Dead Girl in 2A (ARC)

by Carter Wilson

  “Do you understand these notes?” Eaton asks.

  “I understand enough. Between what we found and what Landis and Elle already told me, I have a good idea what’s going on.”

  Eaton clasps his fingers together on top of the table and hunches forward toward Jake.

  “In that case, you clearly know we don’t have all the answers either. But we do know from Müller’s journal that every action we take in the program, every piece of information we choose to reveal, can affect the outcome. You and Clara are both subjects, each given slightly different dosage instructions. Clara has had a breakthrough in her memory, which means she might be the key in making the program work for all of us.”

  “Don’t tell him anything,” Jake tells me. “The letter written to Landis… It outlines everything that happened.” Then to Eaton, he says, “I already know enough from the letter to taint whatever this program is, and I can just tell Clara all about it. Hell, the letter’s in our car. We can bring it in, and she can read it. What I want to know is if what happened to the others is going to happen to us.” Jake squints and drills his gaze deeper into Eaton. “Because if I’m going on a killing spree, you can damn well be assured I’m going to start with you.”

  “Jake, if you—”

  I interrupt. “If we’re all truly in this together—really together—let’s sit here and share our information. Right now.”

  In this moment, I realize the extent of my power. Jake’s right: I hold information they need. I remember things they don’t. Knowledge is power, and memory is currency.

  “Tell us everything we want to know,” I say, “or I’ll stay silent.”

  “Maybe I’ll have Jake shot right here,” Eaton says.

  Elle visibly stiffens.

  “No, you won’t,” Jake says. “I’m valuable to you.”

  “But not as valuable as she is.”

  “Enough,” I say. “You have my word. Answer our questions, and we’ll answer yours.”

  Eaton glances around the table, stopping on the face of each orphan for a moment. Landis offers him a single nod.

  “Fine,” Eaton says.

  “Good,” Jake says. “Now tell us what you know. And start from the beginning.”

  “In that case,” Eaton says, “there’s something I need to read to you.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Jake

  My leg throbs, and I squeeze my fists into tight balls, trying to distract myself from the pain.

  Eaton stands and walks over to the couch in the living-room area of the suite. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but there’s a very thin leather briefcase propped against the back cushion. He brings it to the table and thunks open the brass latches. I can clearly see there’s only one thing inside, which Eaton lifts in front of his face.

  It’s a worn leather journal, its cover no different in tone than a saddle with hundreds of miles of wear, in addition to what appears to be some smoke damage. The full-size sheets number enough to make the sheaf nearly an inch thick, by my best guess. I know immediately what this is.

  “This is the only known journal of Dr. William Landis Müller,” Eaton says. “Landis’s father. William and Catherine Müller—Landis’s mother—started a small, very private school nearly thirty years ago. The four of us at this table were all students.”

  He sits back down at the table.

  “The school was somewhere in the mountains,” he continues. “Where exactly, I don’t know. It’s not documented in any public records, on any maps, or anywhere in the vastness of the internet. It wasn’t meant to be discovered.” He looks at Clara. “I’m hoping you remember the location, Clara, because we might be able to find more journals, additional research.”

  “What was the name of the school?” I ask.

  “Arete Academy,” he says. “But you already knew that.”

  Clara whispers the name of the school.

  Eaton says, “Does that name sound familiar to you, Clara?”

  She remains silent.

  “Fine.” Eaton continues. “There were only six students at this school and three teachers. The students were all orphans with the exception of Landis, whose parents ran the school. They selected orphans with no deep family roots. No family members who would be wanting to check on these children. This was a year-round school, and I suspect visitors weren’t openly welcome.”

  “It sounds more like prison,” I say.

  “No.” Landis speaks for the first time since we’ve sat at the table. “My parents were running a special school, but their intentions were good.”

  “An experimental school,” I say. “Good intentions or not, we were lab rats.”

  “What was the purpose of the school?” Clara asks.

  “The program,” Eaton answers. “We only have this one journal from William Müller, so we don’t know all the nuances of the program, which is the root of the problem. I suspect there were many more journals. Dozens, perhaps. I’m sure there were computer files as well, so we’re likely going on a fraction of the information that once existed. But to answer your question, the purpose of the school was the program. We all started the program as children, but we never completed it.” He opens the journal to the first page. “Here, I want to read this to you,” he says. “This journal is numbered seven, and on the first page there’s an oath written by William Müller. I suspect he wrote this at the beginning of each of his journals.”

  He holds the journal outstretched with both hands, like a parishioner holding a Bible at service.

  “‘Do something positive with your life, because life is fleeting,’” he starts. “‘This was always my promise, but one I broke. I have helped my government hurt unsuspecting people. I have created things that have ended lives and promoted suffering, and this I fully and freely confess, because it is the truth. Since I cannot hide that from God, I won’t pretend to hide it from anyone else.’”

  “Some dad you had there,” I say, throwing a hard gaze at Landis.

  Landis remains poker-faced.

