by John Rector
After a while, she got up and paced back and forth in the hallway. Her stomach ached, and all she wanted was to run away, far and fast, until she couldn’t run anymore. She wanted to be exhausted, numb, and she didn’t want to have to think about any of this anymore.
She wanted to forget.
The phone rang, and Megan stopped pacing. On the second ring, she hurried downstairs to the kitchen and stood over the phone. She started to reach for the receiver, but something stopped her. Then, on the fifth ring, she forced herself to pick it up.
“Hello?”
There was no response.
She tried again. “Hello?”
This time, she heard someone shuffle on the other end, but still, no one spoke. Megan pulled the phone away from her ear and hung up. Her chest tightened. She tried to calm down and take deep breaths, but the air only came in short, hitching gasps.
The room wavered around her. She had enough time to think, I’m hyperventilating, before the strength ran out of her legs and she slipped down to the floor.
She didn’t pass out, but she also didn’t move for a long time. All she could do was sit there and try to steady her breath, while tears ran down her cheeks, dropping dark into her lap.
All the bad thoughts came back to her, one after the other, and she couldn’t stop them. There was nowhere for her to turn, no one to talk to.
Fiona was missing, Mercer was gone, and Tyler . . .
Tyler didn’t trust her.
She knew he would still come running if she called, but not the way she wanted him to. He would try to calm her down, but then he’d push her toward therapy or medication. He wouldn’t listen to her, not this time, not after everything that’d happened.
Not unless she had proof.
The thought stuck.
Megan looked up at the clock on the stove and counted the hours left until dark. Then she grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled herself up off the floor. She stood for a moment, making sure her legs were steady. Then she walked into the living room and lay back on the couch, listening to the grandfather clock ticking steadily in the corner.
Megan closed her eyes and waited.
Once the sun went down, Megan left the house.
She walked along the street toward the forest at the base of the ridge. She had a flashlight with her, but the batteries were old, and the bulb was dim.
Still, it was better than nothing.
The neighborhood felt deserted, and her footsteps echoed in the still night air. She kept an eye out for anyone watching her as she walked, but all she saw were dark windows and empty streets.
When Megan reached the forest, she searched for the spot Mercer had pointed out the day before. Once she found the electrical box, she took one last look at the houses along the street. Then she crossed the short stretch of grass toward the woods.
Mercer had said there would be a path, and that it would lead into the forest and down to the creek where she would find the shed.
But there was no path.
The deeper into the woods she went, the more she wondered if this was nothing more than an old man’s idea of a joke.
She was about to turn back when she noticed a slight indentation in the weeds between the trees. Megan shone her light on the spot and followed it. After several yards, the undergrowth split and the path became clear.
Megan knew she should be happy, but there was a hollow pain in the pit of her stomach, and it made her wonder if a part of her had hoped it had been a lie.
Sometimes, she thought, crazy was easier.
In the distance, she heard the low rumble of thunder, and she tried not to think about rain. The wind picked up, and the trees bent and swayed around her as she followed the path deeper into the woods.
Then she heard the river.
After a few more yards, she saw it.
Megan stopped on the edge and looked out over the slow black water. She could see the shadows of the willow trees on the other side of the bank, their low branches touching the surface, dragging along with the current.
Her flashlight flickered, and she smacked it with her hand to make it stop. Then she panned the forest, searching for Mercer’s shed, but all she saw were trees and shadows.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
The hollow pain in her stomach faded, replaced by frustration and anger.
There was no shed, no lockbox. She’d wasted her time, and she was no closer to understanding anything.
Maybe, she thought, she really had lost her mind.
Megan felt the first drop of rain touch her face, and she wiped it away. Then she looked down at the path leading toward the street. She considered giving up and going back, but she wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.
If Mercer lied, why did he give her a key?
She didn’t have an answer, and that was enough for her to keep looking.
Megan stepped off the path and followed the riverbank farther into the forest, hoping her flashlight would last. If it died while she was off the path, finding her way back in the dark would be a challenge.
Lightning flashed, turning the trees blue.
Then she saw it.
The shed was off to her right, partially hidden under a wall of creeper vines. Megan moved closer, circling it, shining her light over the surface.
It was smaller than she’d expected, no bigger than a walk-in closet. The wood was weatherworn and warped, and several shingles were missing from the roof. The creeper vines were thick, covering one side and hanging down over the front.
Megan pushed the vines aside and reached for the rusted metal door handle and pulled.
The door creaked open easily.
The shed was empty.
She stood there for a long time, the dim light from her flashlight trailing over the empty walls and the wooden planked floor. Slowly, the reality of the situation sank in, and she laughed.
The sound was loud, but she didn’t care. There was no one around to hear, and once she got started, she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop.
A minute later, the rain started to fall.
