by Pat Bertram
“Then Daryl got drafted. He left home a happy-go-lucky kid and returned a morose, remote stranger with one leg. I endured rebuff after rebuff trying to get close to him. One morning before school, I went looking for him, hoping that maybe, this time, I could help him. I found him in the barn, crying. I hugged him, and for once he didn’t push me away.
“When he got control of himself, he said, ‘I can’t remember.’
“‘Can’t remember what?’ I asked.
“‘What it was like before,’ he answered. ‘I vaguely remember you and the rest of the family, this farm, a dog we used to have named Butch, but nothing else.’
“‘You don’t remember Jake?’ I asked.
“He gave me a blank look. ‘Who’s Jake?’
“‘Your dog,’ I told him. ‘The one you had before you left. A car ran him over a few months ago, and we’ve all been wondering why you haven’t asked about him.’
“‘I can’t remember,’ Daryl cried. ‘I can’t re-member. Can’t remember.’ He banged his head against the wall.
“I was scared. I wanted to run get my parents, but I couldn’t leave him. I stayed with Daryl until he calmed, then, reluctantly, I went to school.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “If I could change one moment of my life, it would be that one. Years of therapy, and I still can’t help thinking if I’d stayed with him, he’d be alive.”
“What happened?” Bob asked softly.
“He killed himself. I found him hanging from the rafters when I returned home from school that day. Everyone assumed he couldn’t deal with the loss of his leg, and I didn’t tell them any different.”
His smile had more teeth than humor. “You should have my job. You’re certainly good at getting people to talk. I’ve only told my therapist and my wife about that morning in the barn.” He paused for a moment, then continued in a harder tone. “That moment defined my life. It was thirty-six years ago and I now have a family of my own, but my brother’s suicide still haunts me, still drives me to understand. That’s why I became a therapist for veterans.”
He gestured toward the stacks of paper on the corner table. “As I pieced together what little my patients knew, a story gradually emerged about a hospital in the Philippines where many had been subjects of mind control experiments.”
Bob stiffened, remembering that Harrison had told him the same thing. So the conspiracy had been real after all and not a fabrication of the journalist’s diseased mind. A frightening notion popped into his head.
“Is it possible to give someone cancer?” he asked.
With a visible effort, the doctor pulled his attention back to Bob. “Lab rats are given cancer all the time.”
“But people?”
“Yes.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “A colleague discovered a cluster of cancer victims at Leavenworth several years ago and is convinced they had been purposely infected. The cancer took hold and spread so rapidly, they were dead within a month. From the extensive growth of the tumors, the prison doctor assumed they’d been sick for months, perhaps years, without anyone knowing, but my colleague doesn’t agree.”
Dr. Willet rolled his chair over to the table, shuffled through a stack of papers, pulled one out, then rolled back to his desk.
He handed the paper to Bob. It was a photocopy of an interview published in a journal called Scientific Revolutions.
“It won’t be long before we can completely cure cancer,” bragged Dr. Martin Reed of the Rosewood Research Institute. “We’re making tremendous progress due to a new, super-fast-acting cancer I have developed.”
“How does a new cancer help cure the old ones?” the interviewer asked.
“It doesn’t,” Dr. Reed responded. “What it does is allow us to speed up the whole process. Protocols that used to take months can now be completed in a matter of days.”
Bob stared at the picture accompanying the article. Did this man create the cancer that killed Harrison? With his thin, pale face, aquiline features, and mop of unruly brown hair, he looked like a scientist, not a murderer. But looks don’t tell the truth.
After Bob seared the man’s face in his memory, he returned the paper to Dr. Willet.
“What do you know about the Rosewood Research Institute?”
“Not as much as I’d like to,” Dr. Willet responded. “I do know they’re endowed by ISI and are involved in all sorts of innovative and highly successful treatments of behavior disorders, but there’s something not quite right about the procedures. I’ve tried to use the techniques they describe in the journals, but I’ve never been able to achieve their spectacular results. I have yet to find a therapist who has.”
“What do you think they’re doing?”
