by Jeff Altabef
Darian’s face grew hot.
“I see. Callaghan must have told you. My mistake.”
“That’s not important. EBF-202 regenerates brain tissue, but we can’t control the effects. It will likely kill anyone you inject with it! We need more time with the animal control subjects.” His anger crested like a wave headed to shore, and crashed as it mingled with sand and surf and the knowledge that he was helpless.
“This drug will revolutionize how we view the brain. The treatment will not only end Alzheimer’s and senility, but can increase cognitive powers. The applications are endless, and so are the profits. You’re young still. You must understand the bigger picture. With your share of the money, most of your educational costs will be paid off.” Wickersham’s moss-colored eyes gleamed brightly.
Darian’s spirit sank. That look in Wickersham’s eyes meant that he sniffed money, and when he thought he might get paid, nothing changed his mind. “Did the patient’s guardian sign the consent forms?”
Wickersham tried to smirk, but he gave up under the strain well before Darian could have recognized the reaction. “You’ve seen the young man’s chart. He’s not going to recover from his head wound if we do nothing. At least we’ll be giving him a chance to benefit all humankind. Besides, he’s the perfect test subject—young and strong with a severe head trauma.”
“He still has a fighting chance to come out of the coma using traditional treatments. His guardian should be told about the choices and the risks.”
Wickersham stood, his head clearing the high back of his chair by an inch. “This is 2041, Doctor Beck. The law was changed two years ago. Without premium insurance, I can make this decision, and he doesn’t have the proper coverage.”
Darian’s nails dug into the palms of his hands. “But the Sheppard Group is paying all his bills. They have the required riders in their insurance.”
Wickersham slithered toward the side of his desk. “Yes, but the tennis instructor is not covered by that insurance. They’re paying for his costs out of pocket.” Wickersham waved his arms in the air as if he were conducting a symphony. “This is for the best, Darian. Don’t worry about the ethics. You should stick to what you’re good at: neurobiology and making friends among the female staff members.”
“Just give me another two months with the dogs. We’ll be in a better place.”
Wickersham stood beside him, his head just inches above Darian’s shoulder despite the man’s ridiculous platform shoes. “You’ll be fully involved in his case study. Just imagine how much we’ll learn! Think of all the people he’ll be helping.”
The intercom buzzed. Wickersham might have been the only person alive who still used one of those things. “Your daughter is here for your meeting, Doctor Wickersham.”
“Great. I’ve just finished with Doctor Beck. Good day, Doctor.”
“His name is Jack.”
“Whose name?”
“The tennis instructor. Your case study.” He had a fleeting fantasy about smashing his fists into Wickersham’s surgically altered nose, but spun and stormed toward the door instead. He reached for the doorknob, but the door swung open and he collided with Wickersham’s daughter. Their eyes met.
“Vanessa?”
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
Cooper brushed his fingertips across the smooth, soft flesh of her chest and chuckled. “Your heart is racing like a small, scared rabbit.”
He offered his brightest smile, and willed his sapphire eyes to twinkle. He used one of his direct irresistible looks, one that never failed to melt a woman’s heart.
“It’s you, baby. You make me... cr-crazy.” Her lips quivered, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Young and lovely, her naked form stretched out on the freshly cut emerald grass, which bent against the weight of her thin body. Her chestnut eyes were wide with excitement, her hair pulled back in pigtails and tied with pink ribbons. A smattering of freckles playfully dotted her nose and cheeks. She had worked as a waitress before they met, before he took her away from that life to give her a better one.
“Have you enjoyed spending time with me?” He stroked the cream-colored skin on her upper arm. Goose bumps sprouted in response.
“Of course, baby. You’re an angel.”
The answer pleased him. He tipped back a crystal wine glass, taking a sip of the 2021 Lafite Rothschild Bordeaux. He let the liquid linger in his mouth before swallowing. “Some people say superb wine is determined solely by the conditions in which the grapes are grown. They argue that if the soil content is just right, and you have ideal amounts of rain and sun, great wine is sure to follow.”
He took another sip from his glass. “I disagree. Without extraordinary vines, truly superior wine cannot flourish. The same is true with humans. Only those with the proper genetic code can truly be exceptional.”
She stared back with a blank expression on her face.
Cooper shrugged. “It is a trick of fate.” He opened a wicker picnic basket and removed a piece of aged, sharp cheddar cheese and sliced off two paper-thin pieces. He fed one to her, fingertips sweeping against her pink lips.
He nodded toward the sky. “It is a near perfect day, and you are almost perfect.”
“I can try to be perfect. I’ll do anything you want.”
He smiled and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “I know you would try, but there are things you can’t be—certain... deficiencies you cannot overcome.” His smile vanished and his demeanor turned cold and hard like blue ice.
A singular tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. When she pulled her hand away from him, a jolt shot through her and she whimpered.
“Struggling won’t help you. The restraints are electrified. If you struggle against them you will only feel pain—a tremendous amount of pain. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” The words dripped out of his mouth like sickly sweet syrup.
“No, don’t hurt me. Please don’t.” She glanced toward an athletic-looking young man standing behind her tormentor, the only other person in the field. She pleaded at him with her eyes.
