Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller

by J. J. Carlson

  Chan shook his head, and added. “The most obvious answer is usually the right answer.”

  Glassman shifted in his seat. “Maybe. Something about it just doesn’t seem right. You think he's a security risk, now that his wife and kid are gone?”

  “We’ll know soon enough. I know I probably would be, in his shoes. It’s not our call either way. We’re just here to take him back to Washington for his eval.”

  They sedan turned onto a tree-lined road and continued for several minutes.

  “This should be it,” Chan said as they approached a clearing.

  Glassman slowed down and eased the car into the spacious driveway. “Nice place,” he mumbled, leaning forward to get a better view. “Spacious and private.”

  Chan opened his door and stuck one leg out. “It’ll probably be for sale soon. I doubt this guy will be able to keep it without his wife's salary.”

  The pair of agents made their way up the stairs and knocked on the door. There was no answer. They waited for a full minute before trying the doorknob. It was unlocked.

  “Mr. Hawkins?” Chan called out as he pushed the door open and stepped into the foyer. “Mr. Hawkins, are you alright? It's agents Chan and Glassman from the FBI.”

  The house reeked of alcohol and vomit. The two men made their way into the living room and found Jarrod sitting on a couch. He sat motionless with a vacant expression on his face and a bottle of Feni in his right hand. A cracked whiskey glass lay on its side next to the coffee table. The men stopped in front of him and he took a long pull from the bottle, staring off into space. Nearly two days had passed since the accident, but Jarrod still wore the same blood-stained clothes.

  Agent Chan knelt down beside Jarrod and looked him in the eyes. “Mr. Hawkins, I'm agent Chan. Do you remember me? Agent Glassman and I debriefed you after you returned to the States from Africa.”

  Jarrod remained motionless, so Chan pressed on. “We were sent here to see if you’re okay. You signed non-disclosure agreements for some pretty sensitive information. Sometimes, when people experience a tragedy, they don’t care about things like protecting state secrets. You’re not in trouble, but it looks like you need some help. We'd like to take you to a hospital, if that's alright.”

  Jarrod gave no acknowledgment of Chan’s words. He stared at the wall with unblinking, bloodshot eyes.

  “The guy's toast,” Glassman said, loosening his tie and pushing back his sleeves “We gotta take him with us.”

  Chan nodded. “Forget security, this guy's a danger to himself right now.” Chan pried the bottle of liquor from Jarrod's hand and helped him to his feet, then half-carried him to the door.

  Chan looked over his shoulder at Glassman. “Why don't you see if you can find some of his clothes before we take off?”

  Glassman nodded and went upstairs. He grabbed a shirt and shorts before jogging downstairs to join his partner and the inebriated security risk.

  A few minutes later, they were en-route back to the nation's capital. Surprisingly, Jarrod remained awake for the entire trip, but never spoke a word. They offered him food and water, but he refused, even turning his head away when Glassman tried to put a water bottle up to his lips. It was nearly three o'clock in the morning when they arrived back in D.C. and checked him into the hospital.

  An hour later, the tired agents finally returned to their vehicle.

  “Vehicle services is going to flip their lid when we drop this thing off,” Glassman chuckled. “It smells like a dive-bar toilet in here.”

  “The boss can handle it,” said Chan, “I’m taking the day off.”

  Chan and Glassman returned to the hospital two days later to check on Jarrod’s condition. They signed in with the head nurse and made their way to his room. When they entered, an attendant was helping Jarrod into a wheelchair. Jarrod was hooked to an I.V., and he had a feeding tube in his nose. Some color had returned to his face, but his mental state didn’t seem to have improved. A woman in a gray suit walked over to Chan and extended her hand.

  “Agents Chan and Glassman, I assume.”

  Chan nodded and shook her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip.

  “I'm Doctor Emily Roberts, and I'm here to assume care of Jarrod Hawkins.”

  Chan eyed her suit and said, “I’m sorry, what are you a doctor of?”