Dr. Willet looked Bob straight in the eyes as if he wanted to catch even the smallest reaction. “I think they’re using laser surgery.”
Bob didn’t blink. “According to my source, ISI has developed a laser so fine it can zap a single molecule.”
Dr Willet nodded. “And I’ve heard of a scientist who created a remote-controlled radioactive isotope that can find the location of any memory in the brain. To be precise, it is not the memory itself the isotope locates. A single memory is not stored whole in a specific location but is diffused throughout the brain. What the isotope actually finds is the spot on the brain responsible for the retrieval of a particular memory. Her research was funded by ISI.”
He lifted his chin. “I think someone has been using the isotope and the laser to remove memories and undesirable character traits.”
“Who?” Bob asked.
“A psychiatrist named Jeremy Rutledge, for one. He now runs the Rosewood Research Institute. In the sixties, he had a patient, a little girl who suffered such severe abuse she became catatonic. He theorized if he could physically prevent her brain from being able to retrieve those memories, to erase them, in effect, she could grow up to have a normal life.
“It sounds farfetched, but the same thing occurs all by itself every day. If you forget something, the memory is still there, but the retrieval breaks down.
“They never planned to keep the procedure secret, but were going to submit a paper to the journals as soon as the girl had been restored to mental health. Before they could proceed, a lab technician leaked the information to the newspapers. The press called it ‘The New Lobotomy,’ and Rutledge was hauled into court.
“Rutledge, backed by ISI’s money and a whole battery of attorneys, argued that the operation was not a lobotomy, not even open surgery, but a simple, humane procedure done with a laser. The time consuming part was finding the precise spot to hit.
“He testified that this procedure would greatly benefit mankind, but the courts didn’t agree and enjoined him from ever performing the operation.
“The psychiatrist lost, but so did the little girl. She’s grown now, but that poor woman is still imprisoned in her private hell.”
Dr. Willet rummaged through his papers once more and pulled out copies of the newspaper articles detailing the story.
Glancing through them, Bob noticed a picture of Dr. Rutledge. He seemed vaguely familiar with his round face and expression of cheery innocence, but Bob knew he’d never heard the name before.
“I have a theory,” Dr. Willet said, “that even before Rutledge tried to cure the little girl, similar procedures had been tested on amputees during the Korean War. I believe they used my brother for one of their guinea pigs, and they destroyed more than the memory of his limb. I believe they continued with their research during Vietnam. I run a therapy group for Vietnam veterans with missing limbs, and some of them have never felt a single twinge of a phantom limb. Many of those men remember being sent to a hospital in the Philippines during the course of their treatment.”
“But it’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Bob asked. “I mean, the doctors saved them a lot of agony.”
Dr. Willet’s mouth thinned. “It does sound nice and humanitarian, doesn’t it? But not one of the amputees gave the
ir consent. Also, I think somewhere along the line the doctors got giddy with power and started doing all sorts of experiments, venturing into eradication of anti-social behavior. I may never be able to prove it, but I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying. I owe it to my brother.”
Chapter19
Kerry's roommate left town for a few days, and once again Bob stayed at her house. Though he and Kerry had returned from Omaha late last night, he still rose early for a run.
Later, after a leisurely breakfast, Kerry went to the restaurant to pick up her final paycheck, and Bob went to the Denver Public Library on Broadway and Fourteenth—the only quiet and private place with a payphone that he knew about.
He roamed the library, familiarizing himself with the layout of the first floor. The library had two main entrances, but since they faced each other, giving someone entering one door a clear view of anyone leaving by the other, they would not serve as an escape route.
Toward the back of the library, beyond the history and biography departments, he found a more secluded exit.
He returned to the front of the library, walked down the stairs to the basement, and made his way along a darkened hallway to the telephones.
A child answered his call.
”May I speak to your father?” Bob asked.
“Da-a-addy,” the child screeched. “It’s for you.”
A minute later a man with a pleasant but tired-sounding voice said, “Yes?”
“Robert Stark? I’m from the American Association of Prosthesis Manufacturers. We’re trying to update our files.”
“How did you get my name?” Robert asked. “I’ve never sent you people any information. I don’t even know who you are.”
