by J. M. Lanham
The bathroom window.
The rental cabins were cookie-cutter, all the same, identical units lined up on a small stretch of creek in north Georgia. That meant the bathroom window should be around back. Donny pivoted to the rear of the cabin and breathed a short-lived sigh of relief the moment he saw the narrow opening on the outside wall leading to the bathroom. It was about five feet off the ground and cracked open. Thank God.
He looked for something to stand on; the bucket covering the outside water spigot would do. He stepped up, forced the window open, and dove in headfirst. The landing on the cold linoleum floor was far from graceful, but the relief that came from being safely inside was worth a sprained wrist and a bump to the head. He sat up and scooted over to the toilet, using it as a backrest as he listened for signs of intruders outside. Nothing so far, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close by. After all, these animals were built to kill, and they hadn’t become masterful hunters by making their presence known.
Soon he caught his breath, and that’s when something unexpected happened. It was a feeling, warm and unfamiliar to a typically insensitive motivational speaker, but welcome nonetheless. Out of all the selfish endeavors he’d embarked on through his entire adult life; all the shady business deals; questionable legal practices; friendships destroyed in the pursuit of the almighty dollar, finally, he had done something completely selfless. Surprised by how fulfilling such an act could be, he began to wonder if this was what it always felt like to put others first. But the feeling was fleeting, and it didn’t take long for Donny’s usual doubts and cynicism to set in.
What if this was all in vain? He had but a moment to think about the others; how he hoped they were well on their way out of the woods by now. Then he heard the harrowing sounds of those persistent, heavy steps on the front porch, coming from animals intent on taking at least one of the outliers down before heading back to the lair, licking their crimson chops, satisfied for the time being with a single kill as opposed to four.
The thought crossed his mind that this might be the end, but he quickly dismissed it. No time for a pity party. Not now. Marci would never have allowed it.
His longtime assistant, and even more recently his lover, hadn’t crossed his mind for some time now. Why was she on his mind now that death was knocking on the cabin door? Normally, the sound of breaking glass would have interrupted the thought, but it did little to distract Donny from the image of Marci’s smiling face. Neither did the creaking floorboards coming from the den that quickly grew closer, louder. Neither did the purrs coming from the den and just outside the small bathroom window. Cornered. No way out of this one, old buddy.
Maybe it was his time. He backed into the far corner of the bathroom, away from the door, and chuckled—an insane response to a dire situation. Shouldn’t he be terrified? It could be worse, he figured; he could be on his way to federal prison for two murders he didn’t commit. At least this way he got to go out helping someone other than himself.
Yeah, maybe it was his time. The mountain lion on the other side of the flimsy bathroom door was already testing its limits. It wouldn’t hold for long. Donny tapped his foot nervously against the tub in front of him and wondered what his last moments would be like. Quick, he hoped. Painless? Unlikely. But, for the time being, the thought of dying didn’t bother him as much as he had always thought it would.
So long as it wasn’t in vain.
***
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Fenton said as the three outliers jogged down the gravel road leading away from the rental cabins and back into town. “This just feels wrong, man. So fucking wrong.”
“Nothing we can do about it now,” Paul said between breaths. “Let’s just hope and pray he got to a phone or a small arsenal over there.” Hope and pray? Paul was astonished the moment the words left his mouth. Was he really hoping and praying Donny Ford made it out in one piece? He’d always had the guy pegged for an unwavering sleaze, but there was no denying how selfless his actions had been back at the cabin. (It wasn’t like a man like Ford was incapable of redemption, after all.) So, Paul silently sent one up to the Man Upstairs, too tired, out of breath, stubborn … even a little embarrassed to make supplications for the soul of Donny Ford out loud.
They had made it about a mile before they slowed down the pace. The shade of the dense forest near the valley where the cabins lay had been traded for clear views of the midmorning sun as the gravel road rose up the last hill and came to a dead-end, forming a T where rocks met a sweltering two-lane highway. Paul remembered the town of Spring Hill was south and to the left. With any luck, they could make the two-mile hike without catching the attention of agents who were likely in the area by now.
Claire offered, “What do you think: stay off the road, but stick close?”
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” Paul said, looking down at the thick brush choking both sides of the road.
“Well, if we stay on the road we’re basically sitting ducks.”
“I know, I know.” Paul didn’t like it, but it was a chance they were going to have to take. “Look, we’ve got about two miles back to town. That’s it.” He pointed to the ravine on his right. “And if we get lost down there, we’ll never get back before dark.”
The three agreed (somewhat reluctantly, in Claire’s case) and picked up the pace. Paul had run track in high school, and didn’t have a problem keeping up with the fit journalist’s seven-minute miles. Fenton, on the other hand, struggled to keep the pace. By the time they made it to the single-pump gas station on the outskirts of Spring Hill, he’d had it.
“Jesus … we’ve … we’ve got to stop here.”
“What’s the matter, Fenton?” Claire asked. “Red Bull wearing off?”
Too tired to properly answer, the most he could do was point to the rural convenience store and nod in the affirmative. Claire spotted a pay phone near the entrance and decided it was as good a place as any to make an emergency call. As for Paul, anywhere that sold a cold drink would do.