  Roberts bristled. “It’s not your concern. And neither is Mr. Hawkins, not anymore.”

  “You must be mistaken, ma'am,” Chan replied. “This man’s in our custody. We were told that he is to remain here until he’s well enough for a psych eval. No one told us about a transfer.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Roberts said in a condescending tone. “I just finished speaking with your superiors a few moments ago. If you want to give them a call, I'm sure they’ll clear everything up.”

  Chan nodded at Glassman, who stepped out into the hallway. In less than a minute Glassman returned, nodding his head. “The lady’s right. Boss says to let ‘em go.”

  Chan scratched the back of his neck, then turned to Roberts. “Where exactly are you taking him?”

  Roberts had picked up Jarrod's charts and was flipping through them. She responded without looking up, “Jarrod is to be admitted to the Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center in Annapolis.”

  Chan tilted his head and folded his arms over his chest. “The factory?” He pointed a finger at Jarrod, who was staring down at the floor. “This guy won't even feed himself, and you're dragging him off to some lab to use him as a guinea pig?”

  Roberts held his gaze, a fire in her eyes. “I don't know what rumors you've heard about our facility, but our treatment is unparalleled. Mr. Hawkins has a high-level security clearance, and he requires the best care he can get. That’s why he is going with me. He is no longer within your jurisdiction, so if you don’t mind...” She held an open hand toward the door.

  Chan turned and stormed out of the room with Glassman close behind him.

  “What was that all about?” Glassman called after him.

  Chan stopped and leaned in close to his partner. Glassman could see a vein pulsing in his forehead.

  “I know we had to follow protocol with Jarrod when he came back from his State Department gig,” Chan rasped. “We interrogated him, and we couldn't prove anything. But I don’t doubt for a second he killed that sick bastard Makunza. In my opinion, that makes him a hero. And someone just handed him a death sentence.”

  8

  The Hillcrest Trauma and Rehabilitation Center sprawled across several blocks in Annapolis. The main floor alone covered nearly two hundred and fifty thousand square feet. Despite its size, it was warm and inviting, with quartz floors, a cheerful paint scheme, and colorful artwork. The staff wore bright uniforms, and even brighter smiles. In the north wing of the building, physicians and scientists provided therapy for amputees from the Defense Intelligence Agency, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the Department of defense. The south wing served as a psychiatric treatment center for the same client base.

  Jarrod's room was tucked into the far end of the south wing, but his screams could be heard from the lobby.

  “Jarrod. Jarrod, it's okay,” an orderly in teal scrubs said as he sat down on Jarrod's bed. He stood well over six feet tall, and could have struck an imposing demeanor if he so chose, but it wasn’t his style. Leaning over, he dabbed Jarrod's face with a moist towel.

  Jarrod awoke with a start. He looked around the room frantically for a moment, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The ceiling was dimly lit with dark blue recessed lighting, while the floor glowed green. The scent of lavender and the sound of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie hung in the air. Understanding spread across Jarrod’s face and his breathing began to slow.

  “Thank you, Reggie,” he croaked, rolling onto his side to stare at the wall.

  The orderly stood and smiled. This was the first time he had heard Jarrod speak in the week since Dr. Roberts checked him in.

  “You're very welcome,
Mr. Hawkins.” Reggie exited the room without a sound and grabbed a clipboard that hung by the door. He marked the time and scratched in his initials. He regarded the clipboard for a moment, which listed every time Jarrod had a fitful nightmare. This was entry number forty-seven, and the previous entries occurred at all hours of the day. Reggie sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips. He knew Dr. Roberts would be glad to hear that Jarrod had spoken. Hanging the clipboard back in its place, he turned down the hallway and continued his rounds.

  After another week of twice-daily counseling, aromatherapy, and carefully prescribed medication, Reggie brought Jarrod to Dr. Roberts's office so she could review his progress. Jarrod sat down in a cushioned chair that was suspended from the ceiling, which started to swing gently under his weight. Dr. Roberts dragged over a beanbag chair and sat down.

