“Asshole,” Eddie muttered to himself.
He made it to the sidewalk that led up to his house and stopped, suddenly feeling paranoid that the man in the hood saw him pull the trigger. Rather than enter the house, he walked halfway down the block and squatted down in a ditch.
Eddie watched the street for over an hour. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound. Finally satisfied, he stood up and walked toward his porch. He fished into his pocket for his keys, then froze.
The word “murderer” was carved into his door. The marks were deep, perhaps all the way through, and blood was smeared along the door jam. He pulled out his keys and tried to jam one into the lock, but the door swung freely on its hinges. Instinctively, he reached inside and flicked up the light switch. Nothing happened; the room remained dark. He took a step backwards, lost his footing, and fell on the hard sidewalk.
He clambered to his feet and glanced back at the house. What he saw made his stomach turn—a dark silhouette in the doorway. Eddie uttered a curse and ran.
Eddie had run track in high-school. He wasn’t as fast as he once was, but he could still outrun every thug and beat cop in the neighborhood. After a few blocks, his lungs were burning and his muscles were cramping, but he kept running. There were lights up ahead—a twenty-hour gas station. Digging deep, he sprinted onward. He had maybe three hundred feet to go when a black figure stepped out into the street ahead of him. He skidded to a halt, pivoted, and ran the other way. Something caught him from behind, jerking him to a stop like a dog reaching the end of its chain. Eddie’s feet flew out from under him and he fell straight down. When he rolled over, he was looking directly down the barrel of a silver, .40 caliber pistol.
A powerful arm wrenched him off the ground. Eddie twisted and kicked, but couldn’t free himself. The black figure pulled him in tight, clenching Eddie with one arm.
“I understand how you feel,” a menacing voice said in his ear. “You’ve done something wrong, and the guilt is overwhelming. You don’t see any other way out…”
The hammer on the pistol clicked back, and Eddie opened his mouth to protest, but never got a word out. A black hand gripped his face so hard it broke his nose and dislocated his jaw. He felt the barrel of the gun being pressed against the underside of his chin, and he started to buck wildly.
“It’s okay…you don’t have to fight this,” the voice said. “Just relax.”
The weapon discharged, sending metal, bone, and scorched flesh into the air.
30
Jarrod pointed the pistol skyward and fired off the remaining rounds. When the slide locked back, he tossed it onto the ground next to Eddie’s writhing body. The entry wound left a small hole on Eddie’s chin, and the exit wound had torn away a large portion of his face. His shrieks of pain were interrupted by gurgling fits as he choked on the blood draining into his throat.
The police would undoubtedly perform a residue analysis of Eddie’s hands, and tie the weapon to the bullets in the dead teenager. Leaving Eddie to his fate, Jarrod faded into the darkness. A few blocks down, he retrieved his clothes from a garbage can and got dressed. The night was wearing on, and he would have to move quickly in order to leave messages for San and Emily.
Jarrod stopped for a moment to take in his surroundings. Eddie was still wailing in the distance, but the streets were otherwise still. The complacent neighborhood that would have allowed Eddie to escape unpunished was now unmoved by his pleas for help.
Sunday afternoon came and went. Twilight was surrendering to night when San and Emily arrived at the serene lakeside. The forests surrounding the lake were not as dense as they would be in warmer seasons, but they provided adequate concealment for Jarrod’s purposes. He met the pair of doctors at the edge of the highway and led them into the undergrowth. After several minutes of trudging through the darkness, they halted in a small clearing. Jarrod produced a flashlight with a red lens-cover for Emily to use.
“Do you think we should whisper?” Emily asked as she flattened some grass and sat down.
“There’s no need,” Jarrod replied. “I’ll be able to hear if anyone is coming.”
“I guess I’ll get comfortable then,” said San. He dragged a small log into the clearing and laid down, using it to support his head.
“What?” he said defensively. Emily looked horrified and concerned for his sanity.
“Nothing,” she said. “By all means, make yourself at home. We will all do whatever it takes to make ourselves more comfortable. Jarrod, if that means stalking around like a panther, feel free to do so.”
Jarrod stopped his slow, noiseless pacing and said, “Thank you…”
The friendliness in Emily’s smile was not diminished by the eerie red glow of the flash light. “Shall we begin?”
Between meetings, Jarrod had been diligent in the “homework” Emily assigned, which was to listen to the audio recording of their first session. They started into the therapy in the same way they did before. Emily provided cues, and Jarrod described his painful memories. When Emily was satisfied with Jarrod’s ability to give a verbal recollection of his traumatic experience, she gave him a new task: writing it down.
To her surprise, Jarrod took the pen and notebook and wrote without hesitation. He was not trembling or sweating; he showed no signs of stress at all. Within minutes, he had finished two loose-leaf pages, front and back, set them aside, and started on another. Emily picked them up and started to read.
It was more detailed, than any report she had ever seen. Every eyewitness to the accident was described in exhaustive detail. There was a table giving their height, weight, hair color, distinguishing features, and apparel. Another list described the make, model, color, and even license plate numbers of nearby parked vehicles.
