Charles found a white lab coat resting on a chair at the back. Picking up the coat, he searched the pockets and soon produced a security badge.
“Thank you for your assistance, Dr. George Goodell,” Charles said, tossing the badge to Morgan.
Morgan scanned the badge along the side of the monitor and typed in Henry’s name once again, but this time the entire room jumped to attention, an array of lights blinking across all of the servers around the room. On the other side of the glass, a robotic arm came to life, zipping and whirring across the files at incredible speed—over, up, and over again until it stopped in front of the server it had been searching for and plugged itself in.
Text filled the monitor in front of Morgan, scrolling through endless lines of data faster than she could take it all in until it finally came to rest at the end of the record of Henry Bell.
Morgan furiously read the file, not sure what she was looking for, but hoping something, anything, would seem out of place. But, as she read the last line on the last page of Henry Bell’s Genetic Fitness Evaluation record, even she had to admit there was nothing suspicious about it at all.
“There’s nothing here,” Morgan said, throwing her arms up in frustration. “Nothing at all. What a fantastic waste of time.”
“Just hold on a second,” Charles said, stepping in front of the monitor so he could read the record himself. “You’ve barely looked at it. There’s got to be something here, we might just have to search a little harder.”
“Go ahead if you want to,” Morgan said, stepping aside so Charles could take her place at the screen, “but I’m telling you there’s nothing there. He passed the written test, the blood test, even his physical evaluation. There’s nothing we can use unless you happen to find his blood type particularly interesting.”
Charles tapped on each section one by one, reading every detail of every phase of Henry’s evaluation.
“You’re right,” he finally conceded. “The only thing that even looks slightly out of place is the score of his written test is lower than I would expect, but that still doesn’t prove anything, except that he’s an idiot.”
“I told you, there’s nothing here.”
“Maybe we just have to go a little deeper,” Charles said, exiting Henry’s file and navigating back to the original search screen. He typed in the name Bell, Algernon, and the robotic arm jumped back into action, connecting Charles to another file.
As Charles continued to search, Morgan paced at the back of the room. How could her instincts have been so wrong? She had convinced everyone she could solve everything if she could just get her hands on Henry’s file. Now she would have to return to Katherine empty-handed yet again. And not just Katherine, but poor Margaret as well.
“There’s nothing here either,” Charles said, sounding as defeated as Morgan felt. But she had made Katherine and Margaret a promise, and she sure as hell was going to make sure she had exhausted every single possible option before giving up.
“Read it to me,” Morgan said, still pacing the room.
Charles sighed and began reading through the endless lines of text. He read Algernon’s birthday, his education background, the results of his written evaluation. He read Morgan his medical history.
“‘Partially blind in his left eye,’” Charles quoted from the physician’s notes. “‘Alarming, but no reason to recommend sterilization.’”
He read Morgan every aspect of Algernon’s physical examination in excruciating detail, even the lines of scientific nonsense from the results of his blood test. “And his blood type is AB positive,” Charles said, turning away from the monitor as he read the last line of Algernon Bell’s evaluation record.
Morgan shook her head. That was it then. There was nothing left to check.
But just as she was about to admit defeat, a jolt ran through her body as if she had been struck by lightning.
“Read the last line again, the part about his blood type,” Morgan said to Charles.
“Blood type AB positive,” Charles read.
“Now go back to Henry’s file and read me his blood type,” she said. The machines hummed as he pulled Henry’s file back up.
“O negative,” said Charles.
Morgan smiled. That was it, she had found the smoking gun. Stepping in front of the monitor, she sent both files to a hand-held glass panel and headed for the door.
“Stay here and make sure no one touches those records,” Morgan said as she ran out of the room.
Charles was obviously confused, but Morgan was too excited to stop and explain. She had found the evidence she needed, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.
But she knew someone who would.
“Bren!” Morgan said as she stormed into his office, throwing the door open and allowing it to bounce off the back wall. Bren jerked his head up. He was completely disheveled, his hair was a mess, and he had large bags under his red, puffy eyes. He clutched a glass in his hand.
“What is this?” Morgan demanded, placing the glass panel containing Henry and Algernon Bell’s Genetic Fitness files on Bren’s desk right in front of him.
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “How did you get in here, Ms. Loughlin?”
“You should talk to your security team about the dangers of nepotism,” she said dismissively. “What is this, Bren?”
Bren picked up the file. “Looks like a Genetic Fitness Evaluation,” Bren said, tossing it back on his desk.
“It’s Henry Bell’s evaluation. But it’s interesting because it clearly states that Henry’s blood type is O negative, which is nothing short of a miracle considering his father’s blood type is AB positive. Now, I’m not a geneticist, but last time I checked that was impossible.”
Bren began to clap slowly. “Aren’t you clever,” he said flatly.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you with the details of how you’re going to be arrested for treason?”
Bren laughed. “I’m not going anywhere, darling,” he said before draining the contents of his glass in one smooth motion. “Not alive anyway. I know where all the bodies are buried.”
