There was a tag tied to one of the girl’s toes: TANYA.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Richard left the operating room and checked his cell phone again in the lab—still no coverage. He was badly shaken. Was Tanya ever even at the hospital? Did she really die of natural causes, or did Newman kill her so they could turn her into a research subject?
He scanned the bulletin board again, and the desk, hoping to find some clue. When he turned toward the door, he saw that the man he’d knocked out was gone. He opened the door slightly and saw two men in lab coats who had just walked past.
“It’s just the beginning,” one said. “I don’t think we can call it a success until our little lion makes it to adulthood.”
“I’ll be happy if he just makes it through today,” the other said.
Richard closed the door. He was going crazy an inch at a time. How would he ever be able to find his son in this place? He had to keep from getting caught, but he could spend all day searching individual rooms. And who’s to say one room he found empty wouldn’t have Christopher in it twenty minutes later? He’d said that he’d gotten away from them, but what did that mean? Had they caught him by now? Was he somewhere in the school, or had they let him get out into the city, like Joseph’s son?
He heard footsteps coming and put his ear to the door. When that didn’t work very well, he opened the door again, slightly. Two men were walking down the hall. The first was a young man in a lab coat, early twenties, with about two days worth of sparse whiskers on his face. The second man was Hunter. They were deep in conversation.
“How much longer do you think this will take?” the younger man asked as they paused before climbing up the stairs. “He’s a tough resident.”
“Yeah, his parents are as stubborn as he is,” Hunter said. “I’d hoped by the end of the day he’d be rehabilitated.”
“What will we do if he isn’t?”
“We’ll have to augment our therapy with chemical procedures,” Hunter answered as the two men started up the stairs. “I hate doing that, it’s so expensive.”
Richard waited until the men were out of sight, then stepped from around the door into the dark hallway. About twenty yards away some light invaded the hall from underneath a closed door. He could hear his footsteps echo down the hall and shifted to walking on the balls of his feet. He felt his body pulling him to run and throw open the door, to find out if the tough little resident—the resident whose parents Hunter knew so well—was his son. But he knew he had to be careful.
When he got to the door, he paused as he read the sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY: REHABILITATION CENTER. The door looked like solid metal, and there was no window. Richard pushed on it, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he noticed the security card pad to the right of the door, the red light activated.
“Who are you?” a voice shouted.
Richard turned to see the young man in the lab coat standing about halfway between Richard and the stairwell door.
“What are you doing here?” the man said.
Richard stood straight, motioning with his hands like he was going to give a full explanation, but then he started running at the man. The man turned around, heading through the stairwell door and up the stairs. Richard made it to the door before it closed and leaped up the stairs, three at a time, pulling himself up with the rail. At the first level landing, the young man was almost an entire flight of stairs ahead. But at the second level, his lead had dropped to a half of a flight. Richard felt his sides aching. The next landing would be the lobby.
As the man rounded the corner and started up the last few steps, his foot caught on the end of his lab coat, tripping him. He fell back to the landing, but got to his feet and started up the stairs again. Richard barely made it around the corner, grabbing the man’s foot and tripping him again. The two fell to the landing. Richard felt a couple of hard blows to his sides, right below his ribs. He grabbed the man by his lab coat and threw him down the next set of stairs, leaping on top of him just as he hit the landing. The man didn’t move, but Richard could see he was still breathing. He searched the man’s pockets until he found the security card and ran down the stairs.
He tried the card on the Rehabilitation Center door, but nothing happened. Again, he held the card up to be read, and this time the door opened.
Richard ran into a large control room of some kind. It was dimly lit, but he could see a long counter with a panel full of knobs, switches, and lights. On either end of the counter were small color monitors showing a countdown. The count was sixteen.
A small flash card sat next to one of the monitors. The printed sticker on the card said: “The Seven Cubs.” He pulled out his cell phone and held it against the card until he heard the beep, indicating that the phone had copied something from the card. Probably encrypted and impossible to read, but it was better than nothing.
On the other side of the counter was a glass wall. He ran up to the glass and looked more closely. He could barely make out that in the center of the dimly lit room on the other side stood a straight-backed, metal chair.
And in the chair sat a very still little boy, his back to the control room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
The room was too dark for Richard to see if the boy was Christopher or not. There was no security card reader on the metal door that led to the room, so he pushed on it without stopping. The door opened, and Richard stood still for a brief moment, feeling the silence. He didn’t even hear the door close behind him. The room was some sort of sound chamber, the other wall rounded, a half-circle that went from one end of the glass wall to the other. There was a gradual curve at the bottom of the wall, blending it into the floor, and another curve at the top. A little light was coming from above the glass wall, but Richard had a difficult time sensing space and distance. The white walls, white ceiling, white floor, seemed to blend far off in the distance. There was no surface to look at.
The boy in the chair hadn’t moved at all. His arms and legs were strapped to the chair, and his head was bowed, straight down onto his chest, like he was praying or sleeping. Or dead.