“Jarrod,” she gasped, “this is incredible. I mean, we wanted to enhance your powers of memory encoding and recall, but I had no idea it would work retroactively with memories you already had. Do you think you could describe all of your pre-transformation memories this vividly?”
Jarrod shook his head. “No. Just this one.”
“Of course,” she said, putting a hand over her face. Traumatic experiences were often much more detailed than other memories, and she scolded herself for the misstep. “I’m sorry,” she added.
Jarrod did not acknowledge her. His pencil still moved furiously over the notebook. Emily allowed Jarrod to finish his manuscript in silence. When he had done so, he handed the remaining pages to her. She spent a few minutes reading them over and gave them back.
“This is really excellent, Jarrod. I’d like you to read this to yourself, out loud, if possible, several times per day. Eventually, you will become more comfortable with the memory of losing your family. It was a tragic event, but you should not have to relive it if you don’t want to. In fact, you shouldn’t have to relive it at all.”
San was looking on with sad eyes. Standing, he put a hand on Jarrod’s shoulder. “And you should remember that you don’t have to go through this alone,” he said. “You can come see me any time. Heck, you can move in if you’d like. We have an extra room, and I know Anita would be glad to have you around. She’s tired of me talking her ear off.”
“Thank you,” Jarrod said.
The trio remained in comfortable silence for a while, then Emily said, “I think this is a good place to stop for the night.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” San asked. “I just realized that I have no idea how you got all the way out here.”
Jarrod glanced at the forest around him, as if deciding on its suitability as a new home. After several moments, he said, “Yes. I do need a ride.”
“Anywhere you want,” San said. “I’ll even give you half-priced fare.”
They reached the vehicles a few minutes later, and Jarrod climbed into the passenger seat of San’s Crown Victoria.
Conversation was limited during the ride back into town. San tried to pry more details out of Jarrod concerning his daily activities, but was
rewarded with stubborn silence. Jarrod directed San toward a decaying neighborhood on the southwest side of the city.
“Be safe,” San said as Jarrod stepped onto the street. “And don’t forget the things we talked about. You are capable of great or terrible things. Be mindful of that.”
Jarrod gave a little nod and turned away.
“And remember,” San called after him. “You’re always welcome in my home.”
31
San awoke to the sound of his daughter screaming. He threw off the covers and scrambled to the door with Anita at his heels. When he reached the kitchen, his socks slid on the tile and he collided with the wall. When he regained his balance, his daughter, Maria, ran to his arms.
Jarrod was sitting at the dining room table. He glanced at San through pallid, cloudy eyes. “I didn’t mean to frighten her,” he said.
San took a deep breath and tried to slow his pounding heart. “It’s…it’s okay. But you can’t just sneak up on people like that. You could have knocked—”
“I did not want to wake you,” said Jarrod
Maria was shaking, so San gave her an assuring squeeze. “Maria, this is Jarrod. Jarrod, Maria. And this is my wife, Anita.”
Jarrod waved at Anita, then looked sharply toward to the other end of the kitchen.
“Philip!” San shouted. “Put that down!”
A lanky teenage boy in pajamas stood with a baseball bat held above his head. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering the makeshift weapon. “I heard Maria screaming.”
San waved him forward. “It’s alright. This man is a friend of mine. His name is Jarrod.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jarrod said.
Everyone stood in awkward silence for several seconds.
“Alright kids,” San said, clapping his hands together, “it’s time for you to get ready for school. Please, go get dressed.”
Maria and Philip regarded Jarrod suspiciously, then returned to their rooms.
“It is nice to finally meet you,” said Anita. “San has told me all about your…situation. I’m sorry about the children, San hasn’t explained things to them. Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll give you two a few minutes, then,” she said, squeezing San’s hand.
After she left, Jarrod said, “She is angry.”
San sighed and settled into a chair. “When you’ve been married as long as I have, you don’t need superhuman senses to figure that out.”
“I placed your phones in the box.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t think about that.” San lowered his voice. “Do you think there are any other bugs in the house?”
Jarrod shook his head. “I checked. Your house is clean.”
“Good.” San eyed Jarrod for a moment. “Is everything alright? I won’t lie, I didn’t really expect you to show up.”
“I would rather explain when we are alone.”
San nodded. “Do you mind if I grab some coffee?”
Jarrod was staring at the master bedroom. He shook his head.
“Great,” San said. “It’s a weakness, I can’t function without it.”
“She’s worried now,” Jarrod murmured. “Afraid.”
San frowned. “What?”
“Anita. She’s scared. You should reassure her. I know none of you would, or even could hurt me. I know I have nothing to fear from you, so she has nothing to fear from me. I promise that no harm will come to your family while I am in your home.”
San nodded. “I’ll let her know.”
Left alone in the kitchen, Jarrod stood and moved over to the coffee maker. He examined it closely, then pulled out the carafe and turned it upside-down.
When San returned to the kitchen, there was a barely detectable scent of coffee in the air. “Oh good,” he said, “you already brewed a pot.”
