My silence bought me five weeks of peace. The "anonymous donation" that I received was quite a large one. I didn't just rent an apartment. I bought a condominium near campus, and furnished it with nice, though not extravagant furniture. Every day, when I walked through the door, I looked around at the clean, quiet living room that was, all by itself, larger than my entire dorm room had been. But I guess every honeymoon has to end.
I pushed through the door, and immediately noticed that something was wrong. Two men, the detective from the federal police, and another man who could almost have been his twin, were sitting on my couch. They watched me attentively as I entered.
The detective spoke before I had a chance. "I didn't believe that it was necessary to tell you to keep things quiet."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Usually, when we speak of hidden cameras, we mean that we want our cameras to be hidden from the people that we're observing. I was under the impression that you would understand the implicit meaning of hidden in the phrase 'hidden camera'. Obviously, I was mistaken."
"I'm confused. Whatever it is that you're saying, could you say it to me in plain English?"
"In plain English. Yes, you probably used plain English. You probably said something like 'Don't look now, Howell, but there's a camera hidden in your room. The feds are watching you, so you should stay out of your virtual worlds for a while.' Is that how it went?"
"You think I told him?"
"You catch on quickly." The second man smiled at this. His smile gave him a predatory look.
"But I didn't. I didn't say anything."
"If that's the case, how did Mr. Clarke know that he should stay out of his virtual worlds?"
"I don't know. He might have just gotten sick of them."
"We've seen things like this before. Users get very addicted to them. Very addicted. He wouldn't just 'get sick of them', as you say."
"But I think he already was. Getting sick of them, I mean. I think that something happened to him, and he needed a doctor's help. After that happened, he didn't seem to use them very often."
"He needed a doctor's help?"
"I think so. He was going all weird, thrashing around, and then going stiff, and stuff like that. So I sent a message to one of his friends, a guy named Brain-something-or-other, and he said he was a doctor. He said he'd help him."
Both men looked at me, unspeaking. I felt like minutes were dragging by, but it was probably only a few seconds. The new detective spoke, his voice hoarse and grating.
"Was it Brain_Stem?"
"I think so."
"Another piece to the puzzle. Interesting." I hoped he wouldn't speak again. There was something about his voice. Something wrong. Something that made me feel uneasy, almost sick.
His partner continued. "How long ago did this happen?"
"I don't know. A couple of months?"
"Are you asking me, or telling me."
"Telling you. I think."
"So it was about eight weeks ago?"
"Yeah. Something like that."
The two men glanced at each other. As if on cue, they stood, and each extended his hand to shake mine. We shook hands wordlessly, and as they left, I heard that strange, sickening voice saying "Thank you for your time Mr. Jones."