Heavy drops splintered through the canopy of leaves above her, boiling over the surface of the river.
Megan thought about making a run for the path, but the storm had quickly turned into a downpour. If she went back, she’d be soaked through by the time she made it home.
Instead, she stepped into the shed.
Even with the missing shingles, the inside of the shed stayed dry. Megan shut off her flashlight, eased herself down to the floor, and stared out at the rain and the trees and waited. After a while, she felt tears on her cheeks, but she told herself it was just the rain.
The storm didn’t last.
Eventually, the rain thinned, and the heavy rattle of water hitting the roof slowed. If she started back, she figured she’d still get wet, but at least she wouldn’t get drenched, and that was fine.
Megan leaned forward and pushed herself up.
As she stood, one of the boards under her hand slid an inch to the side.
She looked down.
There was an empty space between the boards, and through it, Megan could see a dull shine of metal in the near dark.
Once again, a wave of laughter rose in her chest, but this time she kept it inside.
All she did was smile.
28
Megan pulled the loose boards away and reached inside, grabbing the handle on the top of the lockbox. It came out easily, and she set it on the floor next to her.
The box was gunmetal gray and covered with what looked like years of dirt. Megan brushed it off with the side of her hand, then shone her flashlight on the lock and tried the key.
It slid in easily, and she opened the lid.
There were a few manila files inside, yellowed by age, and a folded developer’s map. When she took them out, two Polaroid photographs slipped free and fell into her lap.
She held them up to the flashlight.
The images had degraded a
bit, but they were still clear enough to see.
One of the photographs had been taken outside the Hansen Institute. In it, two men and a woman, all wearing white lab coats, stood in a half circle. Behind them, a large group of men and women, also in white lab coats, were lined up in front of the entrance to the Institute, their arms at their sides, their faces blurred by time.
Megan flipped to the other Polaroid and shone her flashlight on the image.
She recognized what it was immediately.
The shot had been taken from the top of the ridge, looking east toward the horizon. On the white bar at the bottom of the photo, in blue ink, someone had written:
Willow Ridge Development Project.
Megan squinted, looked closer.
In the photo, several of the houses had already been built. There were cement trucks and earth-moving equipment scattered in among the unpaved roads and new foundations. At the far edge of the photo, she could just make out a thin line of highway, CR-11, cutting through farmland toward Ashland.
She set the photos on the ground next to her and picked up the map. She unfolded it under the light.
It looked like a site plan for Willow Ridge. All the streets were in place, and the houses were marked as individual units. The entire neighborhood had been divided into several sections over a large grid.
Megan studied it for a minute, then refolded the map and set it on the ground next to the photos. Then she turned to the manila files. There were five of them. Each one had a name written along the top. One of the names was too smeared to read, but the others were clear.
Claire Nelson.
Nicholas Bartlett.
David Mercer.
Edna Davidson.
Megan stopped on Edna Davidson’s file and stared at the name. For the first time, she felt like she was prying into something that she had no business seeing, and a part of her didn’t want to open it.
But it was a small part.
She separated Edna’s file from the others and set them next to the photos. Then she opened the folder. There were two sheets of wrinkled and faded carbon paper inside, and she had to hold the light close to make out what was written on the pages.
The first sheet looked like a hospital admission form with the Hansen Institute logo in the upper-right corner and the company address in the upper left. The page was divided into several sections:
PATIENT’S NAME, ADDRESS, DATE OF BIRTH, and MEDICAL HISTORY.
Megan read through them all, then stopped.
The last box, along the bottom of the page, was labeled: CAUSE OF DEATH. And below it, typed in faded blue letters, were the words: Metastatic breast cancer.
Megan’s mouth was dry, and she swallowed hard.
She flipped to the second page.
At the top of the page was one word:
TREATMENT.
There were several handwritten notes, but most were too faint to read under the dim flashlight. Megan struggled for a while, then gave up and closed the file. She reached down and fanned through the other folders until she found the one for David Mercer.
She pulled it free and opened it on her lap.
Again, there were two pages inside.
Megan scanned to the bottom of the first sheet to the section labeled: CAUSE OF DEATH. When she read what was written, she felt like she’d been kicked in the chest.
One word:
Suicide.
He’d told her the truth.
The realization sighed out of her, and she hesitated for a moment before turning the page.
The second page was faded, but not as bad as Edna’s. She could read the word TREATMENT at the top, and below it several sections of handwritten notes, all dark enough to see in the fading light.
Phase One: Experimental
Intrathecal bioactive peptides.
Mesenchymal stem cell therapy.
Phase Two: Reactive
Transcranial IV laser phototherapy.
Median nerve stimulation.
Phase Three: Outcome
Reversal: Complete
Observation section: X3, Unit 11b, Grid 16a.