The light over the glass wall shut completely off. Richard turned to the control room, but could see nothing. He held his hand inches from his face, but couldn’t see it either. The chamber was totally dark and silent, and he became disoriented. He wasn’t sure where the boy was now, or even which direction he himself was facing.
Richard began to sense something. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt his body responding to some sort of motion. Gradually, he heard a deep, low resonating hum. His body sensed it more than his ears could hear it, but the rumble was getting louder and higher in pitch. There was shaking—constant, driving shaking. He wasn’t sure if the shaking was the floor or himself or what. The sound got louder and louder, the pitch, higher and higher. His ears hurt and he reached up to cover them. Richard worried for the boy, knowing he couldn’t cover his own ears.
The sound screeched throughout the chamber now, pounding away at Richard’s brain. He felt the room spinning, and he spread out his legs to try to keep his balance. The screech grew louder, higher, and he felt the room literally turn over. Richard fell to the floor and collapsed into the fetal position, holding his ears and rolling. He thought he felt the room turn over again, and again, and he rolled around on the floor, wishing he was strapped down as well.
The screeching stopped dead and Richard found that he was yelling, without really knowing it. He stopped and opened his eyes. He blinked. Again. He wasn’t sure if his eyes were opened or not, so he reached up and touch them with his hands. It was difficult for his hands to find his face, he was so disoriented. He wasn’t sure he was reaching up or out or at all. Finally, he touched his eyes and thought he felt they were opened. But he couldn’t see anything.
“Christopher,” he whispered. “Christopher,” he said, more loudly, as he stood up, “are you all right? Whoever you are, are you all right?”
No answer. No sound.
No sensation.
Dead. Everything felt dead to Richard.
Then the room filled with a bright, searing light, forcing Richard to cover his eyes and fall to his knees. He felt sweat dripping from his forehead, under his arms, all over. Even with his eyes closed, he could tell how bright the room was, and it kept getting hotter. He stood up because his knees were burning through his jeans from touching the floor, but he still couldn’t open his eyes. Too bright.
“Are you okay?” he shouted.
No answer.
He sensed that the temperature of the room was starting to decrease, and the light seemed less bright against his eyelids. He covered his eyes and slowly opened them and began to notice faint images appearing on the one round wall, some sort of slides or movie covering the wall, from one end to the other, seamlessly. The light was now bearable, about the intensity in a normally lit room, but growing dimmer. The images became easier to discern.
A man stood on a neighborhood sidewalk, and, several houses down, a little blonde boy rode his bicycle toward the man. Toward his father. The bicycle was wobbly, like the boy was just learning how to ride without training wheels. There was no sound, but the boy was smiling, pleased with his success.
The lights grew dimmer in the room, until they were completely off and the only light came from the images on the wall. Richard stood transfixed by the image of the boy on the bicycle. The image surrounded him. In front, out of the corners of his eyes, everywhere. All he could do was stand and watch and become a part of it.
The perspective of the image shifted now, to that of the boy, as though the he were holding the camera while he rode his bike. Richard could sense how the bicycle was unsteady as the view focused down at the handlebars. The view went up, looking at the father a couple of houses down. The father stood erect, arms folded, oblivious to the joy his son was feeling, judging the boy’s skills.
The bicycle fell and the view became shaky and out of focus as it was tossed about. Sky. Grass. Handlebars. Sidewalk. The father ran toward the camera, angry. His face was red, and his mouth opened big as he shouted. The room filled with sound. Loud. Sudden. Intense enough to be felt and heard.
“You idiot!” the father shouted. “Can’t you ride a simple bicycle? What’s wrong with you? Your brother learned how in half the time. Why can’t you be more like him?”
The sound of a boy starting to cry.
“Don’t start that, you little crybaby! I don’t want all the neighbors to see what a baby you are. It’s embarrassing. Now get up! Come on, get up! And this time do it right. Something’s wrong with you.”
The image started to fade, but the last statement echoed throughout the room repeatedly, fading with each repetition. “Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you. Something’s wrong with you.”
The wall was blank for a second or two, then a montage of images flashed by. They were quick, but long enough to pierce the mind. The father yelling at the son while pointing at a messy room...a mother watching television and ignoring the little boy nearby...the mother and father sitting at the dinner table with the little blonde boy, no one looking at each other or speaking....
Richard stood still, not able to move.
“This is what your life would be if you weren’t safe here at the Newman Home,” a woman’s voice filled the room, soft and gentle. “You would be worse than a pet, kept home by parents who only want you to work for them.”
...the father slamming the back door as his son carries two huge garbage bags....
“Why do many biological parents like having their offspring in their house? Because it gives them someone to vent their anger at. Someone to yell at. To blame. To beat.”
...the mother throwing the toys of the blonde boy as he watched, crying....
Crying.
Richard stared at the wall.
Crying.