The three stepped onto the rustic porch decorated with old metal gas signs and license plates and hubcaps … even a cheerleader on a decades-old beer poster, still smiling her faded but gorgeous smile through a dirty window. Fenton dipped inside while Paul hung back with Claire and rifled through his pockets. “Hope you’ve got change,” he said, “’cause I’m fresh out.” She was already depositing quarters before he could finish his sentence. He leaned against the pay phone and asked, “So this is the same reporter friend whose house we went to back in February?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you really think we can trust her?”
“Six months on the run and she never once mentioned my whereabouts in San José. I think we’re safe.”
Paul nodded and asked, “She still living south of Atlanta?”
Claire didn’t answer, instead putting a finger in her free ear while listening intently to the woman on the line. Paul crossed his arms and listened to the two discuss what the group had already planned the night before: flipping the recently axed CEO of Asteria Pharmaceuticals, George Sturgis.
Paul knew that getting a man like Sturgis to play ball wouldn’t be easy, but at this point, their options were on life support. They had tried exposing the company’s involvement in an illegal operation in Costa Rica, only to have a volcano make matters worse by getting corrupt government officials south of the border involved. They had tried running, too, but it hadn’t taken long to realize that life on the run was no life at all. And when they’d finally decided to go after the CIA and Asteria Pharmaceuticals head-on, the results hadn’t eliminated the threat. Sure, the Skyline broadcast had effectively sunk Asteria’s stock price overnight, and preventing such a catastrophic drug from doing further damage on the open market couldn’t be a bad thing. But the chances of securing another radio broadcast tower close enough to influence the powers that be in Washington was slim to none. Not to mention the fact that the one outlier who had
perfected lucid dreaming and essentially paved the way for their entrance into a highly secure government facility was, for the moment, out of the picture.
As Paul waited impatiently for Claire to wrap up the call he realized they had been going about this the wrong way all along. Government conspiracies. Illegal detainments, experiments, and murders. Pharmaceutical malfeasance. Such wrongdoing was rarely brought to light by outsiders, but instead from within. With any luck, Sturgis would be the whistleblower they desperately needed to expose the CIA’s involvement once and for all. He was about to review the plan in his head once more when Claire got off the phone.
“We good to go?” Paul asked.
Claire nodded. “Sarah’s going to meet us at Attison’s Park, about a mile down the road from here, so no need to boost a ride.”
“That’s a relief.” He sighed. “Look, I really didn’t want to get anyone else involved, but right now we could use all the help we can get.”
“Sarah’s a big girl,” Claire said. “She’ll be fine. Besides, the Asteria takedown couldn’t have gone any better. If there were ever a time Sturgis would cooperate, it’s now. And the sooner we get a credible source to go public with the CIA’s involvement, the safer we’ll be.”
The screen door swung open, and out walked Fenton, juggling a couple of expired candy bars and three cans of lukewarm Red Bull in his arms. “You believe this place?” he said. “Charged me almost fifteen bucks for this shit and can’t even get a fridge that works right!”
“Don’t you think you need some water?” Paul asked.
“Nonsense. It’s high octane or nothing at all.” He peered down the road, then asked, “We know where we’re going?”
“Yep,” Claire said. “And it’s a mile down the road. I think the real question is, you ready, Fenton? Or you gonna spew the moment we pick up the pace again?”
The kid sighed and reluctantly accepted his fate for the next eight to ten minutes. “Guess I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”
Chapter 11:
Early Retirement
“Five years and $400 million dollars,” George Sturgis lamented as he sat at his desk, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and middle finger while Ryan Tanner sat across from him. “And that’s not even counting R&D.”
“Exactly,” Tanner said. “When all’s said and done, we’ll have close to a billion dollars invested in our new genetic-modification line.”
Sturgis couldn’t take his eyes off the quarterly report that lay on his desk, especially the part that was in the red. He tapped his finger on the paper, looked up at Tanner, and asked, “And you’re sure the operating expenses for 2020 are—”
“It’s right, sir. Everything’s been checked and then checked again with a fine-tooth comb.”
“My God … How did this happen?”
“No doubt it’s quite the miscalculation. But, if history’s taught us anything about antisense research, it’s that it’s never short of surprises.”
Angrily, “Surprises?” Sturgis rose from his seat and put his knuckles on the desk. “You hand-deliver this garbage like some demented candy gram and chalk up a company on life support as ‘surprises?’ Where’s Davies with accounting, anyway? Why is my PR director giving me this shit?”
“Remember what you said when you hired me, about my past connections? The ones we said might come in handy on a rainy day?”
Suspiciously, Sturgis nodded.
“Well judging by the fact that it looks like we’ll never make it through the clinical trial phase before going belly-up, I’d say it’s pouring, sir.”
Slowly, the CEO took his seat and said, “Okay, Tanner. I’m listening.”
“Remember our mutual acquaintance with the agency? Dick Doyle?”
