Sorrel winced as if in pain himself. “And the other?”

“A descendant of Lux’s original architect.”

“And you say there is a connection between these deaths?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think so.”

“You mentioned that others have been affected.”

Logan nodded. “Hearing voices. Feeling dangerous compulsions.” He took a breath. “Seeing people who weren’t really there.”

The old man looked away for a moment. “Could you get me a glass of water, please?”

Logan nodded, then rose and, exiting the room, headed for the nurse’s station. He returned shortly with a plastic bottle of chilled water, which he opened and placed in a receptacle set into one of the wheelchair’s arms. Sorrel lifted the bottle and took a long drink, hand shaking slightly, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny, withered neck. He replaced the bottle, dabbed primly at his lips with the edge of his robe.

“I came in late to the project,” he said. “Not long before it was shut down. I was very young. We all were, really. But I wasn’t long out of Harvard Medical School, full of new ideas — new at the time, in any case.” He shook his head. “I was brought in to see if there was any neurological or other medical way the…negative effects could be ameliorated.”

“I assume you were unsuccessful,” Logan said gently.

The old man went silent again for a few minutes. “That was many years ago. I’ve kept my oath — I’ve spoken of it to nobody — but of course over the years I kept up with developments in biology and psychology. After all this time it is hard for me to…” He paused. “To extract my later conjectures of what could or should have happened with what actually took place.”

The man might be old, but he was remarkably lucid. “Just tell me about the goal of the project,” Logan said. “In your own words.”

Sorrel nodded once more, and then his gaze went far away, as if he was peering into the distant past — which, Logan realized, was precisely the case. He remained silent, giving the man space to remember. In his own mind’s eye, Logan saw a procession of sepia-toned images: a group of men in seersucker suits and straw hats, standing and laughing on the front lawn of Lux; the same men, huddled together in a lab, engaged in some experiment; the same men yet again, sitting around a table, faces serious.

Finally, the old man shifted in the wheelchair. “It started as an accident, really. Martin had been experimenting with the effects of very high-frequency sound. What today would be called ultrasound.” He looked at Logan. “You probably aren’t aware of the impact certain infrasonic frequencies have on the human body.”

“You mean, like the Coventry Haunting?”

Sorrel nodded in surprise. “Why, yes. Precisely.”

This haunting had been a discovery by researchers at Coventry University: that extremely low-frequency sound, in the vicinity of 19 hertz, caused feelings of disquiet and dread. A side effect of this infrasound was a peculiar ocular vibration that triggered visions of a shadowy, ghostly apparition.

“Our work took place much earlier than that phenomenon, of course. Martin discovered that certain very high-frequency sounds had quite specific effects on human subjects.”

“By ‘Martin,’ I assume you mean Martin Watkins, the physicist.”

Sorrel nodded again.

“What was the frequency of the ultrasound?”

“I don’t recall precisely. Not one that would ever occur in nature. Somewhere in the vicinity of one point five or one point six megahertz, I believe. That was Martin’s bailiwick, not mine. It was a very precise frequency, and the level of sound pressure had to be exact in order for the phenomenon to occur.”

“What phenomenon was that?”

“Unusual sensory manifestations. Odd, unpredictable behavior. Even, in extreme cases, what a psychologist would term ‘dissociation.’ ”

“That sounds like a form of schizophrenia,” Logan said.

“Exactly. Of course, schizophrenia was a relatively new term in the thirties. Many still referred to it as dementia praecox.” Sorrel chuckled mirthlessly. “You know, people aren’t that much closer to understanding schizophrenia today than we were when Roosevelt was president. No known etiology.”

“At least it’s treatable. With drugs like Thorazine. Clozaril.”

“Yes. Thorazine was the first.” Sorrel seemed to slip into old memories again for a moment. “The basic idea of the research was that if certain specific ultrasonic frequencies could induce such reactions — if the sound waves influenced the brain in a certain way — then logically there should be other sound waves — perhaps harmonic, perhaps derivative — that would have the opposite effect.”

It was as if a huge piece of an invisible jigsaw puzzle abruptly slid into place. “Of course,” Logan said. “If sound could be used to trigger schizoid behavior in a normal brain…why couldn’t it be used to suppress such behavior in a schizoid brain?”

“That’s it in a nutshell, young man — that was the start of what was initially called Project S. For obvious reasons, the research was kept secret — the last thing Lux wanted was for word to leak out that they’d found a way to reproduce schizophrenic behavior. But nevertheless, spirits ran high. Martin and his partner, Edwin Ramsey, thought they could find a way to cure, or at least treat with great efficacy, a disease that had baffled mankind for ages. All they had to do was reverse Martin’s initial work.”

As he’d spoken, the light in the old man’s eyes had grown brighter, and he’d become more animated. Now, however, he sank back in his wheelchair. “They tried everything. Different frequencies and amplitudes. Sound masking. Interference. They all but invented a revolutionary method of antiphasing — noise cancellation. Ultimately, they made some progress at mitigating schizoid behavior in afflicted people — but they were never able to eliminate the negative effects on everyone else.” The man’s eyes slid closed, and his head nodded. Then he started. “Did I say ‘they’? I meant we. I was brought in, as a last resort.”

“What did they hope you could bring to the table?” Logan asked.

“Some kind of medical key. Some biological answer to the problem.”

“How did the sound waves work, exactly?”

“Exactly? I can’t tell you that, any more than I can tell you what causes schizophrenia. That’s the central problem. Believe me, I’ve spent more than my share of time thinking about it. Researching the possibilities — for my own amusement, of course.” He nodded toward the magazines on the tray table. “As best I can tell, the high-frequency sound waves stimulated — in today’s terms — serotonin receptors in the frontal cortex of the brain. Perhaps they acted on the raphe nuclei, as well.” He sighed. “Ironically, the more Martin refined his machinery — the electromagnetic emitters, amplifiers and compressors, and transmission equipment — the more extreme the effects became. The hallucinations grew more bizarre, the behavior more erratic. Synesthesia became a common side effect. Toward the end, in fact, the work became known as Project Synesthesia. They were hoping, you see, that if nothing else, we’d be able to learn more about the inner workings of conditions like synesthesia and schizophrenia. But…” And Sorrel lapsed into another silence.

“You were closed down in 1935,” Logan said.

Sorrel nodded. “Ransom, the director, became increasingly concerned that a device such as ours, which created hallucinations and unpredictable responses, could effectively short-circuit minds. My term, not his. He worried about the device being used to force people to see things that weren’t real, hear voices that weren’t actually speaking. Do things they didn’t want to do. The last straw was when other scientists, working in the vicinity of our lab, began seeing and hearing things, acting oddly. Ransom said it went against the charter. Nevertheless he felt it had sufficient promise to be mothballed rather than scrapped. Sealed up the lab and everything with it. Equipment, books, box upon box of files — the works.”