Designated safety concern: Negative
The rest of the notes were no more than snaking lines and dates, and they were impossible for her to read.
Megan opened the last two files and scanned the pages. They were mostly faded like the others, but what she was able to read matched what she’d already seen.
When she finished, she stacked the files on her lap, then reached for the photographs and the map and slipped them inside Mercer’s file. She checked the lockbox one more time for anything she might’ve missed, but it was empty.
Megan listened to the last of the rain falling on the roof of the shed. Then she looked out the open door at the trees swaying in the shadows, trying to make sense out of what she’d found.
Mercer had told her the truth.
This thought opened the door for another.
If Mercer’s file was true, then the others had to be true. The Institute had found a way to reverse death, and they were experimenting on the people in Willow Ridge.
She thought about Rachel and everything that’d happened since that night in the garage.
All the pieces seemed to fit.
Outside, the rain stopped.
Megan got up, slipped the files under her arm, and walked out of the shed. Above her, the sky was still clouded, but she could see a few breaks through the trees where the stars had begun to burn through.
She stood there, staring up at the sky, and listened to the soft rumble of the creek. For the first time in a long time, her mind was quiet, and her body felt light.
When she was ready, Megan took a deep breath and followed the flashlight back to the path. Halfway through the forest, the dying light flickered and went out.
Megan walked the rest of the way in darkness.
She didn’t like it, and when she got close enough to Willow Ridge to see the amber streetlights shining through the trees, she was almost relieved.
29
Tyler’s car wasn’t in the driveway when Megan got home, and even though she hated to admit it, she was happy he wasn’t there. She needed time to regroup before showing him what she’d found.
The thought that he wouldn’t believe her worried her, but she didn’t think that would happen, not anymore, not after he saw the files. She might not be able to fill in all the blanks yet, but what she’d found was a start.
It had to be enough.
Megan crossed the yard and went in through the front door. She didn’t take off her coat or her shoes. Instead, she went into the kitchen and set the files on the table, spreading them out, searching for anything that might make Tyler think they were fakes.
Nothing stood out, so she put them all together and stacked them in front of her. Then she picked up the photos. She glanced at the one labeled: Willow Ridge Development Project, then the group photo of the blurred people standing outside the Institute.
She stared at their faces for a long time.
When Tyler came home, Megan was still in the kitchen, standing at the window and looking out toward the backyard. The bottle of bourbon was on the counter, and she had a drink in her hand, but she’d barely touched it.
She wanted her head to be clear.
When she heard Tyler’s keys in the lock, she poured her drink into the sink and turned on the faucet to rinse it away. She felt a cold stab of nervousness in the pit of her stomach, but it passed quickly.
“Megan?”
“In the kitchen.”
She leaned back against the counter and listened to his footsteps coming down the hall, her heart beating hard. He came through the doorway, slowly, and when he saw her, he crossed the room, then leaned in and kissed her cheek.
“How was your day?”
The files and the photographs were sitting on the table, but he didn’t notice them right away. Megan tilted her head up at him.
“We have to talk.”
/> The muscles in Tyler’s shoulders sagged, and he leaned against the counter next to her. When he spoke, his voice was tired.
“I don’t know what to say anymore.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Megan said. “I want you to look at something and help me understand.”
Tyler’s eyes narrowed.
Megan pointed to the table and the files stacked on the surface. “There.”
“What are those?”
“I was hoping you’d know.”
Tyler hesitated, then pushed away from the counter and crossed the kitchen. He stood over the table and reached down, fanning the files out. Then he picked up one of the photographs, saw what it was, and looked at Megan.
“Am I going to need a drink for this?”
Megan went to the cabinet and grabbed a glass from the shelf. Then she opened the freezer and took out two ice cubes. She dropped them in the glass and reached for the bottle on the counter and poured.
Tyler pulled the chair away from the table and sat down. He took the first file and opened it as Megan set the drink next to him.
“I can’t read these,” he said. “What are they?”
“Look at the top. That’s the Institute logo.” She reached over and pushed through the files. “Here, this one. Read the name.”
Tyler studied the pages in the file, shook his head.
“It’s Edna,” Megan said. “Next door.”
“Are these her medical records?”
“That’s what I thought, but look.” She took the top page and pointed to the bottom section. “Cause of death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And then here.” She flipped to the next page and tapped it with her finger. “You have to hold them up to the light to see, but these are all treatments. Some kind of experiments they ran on her. They have everything listed, even the location of her house.”
“Her address?”
“Not her address, the location.” Megan grabbed the site plan and unfolded it over the files. “Willow Ridge is divided into sections. The entire neighborhood is set up in a grid, and all the houses are marked as individual units.”
“I still don’t—”
“They’re tracking her.” Megan put her hand on the stack of files. “All these people, and probably more. They’re experimenting on them and studying them, right here, like lab rats.”