Richard blinked. He heard something. Was it part of the images on the wall?
Crying.
He heard it again. Someone said something about stopping. Someone was crying. Richard blinked again, bowing his head so he could look at the floor. Now he could hear better. The woman’s voice was still talking, but he was sure he heard someone crying. Someone real. Suddenly he could think again and remembered there was a boy in the room. He looked up at the boy sitting in the chair. His head was moving back and forth as he cried.
“Christopher?” Richard asked.
The boy kept shaking his head, back and forth.
“How horrible,” the woman’s voice continued. “What a tragedy for little boys and girls to be treated worse than dogs.”
The images appeared on the wall more quickly now, almost falling on top of one another.
...a crying baby left behind, alone in a dark room...the father, slapping the boy against the side of his face, forcing him to the floor....
The boy strapped in the chair jolted, his body jerking up and back as if a powerful electric current had shocked his body. If it weren’t for the straps he’d have been thrown to the floor. Two seconds later, he jolted again.
“Christopher!” Richard lunged forward. He knelt between the boy and the wall, looking at the boy’s twisted face. The child looked haggard, exhausted, old. Sweat poured out of every pore on his face, and his eyes stared straight ahead, through Richard and at the wall.
The blonde boy from the video was sitting in front of him, passed out.
Richard stared at the boy’s face, struggling between feelings of relief and disappointment, then searched for wires. He couldn’t find any and fumbled instead with the straps, hurrying to try to unbuckle them. The images came faster, surrounding the two, smothering them.
Another jolt.
Richard felt the electricity burn through his arms, knocking him back, almost to the floor. He went back to working on the straps and finally got the arms undone. He could feel the images around them changing, the woman’s voice growing louder, more intense. The strap on the boy’s left leg was unbuckled.
Another jolt.
The boy’s arms flung up and his upper body jumped forward and then slammed back into the chair. Richard fell back again, feeling like red hot wires were running through his veins. He started on the right leg.
The images cut off and the room became completely dark. Richard couldn’t see the strap, but kept working with it. He heard the boy breathing and felt his body go limp.
Soft, relaxing music began to play, and images appeared on the wall. Richard finished undoing the strap. As he reached to pick up the boy, he felt some wires embedded in the metal of the chair. He held the boy in his arms like a baby. He was heavy, far heavier than what his weight would normally seem, completely limp, with no strength left.
Richard carried the boy away from the chair. On the wall were pictures of the school: residents peacefully studying at their desks...an instructor kneeling in the hall, talking with a resident... the residents enjoying a meal in the cafeteria.
“But at the Newman Home,” the woman’s voice began, “offspring are people. The kind instructors and administrators at the Newman Home realize there is no difference between residents and adults—we would mistreat residents were we to treat them like children. We take very seriously our charge to raise up a generation of world leaders. Senators, presidents, CEO’s. Such leaders begin as mature, competent, knowledgeable residents.”
Without warning, the images and sound stopped. Cut off, completely. The chamber was dark again, and Richard couldn’t even see the boy in his arms. He walked forward, cautiously, not sure where the door was, his footsteps echoing. The more he stepped forward, the more uncertain he became of where he was, which direction he was going. Then he heard some clicking noise he couldn’t identify, and the room filled with a series of noises. There were so many sounds, echoing on top of one another, he had no idea what they were. He stood still, listening. The sounds weren’t coming from the speakers, he thought, but from somewhere in the room. From everyw
here in the room.
The lights came on from above the glass wall, and Richard could see he and the boy were surrounded by a dozen hosts, holding their security clubs.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Sweat dripped down Richard’s forehead and cheeks. The room burned from the lights, so hot it was hard to breathe. He looked at the glass wall to the control room, but all he could see was the reflection of himself holding the boy, and the hosts standing at attention around them.
“You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Mr. Carson,” the superintendent’s voice said, filling the room. “What should we do with you?”
“This boy needs medical attention right away,” Richard said.
The door from the control room opened and the man in a lab coat came in. As he got closer, Richard could see a large bump on the man’s forehead. He held out his arms and told Richard to give him the boy.
“Will you have a doctor look at him?” Richard asked.
“We will do what we need to do,” the man said.
Richard held onto the boy. “No, you’ll have a doctor—a real doctor—look at him.”
“You’re in no position, Mr. Carson,” the superintendent’s voice said, “to make demands. Give us the boy, or keep him, whichever you prefer. Will he get any medical treatment in your hands?”
Richard looked down at the little boy. He didn’t move, but he was sweating so much his clothes were drenched. Richard kissed the boy on his forehead, then handed him to the man.
“How touching,” the superintendent said. “Now, what should we do with you, Mr. Carson? Would a little kiss on the forehead help?”
“Let’s call my wife and ask her what to do with me. She’s waiting to hear from me.”
“Your wife who claimed to know Dr. Newman? I’ve come to understand what kinds of connections she actually has.”
The Newman Resident Page 20