A. R. Yngve - Parry's Protocol

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______________________

A.R.Yngve

PARRY'S PROTOCOL

______________________

Prologue:

WESTMOREHAM INSTITUTE FOR TREATMENT OF THE CRIMINALLY

INSANE

WASHINGTON STATE, SOUTHEAST REGION, USA

SEPTEMBER 8

Perkins, the night-watchman, strolled into his narrow booth. He had been walking

his first round through the worn, whitewashed corridors of the institution.

"One o'clock and all's well," he mumbled almost inaudibly -- and immediately

shook his head, as if reproaching himself for saying so.

The night-watchman eased his fat, uniformed body into a swivel-chair made of

pale wood. He switched on a tiny color TV set on the desk before him; one that

had earlier been used for the surveillance cameras, before the institution replaced

them with infra-red sensors. Perkins's favorite show came on, and the comedian

on the screen was going through his end monologue:

"...and my Prozacs wouldn't understand me, and my girlfriend failed to comfort

me -- or was it the other way around?"

(Laughter from the audience)

"And it was then, when my lawyer said: 'Eddie, your overdraft facility is sending

me telepathic messages', and I asked him 'What's the shit, man?', and he said:

'Eddie, get your life in order; you should seek out some wise man and find the

meaning of your life', it was then I flew to see this guru in Nepal, who lived in a

little hut by the foot of the Himalayas.

"I entered, said hello, and asked him -- no, begged him: 'Talk to me, Master! My

life has lost its meaning. And the world seems to be falling apart around me; why

does nothing make sense anymore?!'

"And the guru stroked his long, stripy beard -- he looked like a hundred years,

could easily have been that guy in 'The Golden Child' -- and answered: 'At the top

of this mountain lies a cave. In that cave lives a holy man, who has beheld the

secret of Creation. The last time I heard from him was fifty years ago. If you

hurry, you might get to meet him before he leaves this world.'

"So I hired a couple of Sherpas who took me all the way up that high, snowy

mountain. The wind blew like hell all the way. But after walking for two days

across slippery, icy paths, we reached the holy man's cave. It was all covered with

snow; we had to dig out the opening; and I staggered inside, dead beat.

"In there was a tiny little furnished rock shelter, lit by candles, and almost all of

them had burned out. Man, it was freezing in there. And at the very end of the

shelter there was an extremely old, bald man, lying in a small bed, shivering with

cold. I covered the holy man with my jacket, and an interpreter translated my

question to him: 'What is the secret of Creation?' The ancient, toothless man

whispered something in the ear of the interpreter -- and then he died.

"I shouted: 'What'd he say?! What'd he say?!', shaking the interpreter's shoulders.

And the interpreter looked gravely at me for a looong moment... and he said:

'Beats me, I don't understand French at all.'"

The roars of laughter from the TV set mixed with the night-watchman's chuckles.

An imaginary listener who wouldn't have known Perkins, might have believed he

was sobbing. From the corridors of the institution came no sounds, except the

occasional ticking of the strip-lights, and a faint whisper of wind from the old

ventilators. The patients in their cells slept: the deep, dreamless sleep brought

only by large drug doses.

● (To Chapter 1)

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.

● (To Chapter 2)

Chapter 2

When Lemercier was about ten meters from the entrance, it opened: a steel door,

fitted into the portal.

A short black woman in a doctor's white coat, dark blue trousers, and soft shoes

stepped outside. The door shut heavily behind her. At once she saw Abram and

paced down the steps toward him. They met at the foot of the steps. He stretched

out his hand, and the woman shook it formally. Lemercier, who was of medium

height, would have stood one head higher than her, unless she had been standing

on the first step. She had a small, round face, and her hair was drawn back into a

neck bun. Her age appeared to be about thirty-five.

"Dr. Lemercier?" The woman gave him a cool smile. "I'm Dr. Joyce Oregon,

medical superintendent and director of the Westmoreham Institute. Did you enjoy

your travel?"

Lemercier smiled, clasping her hand an instant longer than usual, then released it.

"Just fine, thank you. Are these sudden fogs common around here?"

Joyce looked briefly confused, then brightened up and gave out a laugh.

"Oh, that!" she said. "No, they don't come very often. It's the proximity to the

Rockies that's causing them, I've been told. Come in, and I'll see that you get a

pass-card."

They walked up the steps to the steel door. Dr. Oregon stuck a plastic card into a

slot next to the door, and several bolts clicked as it opened. They came into a

clearly lit hall, with yet another steel door a few feet away. Oregon looked up at

what appeared to be a tiny surveillance camera, and spoke toward its microphone

tube.

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______________________A.R.YngvePARRY'SPROTOCOL______________________Prologue:WESTMOREHAMINSTITUTEFORTREATMENTOFTHECRIMINALLYINSANEWASHINGTONSTATE,SOUTHEASTREGION,USASEPTEMBER8Perkins,thenight-watchman,strolledintohisnarrowbooth.Hehadbeen\walkinghisfirstroundthroughtheworn,whitewashedcorridorsofthein...

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