After pouring himself a cup, San sat down at the table. He took a sip, and froze. After holding the luke-warm liquid in his mouth for a few seconds, he forced himself to swallow. Wiping his mouth, he asked “You made this, right?”
“Yes,” Jarrod replied.
“Well, I appreciate the effort…” San said, swirling the warm liquid and examining his mug. “But that’s not how you make coffee.”
After filling the carafe with water, Jarrod had spooned coffee grounds directly into pot and placed it on the warmer.
Jarrod looked at the counter. “I wasn’t sure about the process. I took my best guess.”
“You’ve never made coffee before?”
“I have…many times, I think. I just couldn’t remember how.”
Realization hit San, and he felt like an idiot. “You know what?” he said. “I’ll walk you through it. I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”
San walked him through the steps, and the pot was almost full when Anita, Maria, and Philip walked in.
“We are going to head out,” Anita said. She leaned in to whisper in San’s ear. “Are you positive you’ll be alright?”
“Absolutely. We’ll be just fine.”
She glanced at Jarrod, then led the children out the door.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Jarrod said.
San chuckled. “You think? I didn’t catch that.”
“If it would be better, I can meet you somewhere else.”
San looked offended. “No way. I said you are welcome here and I meant it. I’d rather have you here than hiding out in the woods.”
“I was not hiding in the woods. I was under a bridge.” Jarrod’s head twitched. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Anything. You can tell me anything. I’m not Emily, so don’t think you’ll be getting expert therapeutic advice, but I am a good listener.”
Another twitch. “The treatment you and Doctor Roberts are providing seems to be affecting me. I can remember more details about my past, and I am able to recall details of…of the death of Melody and Joshua without becoming confused or disoriented.”
“That’s a good thing.”
Jarrod nodded. “But there is something else. The memory of who I was is affecting my decision-making processes.”
“Jarrod, that’s okay. This is exactly what I was talking about before. There is more in life to consider than just safe and unsafe. If you can remember who you were before, it will help you decide between right and wrong, too.”
“It is difficult.”
“It is, and not just for you. I think, at some point, everyone struggles with doing what’s right.”
“Not everyone has been programmed to take specific actions in response to perceived threats,” Jarrod said. For the first time, his voice held a trace of emotion.
San caught it immediately. “What happened, Jarrod?”
Jarrod sat quietly for a long time before answering. “Someone was going to attack me.”
San squinted. “Probably not the first time, I’m sure. Why don’t you tell me all about it?”
Jarrod recounted his experience from the night before, his head twitching at random intervals.
“I found a dumpster behind a laundromat and took some old clothes and blankets. I knew they would help me remain well concealed, people tend to avoid looking at the homeless.”
San frowned, and nodded in sad agreement.
“I intended to meet with you during the day, outside of your home, so I found a place to wait under a bridge. It was quiet at first, and then someone approached me. I could tell he was young by the scent of him; he had barely started puberty. He came directly toward me, and I could taste what he was feeling. He was afraid, guilty, anxious, but also determined.
“I looked at him from under the blankets. He was young, and didn’t appear to be a threat until he pulled a nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol out from under his shirt. I acted on reflex.”
The color drained from San’s face. “Jarrod, what did you do?”
Jarrod’s twitching intensified. “I disarmed him and covered his mouth so he couldn’t cry o
ut. Two options came to mind. I could kill him and remove the threat. A boy that young attempting to kill a homeless man was probably associated with a gang. Killing him would eliminate the immediate threat, but it would do nothing to reduce the persistent danger of gang-violence.”
San’s mouth went dry. “What was the second option?”
“The second option involved psychological warfare, which would do more to protect me from future gang violence. I would injure him severely, cutting into large nerve centers and breaking bones. He would survive and tell others about his experience.”
San was trembling. “What…which option did you take?”
“It was a tactical decision, and those were the only two options that came to mind. There was sound logic behind them, but one seemed better than the other. The second option ran the risk of inciting a surge of violence if the boy’s gang came after me, seeking revenge. The first option was the correct choice.”
San felt as if the walls were closing in around him.
“It was the right decision,” Jarrod said. “Everything inside me, everything I learned in mental conditioning told me so.
“And I hated it.”
San sat bolt upright. “What did you say?”
Jarrod’s twitching switched to an abrupt rocking.
“Something inside me hated both choices. I had been threatened with a weapon, and I responded appropriately. But it was not a man holding the gun, it was a boy. This boy had to be close to…to Joshua’s age.”
Hope rose up inside of San. “What happened Jarrod, what did you decide?”
“I decided to kill him. But I didn’t. I just let him go, and he ran away. It felt wrong to ignore my instinct, but I thought it was what I would have done before the change. I came here hoping you could tell me if I made the right choice.”
“Jarrod!” San said, bursting into tears. “Of course you did the right thing. And I am so proud of you!”
The twitching and rocking stopped, and Jarrod sat motionless. There was no sign that he shared San’s enthusiasm. “Your pride is probably unwarranted. This wasn’t the first decision I made that was contrary to my conditioning.”
Forging the Nightmare: A Jarrod Hawkins Technothriller Page 17