The attendant smiled coolly back at her, casual in a plain white t-shirt and blue pants, eyes lit with an unnatural gleam. He was trim and well muscled, but a softness to his features indicated that he lived a life of privilege.
“You can call out to Terry if you’d like. You can beg him to help you, but I don’t think your pleas will do you any good.”
She tried to kick, but the restraint held and jolted her with another blast of electricity. She screeched. Tears rolled down her face freely now.
“Terry, bring me the case.”
Terry placed a plain wooden case on the grass next to the girl and opened it. He removed a red velvet cloth and draped it next to her. On top of the cloth he placed a dozen stainless steel surgical instruments.
Cooper’s blue eyes reflected off the stainless steel, creating dozens of sapphire orbs.
The girl turned away.
“Don’t be afraid. I’ll explain each one of these tools to you and what I plan on doing with them.”
She turned her head to face him again. “But why? I did everything I could to please you. I’ll do anything you want.”
Cooper beamed an angelic smile at her again. “You can’t give me the one thing I need.”
“Just name it. I’ll do it. I can do it!” She gasped between sobs.
“You can never be Maggie.” He grabbed the scalpel, knuckles white with rage.
“No! Please don’t!”
Darian stood stiffly in the open doorway clutching a tablet against his chest. His throat had tightened so much he had a hard time swallowing.
Jack lay on his hospital bed with a cup of red Jell-O in his hand. His mother sat on a chair beside him while his younger brother stood nearby observing him carefully. The relief in the room was palpable. Jack had people who loved him, people who deserved more than this charade.
Jack’s mom glanced Darian’s way and locked eyes with him. She left her son’s
bedside, and approached him warily.
He thought about retreating, but that would be cowardly. He was responsible for Jack now. Turning and running was not an option.
A bright smile lightened her face as she got close. She appeared decades younger than she had earlier in the day, before Jack’s eyes had fluttered to life.
“Doctor Beck? I’m Jack’s mother, Maggie. Thank you so much for helping my son. I was so worried.” Relief rippled through her voice like a breeze through a wheat field.
Darian stammered and glanced toward his feet as he spoke. “He recovered... on his own. He’s a strong young man.” The truth was useless now.
Maggie shot Darian a piercing look. “I have a feeling there’s more to it than that.” Without warning, she closed the gap between the two and threw her arms around the researcher’s shoulders.
He stood woodenly, the tablet’s hard edge jabbing into his side.
After a few awkward moments, she stepped back. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes and a slight pink hue flushed her face. “I’d better go inside.”
He nodded and watched her return to her son’s bedside.
He felt like a thief. Wickersham had injected Jack with EBF-202 two hours after Darian had confronted him. Two hours. More than enough time for him to have warned Maggie. He could have marched straight to Jack’s room and given her all the information she needed, but instead, he had studied Jack’s file, paced his office, and convinced himself that Jack’s best chance to recover was the experimental treatment.
Two days had passed, and he knew he had lied to himself. He wanted to find out if the drug would work. That desire doomed him, and now he judged himself guilty. His only chance at redemption was controlling the drug. He had to find an inhibitor to save Jack’s life.
Samuel Wickersham’s Clive Christian knockoff cologne drifted into the hallway like a pregnant rain cloud, as he materialized behind Darian as silently as a shadow. He slapped Darian on the back. “Congratulations, Doctor. You’ve saved the tennis instructor’s life.”
Darian glared at his boss while random violent thoughts flashed through his mind.
“You don’t look well, Doctor Beck.” Wickersham’s throaty voice hung like a wisp in the air. “Have you had problems sleeping? Those dark circles under your eyes don’t inspire confidence. You’re not in the lab now. You have a patient to take care of.”
The bastard was right. Darian hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours since Jack had been injected, but he didn’t feel tired. More than enough anger raged through him to power his body—some directed at Wickersham, but most reserved for himself.
He scanned the hallway, found an empty room across the hall, and motioned for Wickersham to follow. When the director hesitated, Darian grabbed his arm, pulled him into the room, and closed the door behind them.
“I lost Lucy this morning,” Darian growled.
Wickersham stumbled backward. “Lucy? Should I know what you’re talking about?” His face was flaccid, but his eyes brightened with alarm and fear. He plunged his hand deep into his front pocket.
“Lucy is one of our canine test subjects, and Desi has turned violent. He’s never been violent before. The treatment has changed his personality completely.” Darian’s jaw ached as he clenched it shut.
He had taken Lucy’s death hard. Death was the enemy. It needed to be defeated. Beaten down. Crushed. Even George seemed depressed when he had to separate Desi from the other test subjects.
“That’s a shame, Doctor. I hope you learn enough from her death to help our new friend.” Wickersham crossed his arms against his chest.
Darian ran his hand through his shaggy blond hair in frustration. “I need Jack to stay with us so I can monitor his condition until I think it’s safe for him to leave.”
“That will be impossible, Doctor. As you know, the tennis instructor’s family knows nothing about our unconventional treatment. We can’t keep him here without arousing their suspicions.”
“I thought you weren’t worried about the legality of the treatment or the family’s reaction.”