  “I hope you don't mind my choice in furniture,” she said. “I like to be comfortable.”

  Jarrod gave a slight nod.

  “I’m glad you agree,” she said. She began flipping through pages of a daily planner and frowned. “I'm so sorry, I have so many people that come in and out of here. You were...Laura, right? Here for piano lessons?”

  Jarrod’s face was stone-like. “That's not me. I was brought here for a psychiatric update.”

  “You know,” Roberts said, “laughter is always wonderful medicine, no matter what the ailment is. Don't be afraid to give it a try.”

  Roberts didn’t fit the stereotype of a shrink. She was easy going, and always talked to Jarrod like he was an old friend. Since he arrived, he had never heard anyone refer to her as “Dr. Roberts.” Everyone called her “Emm” or “Emily.” Jarrod found it hard to believe she was a doctor at all.

  Even her appearance didn’t match his expectations. Instead of a lab coat, she wore an orange t-shirt, denim shorts, and sandals. Her skin was fair and freckled and she kept her red hair cut short. Her arms and legs were lean and muscular, and the skin on her face had wind and sun-worn roughness to it. Still, she didn’t have any wrinkles, which led Jarrod to believe she was not yet thirty.

  He recalled the image of her the day she came to the hospital. It was hard to believe the intimidating professional in the suit was the same person sitting in front of him on a beanbag chair.

  In truth, she was farther removed from him intellectually than he ever would have guessed. She was extraordinary, had been all her life. Her parents attended her college graduation when she was just seventeen. She went on to finish PhD's in Psychology and Neuroscience by the time she was twenty-one, then spent the next three years overseas with government relief organizations providing humanitarian aid. At the age of twenty-four, she was recruited by Hillcrest. By the time she was twenty-seven, she was placed in charge of the entire Psychiatric wing.

  “Doc,” Jarrod said. I wanna ask you something.”

  “Sure,” she replied. “As long as you don't call me 'doc.’”

  He paused. “Alright. Emily, can you tell me why I'm here? Why are you doing this for me?”

  She shook her head. “Why wouldn't we? You needed help, so we brought you here. That’s what we do at Hillcrest.”

  “But why me? There must be tons of people that deserve to be here more than I do. Why not help them? You could have just left me to die.”

  Emily sighed. “This facility is reserved for people with a high-level security clearance. Specifically, people who have been privy to information of national importance. The things you've been through, the sacrifices you've made; they count for something. That's why you qualify for care at Hillcrest.”

  She leaned forward, her beanbag squeaking and grumbling. “But that's just politics. I'm helping you because I want to. It's my passion.”

  They both sat in silence for a long moment before Jarrod spoke. “Everyone’s been so nice to me. I feel like this place could really help someone.” His face grew somber. “Someone other than me. I didn't ask for any of this, and I don't want it. I don't even want to live without my family.”

  “Jarrod,” Emily sighed, “the mind is very complex. The tragedy you've suffered caused damage that is as real as a blow to the head.” She leaned forward some more, trying to make eye contact with him. “But it can also heal, just like any other part of you. It takes time, but it can heal. I know that you don't want to live without your family. But I also know you haven't tried to kill yourself since the accident. You’re holding on to something, and if you hang on to it a little bit longer, the pain won't be quite so strong.”

  Jarrod didn’t meet her probing eyes. He continued to stare down, and a tear fell onto his shirt, darkening a spot next to his feeding tube.

  “I believe in heaven,” he whispered. “I don’t want to take the chance that I won’t see my family again if I kill myself.”

  “There is something wrong with your logic, Jarrod. I won't disagree with you about the possibility of an afterlife, but what you need to realize is that starving yourself is still suicide. We can’t let you go down that path. I won't let you suffer in that way. No matter how long it takes, I will be here with you until you are better.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jarrod said, lifting his head. “The hurting won't stop because I won't let it. If you prolong my life, you’re prolonging my pain. If you really want to help me, please…give me a way to stop feeling anything. Numb me up, put me in a coma, I don’t care. Just make it stop. Make it all go away.”