  Eaton continues. ‘“This is my new promise, one I shall repeat every day. From here on out, my commitment is to science and its ability to benefit, not damage, society. Arete Academy will help children in need and position them for the greatest possible success in life. The program administered on this campus may be unconventional by societal standards, but its unwavering goal will be to use science to unlock the inherent potential and talent that exists in each of its participants.’”

  Eaton looks up and closes the journal. “He goes on to write about how we all have natural abilities, which very few of us live up to. Think of all the brilliant would-be artists in the world working in Starbucks. Or world-changing statesmen who only have a sense of their ability and end up in middle-management office roles. The Müllers’ work intended to tap into that talent…chemically. Psychologically. Tap into it, unearth it.”

  “So they wanted to create superior human beings?” Clara asks.

  “No,” Landis answers. “They wanted to unleash all the superior qualities that human beings already possess.”

  “It’s fucking science fiction,” I say.

  “I think you know it isn’t.” Eaton tilts his head toward me. “If the program had no effect, you wouldn’t have continued with it. But you did continue, Jake. You felt yourself changing. I’m certain of it.”

  “Yeah, drugs can do that to you,” I say. I don’t want to give him an inch, as much as I have to admit there’s truth in his words. Within a couple of months of taking the pills, I had visualized the entire story line for my manuscript, something I hadn’t been able to do in the nearly ten years I’ve been working on it.

  “And none of you remember any of this?” Clara asks. “This school, these people?”

  Eaton and Landis shake their heads. “Just you, it seems,” Eaton says. “You’re the first to re
member anything substantial, which is why we want to talk to you. You’re remembering for all of us.”

  I say, “I don’t remember the school, but I did have a memory a couple days ago.” I’ve already told Landis about this, back when he was holding me in that cold, white room. “I saw his parents. They were dead. And I think…I think we were all in the room. We were just kids.”

  Clara sucks in a breath. “I saw the same thing. We were at the foot of the bed. It was awful.”

  “Amazing,” Eaton says. “I’m guessing it was your triggering event. The same memory.”

  “What?”

  Eaton turns to me. “Müller documented it. It’s a sort of mental breakthrough. A shift.”

  “It’s after that memory when I started to feel the desire to die,” Clara says. “It wasn’t a sad feeling. It felt like a noble purpose. A destiny.”

  My breakthrough was the moment I started feeling rage. In Eaton’s apartment, after the initial rush of the memory and the ensuing wave of nausea, I was left with a stunning desire to hurt—kill, even—Alexander Eaton, a pull so strong I had to leave his apartment. The urge for violence has been simmering just below the surface ever since.

  All the breakthroughs lead to violence. Sure doesn’t sound like what William Müller was trying to accomplish.

  “What is it you want?” I ask Eaton. “Is there…some treasure buried somewhere you’re hoping one of us remembers?”

  “Jake, you’re not understanding.”

  “Of course I’m not understanding, because you’re not telling us anything.”

  Eaton takes his index fingers and points it around the table. “We’re the treasure, Jake. The program can let us tap into our real potential, but it only works if we can find the right way to administer it. And Clara is the closest one we’ve had to success in that she finally had extensive memories of her childhood. If we can replicate her success, we can all reach the next level. Maybe she remembers more details of the program itself, like if the dosages were supposed to change over time. Any information can help us refine what we’re doing. Refine it and avoid…”

  Eaton just confirmed what Elle and I had pieced together. “Avoid what Raymond and Kate did, right? Because you want to subject yourselves to this program as well, but you don’t want to lose your mind and turn violent, is that it?”

  Eaton hesitates in answering, and Landis fills in the silence.

  “Not quite,” he says. “We did try it ourselves, but not for long. The results were proving to be…inadequate.”

  I explain to Clara. “We’re just expendable test subjects, as were Raymond and Kate.”

  “No,” Landis says. “Not expendable.”

  “Yet,” adds Eaton.

  With all my will, I resist snatching the gun from Elle and shooting Eaton, Landis, and Markus all cleanly through their heads.

  I can almost taste how satisfying it would be, like a perfectly cooked piece of meat.

  Fifty-Eight

  Clara

  Jake is opening and closing his hands, making fists, then releasing them. Perhaps he is doing this subconsciously, but he has the look of a man intent on fighting. Someone ready to brawl because it’s all he knows.

  “After hearing your father’s words in his oath,” Clara says, looking at Landis, “it does seem your parents’ intentions were good. But clearly this…this outcome wasn’t what they envisioned. How did they even come about the idea of this program?”

  Jake answers.

  “His parents used to work for the government.” Jake doesn’t look at me as he speaks. He’s drilled directly into Eaton. “They worked for the Department of Defense. William and Catherine Müller. His father was a chemist and his mother a psychologist. Correct?”

  Landis nods. “As far as I know. We’ve both read the letter, and that’s the only information I have. I don’t actually remember anything about them.”