“I’m not worried about the law or their little family.” He snickered. “They are a bunch of nobodies. I am concerned about the Sheppard Group. They’re part owners of the hospital, and I haven’t figured out their connection to the tennis instructor. Apparently, Charles Sheppard doesn’t play tennis.”
The law was ambiguous. Without the proper insurance riders, Wickersham could use experimental methods on a patient if the patient was otherwise deemed terminal. Normally, the hospital wouldn’t be worried about being dragged to court; most patients couldn’t afford the expensive attorneys. With Charles Sheppard involved, however, the equation changed.
Darian could see the thin layer of concealer Wickersham used under his eyes. I’m not the only one having trouble sleeping.
Wickersham continued in a softer voice just above a whisper. “If they learn of our treatment, I will deny everything. As far as the records show, you acted without my knowledge. The consequences would be severe. You would be taken off the project, lose your license, and maybe serve jail time.” He reached for the doorknob with his left hand, as though clutching something with his right.
Darian’s face reddened as he spotted what appeared to be a taser in his boss’s right hand. He took a half step toward his boss. “I’m not worried about myself. I need to protect the patient.”
“Then I suggest you persuade him to help you in an academic study involving head traumas. Have him come in as often as he will agree. The younger brother is something of a science progeny. His scores on the preliminary assessment test rival yours. Perhaps he can be useful to you. Otherwise, I’ll make sure that we acquire the autopsy. Good day, Doctor.” Wickersham opened the door, spun, and left the room without looking back.
Darian pounded his fist into the wall, scraping his knuckles, but the pain felt good. He deserved pain—even welcomed it.
He opened the tablet and studied a series of brain scans using the latest neuro-imaging technology. The first group was a baseline series of Jack’s brain before EBF-202. The next series had been taken after he woke from the coma this morning. Already, the drug worked its magic. The damaged area was largely repaired, but a well-trained eye could detect the beginnings of more subtle differences.
What will those changes do to him?
Zeus and Lucy had died, Desi turned violent, and the other dogs acted more somber than before they were treated, as if they understood more than they could possibly know.
A cold chill crept down his back. What have I done?
Jack swerved his red Indian Chief motorcycle into a spot between a gray Mercedes and a silver BMW SUV. He pulled off his helmet, and his short curly brown hair fell in tight, untamed circles around his face. He checked his appearance in the side mirror and traced the thin white scar by his temple with his finger—the only visible reminder of a dangerous episode four months earlier, when a psychotic businessman had kidnapped him. He would have died if his younger brother, Tom, hadn’t risked everything to save him—a debt he could never repay.
He placed the helmet on the seat and instinctively reached for the pannier to retrieve the heavy chain he used to secure the bike, but stopped mid-step. Who would steal an old motorcycle in a hospital parking lot full of luxury autos? Besides, his bike was still dented and scratched from when he ditched it four months earlier. Tom had repaired the engine for him, increasing horsepower and gas mileage, but had no interest in the cosmetic stuff. Jack hoped to save enough money to fix the bike, but tennis instructors didn’t earn much.
An hour late for his appointment, he ambled toward the hospital as if wading along a sandy beach. He didn’t want to keep the doctor waiting, but he hated hospitals and doctors, so his legs would only go so fast.
He would have dropped out of the study by now if his mom and brother hadn’t made such a fuss about it. They were adamant, so he’d relented. It was the least he could do after what he put them through a fe
w months ago, and if it meant that his mom would sleep better, he really had no choice.
Sweat rolled down the side of his face as the heat rose off the pavement in thick waves. New York suffered through what seemed like an endless heat wave. Scorching temperatures had soared past 110 degrees for two weeks straight, as if Mother Nature flipped humanity the bird for treating her so shabbily.
He trudged toward the massive glass and steel facility, t-shirt soaked and blue jeans already stuck to his long legs. He passed the armed guards and swiped his citizen’s identification card at the reader. The glass doors swung open with a smooth swoosh, and he smiled as a cool breeze engulfed him.
He took an immediate right and sauntered down the long hallway away from the three patient wings. Heading to the basement and the research laboratories below ground, he pressed the call button for the elevator at the end of the hallway.
When he arrived in the basement, Brenda welcomed him with a broad smile and a soft touch on the arm. “Hi, Jack, you’re a little late today.”
“One of my clients had a heart attack during his lesson. He collapsed right along the baseline. I had to give him CPR until the ambulance came.” He widened his eyes and grinned, trying his best impression of a humble, life-saving hero.
“And the time before that you raced into a burning building. Then there was the time a child was drowning at the pool at the club.” She turned from him and strode down the hallway. “Let’s not forget the traffic accident where you had to pry open the door right before the car exploded. You live quite the heroic life.”
She smiled mischievously at him as she brushed back her short, black hair. She had a fair complexion, bright hazel eyes, and a wide smile that transformed her pretty oval face into something extraordinary.
“I’m sorry, Brenda, the traffic was crazy.”
“I’m sure, Jack. Next time, let us send you a car. Doctor Beck isn’t happy with you driving the bike while you’re having those headaches.” She led him to the examining rooms.