“I don’t understand,” Morgan said. How was he so calm?
“Of course not, because it’s insanity. All of these inspirational speeches about strength, sacrifice, and patriotism. It’s all great so long as you’re not the one required to sacrifice anything.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Obviously,” he replied, refilling his glass.
“This is why the Bells want to get rid of Katherine’s baby? Because Henry isn’t Algernon’s son.”
“Sure, let’s go with that,” Bren said. “That sounds sweet and simple. It must just be a happy coincidence Henry is the spitting image of his father.”
“Then why?” she asked, frustrated by his incessant mocking.
“You don’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss, or so I hear.”
“Tell me,” Morgan insisted.
“Henry wants to get rid of Katherine’s baby because it’s become a liability. They did their best to try and cover their tracks, get themselves and a dozen other families excused from the evaluation, but then George had to burst into the Council chambers and ruin all of their plans, so now they’re getting rid of the evidence.”
“What are you talking about?” Morgan asked.
“The truth!” Bren shouted, slamming his glass on his desk, liquid splashing over the rim. “I am talking about the fact that Algernon made me cover for him and that weasel son of his. I’m talking about the fact that Henry is slowly dying of an untreatable blood disease, but they would rather cover it up than actually do anything about it. I’m talking about how now that their little plan is unraveling, Henry is willing to sacrifice his unborn child to save himself.”
Morgan sat down in the armchair across from Bren’s desk as her head spun in circles. Not only was Henry terminally ill, but he was trying to get rid of the baby to, as Bren put it, ‘save himself?’ Save himself from what? None of this
explained how a father and son could have impossibly different blood types or why Henry Bell wasn’t sitting in the asylum right next to John. Something was missing. Some factor Morgan had not yet considered.
Then the truth came crashing down around her as she began to understand.
“Bren,” she asked, glaring up at him, “whose results are in Henry Bell’s file?”
Bren smiled, a look of genuine relief crossing his face. “That is the best question you could have possibly asked.”
Sitting in the chair across from Morgan, he continued, “These results,” Bren said, picking up the tablet laying between them, “belong to David Miller. Sixteen years old, both parents deceased. He dropped out of school and started working as a groundskeeper for the Bells last year so he could provide for his twelve-year-old sister.”
“Then where are Henry Bell’s real evaluation results?”
“In David’s file, of course.”
“You mean to say David was—”
“Arrested? Oh, yes. He was arrested and carted off to Emerson Asylum for failing the blood test months ago. He was surgically castrated and died soon after due to ‘complications following surgery.’” Bren took another long drink.
“Why would you do this?” Morgan said, completely appalled. “Why would you switch their results? Henry was the one who should have been arrested. Because of you, an innocent boy is dead!”
Bren didn’t respond to Morgan’s accusations, he simply stared at the wall ahead of him, his eyes focusing nowhere in particular. Raising his glass to his mouth again, he stopped just short of his lips, and whispered, “I only do what I am told.”
“This can’t go on, Bren. You need to tell someone what you did.”
Bren laughed, a wry, hollow sound. “I appreciate your integrity, Morgan, I do. But you need to keep your mouth shut or you’re going to get us both killed,” he said sharply.
“Tell my father what you did, about what the Bells made you do. He can protect you from them.”
“Your father is exactly who I’m afraid of.”
“What?” Morgan asked.
“Morgan, listen to me very carefully. You cannot tell your father anything I told you today.”
“Why not?”
“Because this goes much deeper than just Henry Bell.”
“Who else have you switched results for?” Morgan asked, horrified by what the response might be. Could it be hundreds, thousands? Surely the corruption couldn’t run that deep. But Bren didn’t respond, and as Morgan watched him, she saw his expression change unexpectedly from fear to pity.
“No.” Morgan darted from Bren’s office, running back down the hall as fast as she could, Bren shouting after her as he followed closely on her heels.
Morgan ran into the records room, past a surprised Charles, and straight to the monitor.
Bren ran into the room, holding his side as he caught his breath.
“Morgan, this isn’t going to solve anything,” he wheezed.
Typing furiously, she tried inputting John’s name, only to be answered with an error message.
“That file’s been sealed,” Bren coughed. “You have to have special clearance to open it.”
Charles yanked the identification badge off of Bren’s coat. “Looks like she has clearance now,” he said as he handed it to his sister.
Morgan scanned the badge and typed in Hunter, Jonathan one last time. The records wall hummed to life as the lights began to dance and the robotic arm leaped into action, zipping to the left and then straight up before plugging itself into the proper file.
“Morgan, please stop,” Bren continued to protest, but Morgan wasn’t listening. Text filled the screen.
Hunter, Jonathan
Patient ID #: 24736
Her mind went back to that night in John’s apartment, the night she had decided to turn her back on her family, on Northridge, in exchange for the man she loved. She recalled John’s medical bracelet, the one she had found on the floor; how she cradled it in her hands while she mourned her husband’s arrest. Every detail of that night was burned into her mind, including the writing on the bracelet.