“Of course. Doyle and I have run in the same Washington circles for decades. Hell, his recommendation is the reason I hired you. He’s a good man.”
“Yes, well as I’m sure you already know then, Doyle’s career as a science technology and weapons specialist has given him access to some of the most groundbreaking research and tech that’s out there. He’s worked on some of the agency’s most secretive programs for the last two decades. I’m sure you’re already aware of the agency’s historical interest in the way psychotropic drugs can influence human behavior and thought processes.”
“Of course. The rumor mill hasn’t stopped turning since MKUltra went public back in the seventies.”
“Well, you can rest assured, sir, the interest is ongoing. Only, research and development has long abandoned hallucinogens, narcotics, stimulants … you know, the usual suspects. The failed operation to influence the Venezuelan election back in 2018 put the final nail in the coffin on all that mess.”
“CIA had a hand in that?”
Tanner nodded in the affirmative. “And after years of research, the election results were the final say in what our scientists feared all along: that using mind-altering drugs for mind control simply doesn’t work. Human beings are just too different; too many variables from one person to the next. Sure, we could influence behavior to a certain extent, but there was never any reliable way to tell whether a target would be convinced he needed to vote a certain way, or take a dive out a twenty-story window instead.”
“What’s all this got to do with our bottom line, Tanner?”
‘The science technology and weapons department at Langley still has a keen interest in mind control, sir, and they’re considering the next big thing in medicine to help them achieve it.”
“Gene therapy …”
“Precisely,” Tanner said. “There are over three billion base pairs of DNA in the human genome; pairs that can affect personality; behavior; political leaning … Can you imagine a world where democracy is spread not by brute force or propaganda, but by simply changing the way people think?”
Sturgis couldn’t, and that’s what disturbed him the most. Either Tanner was playing him for a fool, or he’d hired a complete loon to manage the company’s public relations department, because there was no way gene therapy could ever lead to some form of mind control. The science simply wasn’t there.
“Personality traits aren’t that simple, Tanner. They’re polygenic, you know that. Countless genetic and environmental factors determine whether a person gets into Harvard, or the local penitentiary. We’re a melting pot, so to speak. A little bit of nature here. A little bit of nurture there. There isn’t any one factor on the genetic level that makes up a person as a whole, or any one gene that can be inhibited to change a person’s personality for that matter.”
“I know that, but the preliminary results from Phase Three of the clinical trials show—”
“Even if there were something to be learned here, you still haven’t given me a reason why I should give a damn about your old employer’s little science project.”
The look of disappointment on Tanner’s face made it clear he was hoping for a little more enthusiasm from the man in charge. Oh well, on to Plan B. Silently, he took a folded paper from his jacket pocket and slid it over to Sturgis, the memo written in a language he was sure to understand.
The CEO had to blink twice, then asked, “Is this what I think it is?”
“Yes, sir. The agency would never expect a publicly traded company to participate in such an operation without being properly compensated.”
The letter was brief and to the point. And to Sturgis, it seemed too good to be true. “The numbers cited here haven’t even been released yet. Who came up with these figures in the first place?”
“Oh, the agency has its sources,” Tanner said. That statement alone infuriated Sturgis, and for a moment he wanted to reach across the table and strangle the obvious mole in the room. But another glance at the offer, and he quickly went from seeing red to a pleasant, monetary shade of green.
“This offer would cover us through the trials, and beyond,” Sturgis said.
“The idea is to support the company until Ocula reaches the open market, hopefully by ne
xt spring. By that time, the agency should have its side of the project fully operational, at which time we can discuss the future of our arrangement.” Tanner leaned forward with a crooked smile, lowered his tone, and said, “And I must tell you, Mr. Sturgis. When it comes to funding backed by the United States Treasury, Asteria couldn’t be looking at a brighter future. You’d be too big to fail.”
Always the skeptic, Sturgis said, “Nothing in this world comes without a price, Tanner. What do your friends want from us?”
“Just a small investment up front to pay for resources and support at an out-of-country facility that’s being constructed as we speak. All finances will be washed through the appropriate back channels, so you don’t have to worry about anything getting traced back to you. Once the federal budget for 2021 is set in stone this fall, we’ll be able to start funneling money back into company coffers”—he tapped on the expense report—“effectively eliminating the red you’re seeing here for the foreseeable future. That should keep the shareholders happy, don’t you think?”
Sturgis didn’t like losing control of the room—wasn’t in his nature. And the way Tanner was presenting the offer almost felt like he’d planned this all along, all the way back to the moment Sturgis had brought him on board in late 2018. What other motive would an ex-spook have for taking an early retirement only to go right back to work in the fast-paced world of the pharmaceutical industry? And who was to say he was an ex-spook to begin with? Judging by his confidence in the matter and the offer on the table, there was a good possibility he was just as active in the CIA now as he had been in years past.
But the offer did look pretty damn good. It also wasn’t lost on Sturgis that every other company that had tried to develop an FDA-approved antisense therapeutic drug had gone bankrupt in the process, long before the clinical trials were over. The more Sturgis thought about it, the more he realized it was a bit of a miracle that Asteria had even made it this far.