The Veritas Project team has a new assignment: To find the truth behind the mysterious disappearance of two runaways. When one runaway turns up totally out of his mind and a government agent steps in to take over the case, the Springfield's continue their own investigation. The twins-Elijah and Elisha-go undercover, posing as runaways. What happens next will keep readers on the edge of their seats as the twins end up in a strange academy where Truth is continually challenged, a gang-like war develops, and Elijah is taken to an ominous mansion from which no one has ever returned. A great thriller with a realistic look at right and wrong.

Nightmare Academy

Tommy Nelson

Chapter One

His mind told him, insisted, that he was running, putting one tattered, bleeding foot in front of the other-even though the ground did not move under his feet, turned when he did not, or inclined steeply upward though he saw no slope before him. He closed his eyes, but he could still see. He screamed, but he heard nothing. The pathway became a precipice and he tumbled headlong, falling through space. He was under water. He tried to swim; suddenly his groping arms were pulling him forward through hot, dry sand. The sky above was red like a sunset, the earth below an eye-buzzing purple-then green, then gray, then red as the sky turned green.

Where he was, or why, or when, or who, or how, he could not know, could never know.

There were no days, no hours, no moments, no way of knowing, no chance for knowing how long he'd been here.

Been where?

No place, at no particular time.

He was once a fifteen-year-old boy, cocky and wayward. He once had a brother, a sister, a father and mother. He had a name, a house, a school, and a life-and he thought he knew something. Maybe he thought he knew it all.

But that boy, and that time, and that life had become ... nothing. Non-things.

There was no fifteen-year-old boy here. No knowledge, no thought, no reason. There was nothing here but terror, endlessly repeating cycles of it, layer upon layer of it-with more, more, more to come, in swirling, kaleidoscoping sounds, images, and sensations, pulsing, pounding, surging, throbbing like a swollen thumb.

The only reality.

He stopped, fell against a gnarled old tree....

The tree toppled unnaturally, crumpling like a wad of paper, without sound. He fell....

And hit the ground. Cold ground. Grass. Stones. They didn't move, didn't change. The earth was motionless under his body, the dew of the night cold and soaking through.

The tree he thought he would lean on, that had fallen ... was a metal door, now slowly closing behind him, creaking on its hinges.

Without a thought, he was on his feet, running away. He could see nothing in the dark, was not aware of the branches and limbs striking against him, was not aware of the aching in his chest, the pounding of his heart, the gasping for air.

He just ran.

* * *

Nelson Farmer was tall, with a long horse face and a worried look that just stayed there, even when he wasn't worried. Right now he was worried, making his face sag to new depths of sourness.

"Harborview," said the taxi driver, pulling up in front of an immense hospital in Seattle.

Harborview Hospital, part of the Seattle skyline for generations, was known as the place to send the really tough cases. Victims of accidents could be helped in any good hospital; victims of horrible accidents were sent here, as were the burn victims, abuse victims, disaster victims, and ...

Farmer didn't have a label for the victim he was hoping to find here. He might have a name, but at this point he couldn't be sure. He would know in the next few minutes.

Dr. Cal Madison, white-haired, balding, and soft-spoken, met him in Observation and Evaluation. "Thank you for coming, Mr...." He looked once again at Farmer's business card. "Farmer. My! From the D.C. office! You've come a long way."

"Not really," said Farmer. "I was out on the West Coast on business anyway. I just made a little side trip."

Madison moved through the front office and into a narrow hallway. Farmer followed.

"I expected the Bureau would just send a local person," Madison commented.

"This could be a special case," Farmer replied. "The local office may not have the records on this one yet."

"Hmm." Madison had to think about that one. "Anyway, I'm not sure what information you have at this point...."

"He was found on the highway, somewhere in Idaho?"

"North Central Idaho, I think. A very mountainous region, not much civilization to speak of."

They entered a darkened room with one large window. The window, of two-way glass, opened on another room. That room was roughly ten feet square, softly lit, and the walls and floor were covered with thick, quilted padding. Against the far wall was a very simple, low-built cot, also heavily padded; in the center of the room, curled up on the floor like a cowering animal, was a boy. He was clothed in hospital pajamas and lay motionless except for a trembling, involuntary curling and uncurling of his fingers. His eyes stared at the floor, unwavering, unblinking.

Dr. Madison explained, "We judge him to be about fifteen years old. We've had to dress him because he can't dress himself. He wasn't carrying any ID, so we have no idea who he is."

"And I suppose he can't tell you?"

"You need to see this," Madison said, slipping out the door. He closed the door behind him, leaving Farmer in the darkened room. A moment later the door to the padded room opened, and Madison stepped inside. He knelt beside the boy and asked him, "How are you doing?"

"I don't know," the boy replied in a low monotone.

"Do you need anything?"

"I don't know."

Madison looked toward the two-way glass as he asked the boy, "Can you tell me your name?"

"I don't know."

Farmer could hear everything through a small intercom speaker beside the window. As Madison asked the boy a few more questions and the boy replied "I don't know" to every one, Farmer pulled a file folder from his briefcase and opened it. The first page included a photograph of a young man.

The very same young man.

Farmer held the photograph at eye level, letting his gaze shift from it to the face he saw through the glass. There was no doubt.

He closed the folder, put it back in his briefcase, and snapped the briefcase shut.

When Madison returned, Farmer shook his head, looking impressed. "Very disturbing."

"It's as if his whole mind has been erased," said Madison, still marveling. "All knowledge, all logic ... gone."

Farmer nodded thoughtfully. "I'm glad you called. I'll arrange to have him transferred immediately."

Madison appeared puzzled. "Excuse me?"

"The best way for us to identify this young man and return him to his parents-if there are any-is to put him under protective custody so we can make a positive identification."

"I'm not familiar with this procedure."

"We don't use it very often, only in special cases such as this one. It'll take me a little while to arrange for a car and for a suitable room-"

"No, no, wait. I'm sorry. That's impossible."

Farmer tilted his head, raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

Madison's face was etched with disbelief and a little indignity. "This young man is a patient in this hospital, and we can't release him."

Farmer's spine stiffened visibly. "Dr. Madison, the Bureau for Missing Children has its procedures, and I'm afraid-"

"No. Absolutely not. He's in no condition to be moved anywhere. He's malnourished and underweight, he can't clothe himself, he can't feed himself, he can't-"

"Need I remind you with whom you're dealing?"

Farmer's words struck Madison wrong, very wrong. "Perhaps I should confirm that information one more time."

Farmer glared at him a moment, then produced his card again.

Dr. Madison read it again: Nelson...