She returned to the computer workstation and clicked away for several minutes. Pitt continued to fight the restraints, but to no avail. He glanced at Loren and seethed with anger.
She had been lying still since Pitt had entered the room, yet occasional body movements suggested she was partially conscious. Now her movements began to grow more frequent and more pained. As she twisted and tugged at her restraints, Irene stepped over, gazed at Loren’s struggles, and smiled.
“The mind is an amazing vehicle,” she said to Pitt. “With the aid of some mental enhancements”—she tapped the tray of syringes—“the virtual world can become very real.”
Loren struggled some more, then let out a sharp cry. Her head tossed from side to side as if an invisible hand was slapping her across the face.
“Make it stop,” Pitt said.
Irene gave a depraved grin. “It’s not me that’s harming her, it’s you. Her reality is that she’s being assaulted by you.”
Pitt ground his teeth and strained against his bonds as Loren screamed. She kicked and twisted against her restraints, trying to pull herself away. Then she tossed her head back and began to whimper. Tears seeped beneath her headset and ran down her cheeks.
Pitt had never felt so angry or so helpless. “Stop it!” His muscles nearly burst through his skin in rage.
Irene laughed. “You shouldn’t wish for it to stop, Mr. Pitt, for that’s when you’ll see the real power of suggestion.”
She stepped to the workstation, eyed the monitor, then returned carrying the stun gun. “Your wife is done submitting to your violence—and is about ready to partake in her own.”
Loren lay on the table, quietly shaking.
Irene released her arm and leg restraints and removed the earphones. Finally, she pulled off the virtual reality headset.
Pitt could now see his wife’s eyes. They were hardly recognizable. Normally violet, bright, and vibrant, they were dark, barren, and sullen. She looked at Irene, smiling weakly.
Then she glanced at Pitt and recoiled with a gasp.
Irene leaned close. She clasped Loren’s shoulders and whispered in her ear. “You must kill him. You must kill him now.”
Loren nodded faintly as Irene helped her rise. She stood for a moment, leaning on Irene for support until she gained her balance. All the while she stared at Pitt with a look of revulsion.
“Loren,” Pitt said.
The word sent her trembling.
Irene again leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Do it.”
Irene picked up the antique flintlock, cocked the hammer, and placed it in Loren’s hand.
Loren looked at the pistol, then at Pitt, then back to the pistol.
“Loren.”
She ignored him and lowered the pistol to her side. Loren walked in a trance around Pitt’s table, approaching from the far side while eyeing him warily. When she stopped for a moment, her eyes taking in Abigail Brown, the workstation, and the table full of needles, she showed no emotion. Her focus returned to Pitt as she inched nervously toward him.
Irene approached from the opposite side of the table, nodding in encouragement, stun gun still in her palm.
“Loren.”
Her face wrinkled at the sound until it was supplanted by the voice of Irene.
“You must do it.”
Pitt looked up at Loren, who returned his gaze with a cold, robotic stare. He searched for a glimmer of recognition somewhere in her vacant eyes. For an instant, he thought he saw a flicker of acknowledgment, but he couldn’t be sure.
Certainty came when she raised the pistol and pulled the trigger.
56