  Jake continues. “This is all back in the eighties, I’m guessing. Whatever they did at their job, I think it involved manipulation of the mind. I mean, you have a chemist and psychologist. They were apparently continuing a branch of work shut down after the Cold War.”

  “Psychological warfare programs,” Eaton says. “MK-Ultra, among others. Those were all programs meant for defense. The creation of hypereffective soldiers, advanced interrogation techniques, even psychological torture.”

  “Good god,” I say.

  “Exactly,” Jake responds. “Crazy dark shit. I mean, we all heard it in his oath, right? Müller said he did bad stuff for the government.”

  Landis is shaking his head. “Their intent was to repurpose some of the work from the shuttered programs and use it for a greater benefit. That was the point of his oath. That’s the point of the program.”

  “Some benefit,” Jake says. “Experimenting on children. Like Mengele. We were basically in a fucking concentration camp.”

  “You have a flair for the dramatic,” Eaton says.

  Jake looks ready to pounce, bad leg notwithstanding. Both Elle and Markus stiffen their posture, ready for anything.

  “My father synthesized a drug rooted in scopolamine,” Landis says. “It’s been around for a long time, and it’s used to manipulate the mind and cause memory loss. He modified it to enhance its beneficial properties and minimize the damaging ones. The effects of the drug were supposed to be enhanced through suggestive visual stimulation—”

  “The books,” Jake says.

  “Yes. And some kind of water therapy.”

  Jake looks at me. “Get this. Water therapy. Basically nearly drowning the kids in order to…I don’t even know, reach another plane of existence.”

  Drowning. I think back to my other memory, the one of the classroom. That memory came to me as a teenager when I was holding my breath underwater in the bathtub.

  “How was any of this even allowed?”

  “No one knew about it,” Jake says. “It was a small school. Probably not formally approved by anyone. Like a shadow program,” he adds.

  Landis reaches over and picks up the leather journal. He doesn’t open it, just holds it, as if absorbing some stored energy from his father. “There’s enough detail in here to understand what they expected to happen as a result of the program,” he says. “Each student was anticipated to develop extremely high emotional intelligence, particularly empathy. They believed supercharging those areas of the brain would unlock a person’s natural talents.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning if you had a natural tendency to be artistic, this program would allow that talent to develop and become your life’s focus. If you had a mind for science, you’d have a greater chance at becoming the next Stephen Hawking.”

  Jake takes over. “But in reality, their theories were only that. Theories, right?”

  Landis stiffens in his chair. “You’ve felt the effects. You said so yourself.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jake says. “Trying to do good and doing good are different things. Besides, even if it did work, you’re trying to cobble it all together based on one goddamn journal. It’s like you’ve been given all the ingredients for a five-course dinner and only one sentence from the recipe. So here you are, taking your best guess and ending up with a shit sandwich.”

  “Exactly,” Elle says. Heads turn to look at the woman who has remained very quiet this whole time. “Your program doesn’t work at all. Raymond Higgins slaughtered dozens of people. Kate left her children without a mother. Jake is literally bleeding right now.”

  “What happened to the school?” I ask. “Did it get closed?”

  Landis’s voice turns icy. “One of the students killed my parents.”

  My stomach tightens. “You read this in a letter?”

  Jake nods. “There was another teacher in addition to the Müllers. This teacher sent a letter to Landis explaining what
happened… She wrote it as a deathbed confession. She said the night of the killings, someone started a fire and burned down parts of the school. The teacher followed some kind of emergency protocol. No one was supposed to know this school existed, so she couldn’t just summon help. So she drugged us, Clara. She fucking drugged all of us.”

  “Drugged us with what?”

  Eaton says, “Scopolamine, in its purer form. There were two drugs, each based on scopolamine. One was modified and used as part of the program. The other, related to the first, had very different properties. Extreme suggestibility in whomever takes it, along with pronounced memory loss. In high enough doses, it can kill, and it’s surprising none of us died. Apparently the bad version of this drug was to be administered to any student removed from the school, or in the case of an emergency.”

  Jake’s voice is a notch louder. “Which means they would just wipe the memory of any kid who didn’t fit in and put them back up for adoption.”

  “Yes,” Landis says. “So in the instance of my parents’ murder, it was given to all of us.”

  Jake barrels over him. “And whoever was ultimately in charge of this deranged experiment created new histories for us, got us placed in new homes. That’s why none of us remember. They just wiped our slates clean.”

  Elle speaks again. “This is some messed-up shit.”

  Eaton squeezes his temples and looks down at the table. “This teacher salvaged most copies of The Responsibility of Death and the drugs from the program. She also kept one of Müller’s journals. She tracked down Landis and sent everything to him two years ago, telling him she regretted what she did to us.”

  Then Jake stands, and the sudden movement is startling. He lists toward his good leg and points a finger at Eaton.

  “You’re just guessing how this all works. And you failed. You didn’t create exceptional people. Kate killed herself. Clara wanted to kill herself. Raymond Higgins murdered.”

  Eaton stands in a direct face-off. “And you, Jake? What do you feel?”