Patient ID #: 24819.
The breath caught in Morgan’s chest.
“That’s not his identification number,” she said, turning to Bren and pointing at the screen. “Whose number is that?” she screamed. “Whose record did you put in John’s file?”
But Bren said nothing.
Turning back to the monitor, Morgan typed in 24819, but the monitor beeped and shook in protest as another error message appeared on the screen.
“You can’t search by the patient number,” Bren said. “You have to have a name.”
“Then give me a name,” Morgan demanded.
“This isn’t going to help anything, Morgan. Trust me.”
Charles pinned Bren against the wall, his arm across his collar bone. “You don’t want to answer, that’s fine,” Charles growled. “We’ll tear through every single patient record in this room one by one if we have to.”
“You of all people don’t want to do that, Charles.”
Charles’s eyebrows furrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Morgan thought back to her visit with the Bells. The labored way Henry rose to greet them when they entered the room, the way he limped back to his seat. She recalled his gray complexion and the way he held his stomach in discomfort. Everything about it was strangely familiar. Too familiar.
All those times Charles had complained his knees and shoulders ached. The way he never seemed to want to eat anymore. It was all so obvious now. How hadn’t she seen it earlier?
Her hands shaking, she typed in one more name. A new file populated the screen. Patient ID#: 24819. The name listed above it: Loughlin, Charles.
Morgan turned to her brother, the same look of terror on his face that was undoubtedly on hers as he read his own name up on the screen in larger than life letters.
Anger exploded in Morgan’s chest and she ran at Bren pushing him with all her might and sending him tumbling to the floor.
“You bastard!” she screeched.
“Morgan, what are you doing?” Charles said, grabbing his sister’s arm and pulling her away before she could attack Bren again.
“Did you know?” she demanded, turning her anger on Charles as she ripped her arm away from him.
“He had nothing to do with it, Morgan,” Bren said, collecting himself up off the floor.
“Stay out of this, Bren,” Morgan shouted.
“He doesn’t know anything,” Bren said again. “Your father insisted he didn’t.”
“Our father?” Charles said. “What does our father have to do with this?”
“He’s the one who made me switch the files.”
“How many times?” Morgan demanded. “How many times have you and my father switched results?”
Bren shook his head.
“Is it really so many that you can’t even keep track?” Morgan said in disgust. “How could you? You ruined my family!”
“I just did what I was told. What happened to you isn’t my fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” Morgan screamed. “And the hundreds of times you did it before now, all those people who were sent to the asylum for no reason. Who’s responsible for that? I suppose those weren’t your fault either.”
“Everything just got out of hand so quickly,” Bren said, tripping over his own words.
Morgan scoffed. “What does that matter?” she spat. “All it does is prove you’re a coward.”
Bren nodded, submitting to her abuse, and although Morgan wanted nothing more than to hate him, she didn’t. The man standing in front of her was beaten, dejected. A man who knew he had caused immeasurable pain and willingly carried the weight of that burden with him every day.
Morgan’s shoulders sank. “All of this,” Morgan said, hot tears spilling onto her cheeks, “everything I asked John to put himself through, it was all completely unne
cessary.”
“It’s fine, Morgan,” Charles said, still seemingly dazed by everything that had just come to light. “This is a good thing. If John’s not unfit, then we can get him out of the terminal ward.”
“What did you just say?” Bren said, jumping to his feet, his eyes wide in panic. “What is John doing in the terminal ward?”
“We had to transfer him there, thanks to you,” Morgan said bitterly
“You what? How?”
“What does it matter?”
“You need to get him out of the asylum. Now.” The urgency in his voice frightened Morgan.
“Why?” she asked.
“Something is going to happen at the asylum. I don’t know the details, but I have it on good authority the Council plans to eliminate the terminal ward once and for all.”
Morgan’s heart quickened. “What do you mean ‘eliminate?’”
“All I know is they plan to act quickly, so if you know a way to get John out of there, you need to do it now.”
“What are you still doing here?” Loughlin said as he entered Bren’s office. It was early evening now and the sun cast just enough of a glow through the laboratory windows for Laughlin to make out the silhouette of Bren sitting at his desk. “Everyone else went home hours ago.”
“I had some things to finish,” Bren said. A glass in his hand, he stared at the contents, watching the way in swirled.
Loughlin crossed the room and draped his overcoat on the back of the chair across from Bren. “I heard some interesting news just now,” he said, pulling off the leather glove on his right hand one finger at a time. “A guard informed me you had unauthorized visitors this afternoon.”
Bren continued to swirl his glass, hypnotized by the amber liquid in his hand. “I heard some interesting news myself from Dr. Goodell this morning concerning the terminal ward at the asylum.” Setting his glass down, Bren finally met Loughlin’s gaze. “Is it true?”
“Don’t try to change the subject.”
Bren slammed his fist down on his desk. “Is it true?”
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