This looks rather good,” not really, “and I’m sure it’s good for you,” probably loaded with sodium, “and you don’t have to eat the entire bowl. Would you,” he stirred the thick egg noodles floating in the golden broth, “let me help you?”
He held up the soup spoon, dripping and loaded with noodle bits. Caleb fixed his gaze on Paul and, after a few seconds, parted his lips slightly. It was enough for Paul to guide the spoon and get Caleb to sip down the first bite.
A small step, but a necessary one.
~*~
Paul requested permission to move Caleb. “Something I’ve noticed,” he told his superior, “is that the room in which he’s convalescing looks similar to his prison. We’ve put him in a utilitarian space with only the basics. Nothing in that room speaks to comfort. It’s no wonder he’s taking so long to reach out.”
He appealed not for a chain hotel, but a nearby boutique inn currently closed for the season. It gave Paul and Caleb run of the house, with room for security, plus no surprise visitors. Following authorization of the move, two hospital staff and two armed guards escorted Caleb and helped Paul settle him in a plush suite awash in dark reds and greens with a canopied queen bed, a second-floor view of the lake, and a spacious bathroom with a claw foot tub.
The decor, a mixture of Victorian and country antique, better suited little old lady tourists, but Paul thought the color and curved legs of the furniture removed Caleb from the antiseptic coldness of the Bateman compound. Indeed, the second Caleb entered his new room his posture relaxed.
“Would you like a bath, Caleb? An actual bath, not a sponge and a bedpan,” Paul said. “You have a nice deep tub here. Would be a shame not to use it.”
A nod this time. A welcome movement. Paul hoped for words to follow soon. As he prepared the bath the hospital’s aides helped Caleb undress and wrapped him in a soft terry robe. They settled Caleb into the tub, warm and overflowing with bubbles, and Paul asked for privacy.
Paul had removed his shoes and suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Wet clothes were inevitable, but nonetheless he took all possible precautions. “This is a nice tub,” he told Caleb as he brought a footstool to the head of the tub and sat. He dipped a washcloth in the soapy water but didn’t wring it out.
Instead he coaxed Caleb to rest his head back, and Paul wet the man’s hair. “My grandmother had a tub like this in her house,” he said. “We would visit a few times a year, usually on a holiday when people were in and out of all the rooms. I had a younger brother and a male cousin, all close in age, and when we were little my mother would put all of us in at the same time. Three children in a tub, but there was still room to move around.”
This tub, while deep, was short. Paul eyeballed it at just five feet long. When Caleb sank into the bubbles his bended knees rose from the water. One end or the other had to stay high. Paul thought the man looked cute, but kept it to himself.
“I bet this feels better than an impersonal sponge bath,” he said, reaching for the travel bottle of shampoo. Wash away the nightmare of Bateman’s compound, Paul hoped. He lathered up Caleb’s hair, leaving no strands untouched, and massaged the soap into the man’s scalp. “Last time I had a sponge bath, I was in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. I have to be honest, it’s nothing like those softcore Cinemax movies portray.”
Paul gave an awkward laugh. Caleb’s eyes were closed and he rested his head in Paul’s hands. The faint uptick of a smile encouraged Paul.
“My nurse had cold hands despite the warm water, too,” Paul continued. “After the operation I didn’t get any ice cream like you do after a tonsillectomy. Just a giant bowl of bland pudding that tasted like envelope glue. Not my best weekend.”
Paul dipped the rag back into the water again to rinse Caleb’s hair. Floral scents, honeysuckle and jasmine, wafted upward and brought a sense of calm to the scene. Paul got the sense that Caleb yielded to Paul; the man didn’t resist his touch and seemed to give Paul more and more of his trust. If so, Paul knew he had to tread slowly so as not to regress.
He grabbed a clean towel and wrapped it into a turban on Caleb’s head. As he gently tucked in a few stray wet hairs he froze.
“Thank you,” Caleb said. Caleb had a light voice, quiet and timid. He opened his eyes and looked at Paul with clearer sight. Attentive.
“You’re welcome,” Paul said. “Are you ready to get out?”
Caleb shook his head. He slid up into an upright position, submerging his knees. He grasped the edges of the tub and watched the fading bubbles reveal more of his body as they dissolved.
“A few more minutes?” Caleb asked. “We can talk more if you want.”
Paul nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”