  One hundred and fifty feet beneath Jarrod and Emily, a man sat in a dimly lit room, his thin figure silhouetted against a wide computer monitor. He held his hand in front of the screen and the video froze. With his fingers spread wide, he rotated his palm to the left, and the footage began to rewind. He rotated his hand back up and the playback froze. An image of Jarrod's pained face filled the screen. The man swept his hand to the right and the video resumed with crisp audio. Jarrod's voice filled the room.

  “Please…give me a way to stop feeling anything.”

  The man leaned back into his chair, and a smile crept across his face.

  9

  Emily Roberts stood in Hillcrest's spacious break room with her arms folder over her chest. There was a beeping sound, and a machine began filling her insulated coffee mug with a third shot of espresso.

  “Careful,” a deep voice said from behind her, “that stuff will make you see sound if you have too much of it.”

  “I thought it was smell color,” she said.

  Dr. Santiago Torres leaned against the refrigerator next to her. “Maybe it’s both.” He nodded toward her. “What's with the suit? Wagner call you downstairs?”

  She brushed the front of her formal attire and made a face like she smelled something awful. “Yep.”

  “Has he told you what it's about yet?”

  “No,” she said as she screwed the lid onto her mug. “But it probably won't be good. I can't remember a single time I've enjoyed talking to that man.”

  Santiago shrugged. “I don't think I'd ever go on vacation with him, but he's dedicated, you have to give him that. As a friendly warning, he probably wants to talk to you about your new head-case.”

  Emily turned to face him and put a hand on her hip. “Jarrod? What would that crusty surgeon want with him?”

  “Sorry, can't say here...”

  “San,” she said in a lowered voice, “are you saying it's classified?”

  He nodded. “You're probably not gonna like it.”

  Emily sighed. “Well, thanks for the warning.” She grabbed her spiked coffee and walked out.

  Santiago followed her out into the hallway. “Give me a call when your meeting's over,” he said, “I'll meet you downstairs so we can go over some things.”

  “Bring some prescription pain killers,” she called over her shoulder.

  He laughed and gave her a thumbs-up. Emily made her way to the west end of the building, then stopped in front of a plain-looking door with a small keypad on the side. She typed in a nine-digit code and three deadbolts pulled into the deceptivel
y heavy door. She stepped into small room, approaching two bullet-proof glass doors on the other side. A radio-frequency identification card in her pocket unlocked the doors, which slid open for her. She stepped through them and into the elevator. Turning to her right, she faced a small camera, which identified her with facial recognition software.

  “Heart rhythm and facial analysis complete,” a female-sounding voice stated, “Welcome, Dr. Emily Roberts. Proceeding to Sub-Level Six.” The glass doors turned opaque, and there was a gentle whirring sound. Emily could feel herself descending, and seconds later, the doors opened. She stepped out. The “basement” stood in stark contrast to the welcoming facility above. The floors and walls were made of concrete, and painted light gray. Recessed lighting in the ceiling only illuminated a ten-foot area around her in either direction. A green line was projected onto the floor, directing her in the path that she was authorized to take. She followed it around a corner, passing several steel panels embedded in the walls. A few steps further, and the green light extended directly under one of the panels, which slid open as she approached.

  The room she entered was comfortably furnished. A large, wooden table stood in the center of the room with six, cushioned chairs around it. The walls were painted a drab olive-brown and were hung with landscape photos. Dr. Wagner sat at the end of the table wearing a dingy sweater under a white lab coat and brown slacks that were just a little too short. His face was thin, with a long, slender nose. His stringy hair was combed over in a futile grasp at youthfulness. As she drew closer, he looked up from a computer tablet.

  “Ah, Dr. Roberts,” he said, setting the tablet down. “Welcome! Please, have a seat.”

  She tried to look friendly as she pulled out a seat next to him and sat down.