“Maybe your doctor filled out the questionnaire. Yes. It’s signed by a Dr.—sorry, but I can’t make out the name.”
“She does have terrible writing, doesn’t she?”
Remembering Dr. Albion and his question as to whether Bob’s left foot had been blown off, Bob said, “Hmm. Let’s see. It says here you’re missing your left foot.”
“Yes.”
“Any problems with your prosthesis?”
“No. It’s comfortable enough.”
“What about phantom pain? Are you still experiencing any itching, twitching, anything like that?”
“No. To be honest, I never did have any phantom pains. I used to belong to a support group for amputees, but I quit. A lot of them had problems with those pains, some on and off for years, and they resented the fact that I didn’t.”
“You’re lucky,” Bob said.
Robert laughed humorlessly. “If I were lucky, I’d still have two feet.”
“How did you lose your foot?”
“Vietnam.”
“A mine?”
“Yes.”
“On Highway One? Near Qui Nhon?”
“How did you know?”
“It’s right here on the questionnaire.”
“It was one of those things,” Robert said. “I was a supply clerk, but one day I got orders to ride along on one of the supply trucks. It was the first time I had been outside of Saigon, and I was enjoying the trip, then all of a sudden we ran over that mine. It shouldn’t have been there—the minesweepers supposedly had cleared the road. Heck, I shouldn’t have been there, but that’s life, I guess.”
“Did you sustain any other injuries?”
“Just minor ones.”
“Any scars?”
“Other than around my stump? No.”
“What about old scars? Maybe scars on your chest?”
“What does that have to do with my pros-thesis?”
“Nothing, as far as I know, but it’s on the questionnaire, so I have to ask.”
Robert sighed. “I have a tiny scar on my chest where my brother shot me when we were kids. I was standing a long way off, so only one shotgun pellet hit me, but it still left a mark. Do you have any more questions? I have to get ready for work.”
“One more. What hospital did you go to after your injury in Vietnam?”
“The one at Qui Nhon at first, then they transferred me to a hospital in the Philippines.”
“Thank you for your help,” Bob said. He would have liked to talk to his other self longer, maybe find out how else their early experiences varied, maybe find out why Robert had married Lorena despite that cold letter, but he knew his time was running out.
He hung up the receiver and strode back to the stairs, took them two at a time until he neared the top, then slowed to a more casual pace. He turned to the left and made his way to the tall shelves of fiction where he felt secure enough to glance behind him.
It was as he expected. Sam and Ted were crashing through the front door, suit coats unbuttoned for easy access to their guns. They shoved their badges in the face of the old man standing at the door making sure everyone had checked out their books.
“Where are the phones?” Ted demanded.
The old man pointed a trembling finger to the steps leading downward.
Sam and Ted pushed past him, almost knocking him over in their haste, and hurried to the staircase.
As soon as they sprinted down the stairs, Bob moved away from the protection of the shelves and headed for his emergency exit.
Once outside, he crossed Fourteenth Avenue, seeking the relative safety of the Greek amphitheater in Civic Center Park. Standing as still and as silent and as cold as one of the statues adorning the amphitheater, he watched the action unfolding across the street.
A half dozen cars came screeching to a halt outside the library and double-parked. Ignoring the honking horns and the obscenities from irate drivers, the teams of ISI operatives jumped out of their vehicles and ran into the building.
More cars arrived, further snarling traffic. Within minutes, stern-faced, self-important men and women surrounded the library.
Some of the operatives guarded the entrance, refusing to let anyone go in or come out of the library. They demanded to see identification from all who approached and studied the faces of those who held back.
Others searched the grounds, the parked cars, and everywhere else a man might have hidden. They interrogated everyone in the vicinity.
Not a single city cop arrived at the scene.
Bob saw Ted come out of the library.
“I can’t believe you fuckers let him get away again,” Ted yelled at the milling agents. “We had him. He was right here.”
One of the agents responded, speaking too quietly for Bob to hear.
“He is not a phantom,” Ted bellowed. “He is not a shape shifter. He is not a shadow. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who ever mentions any of that supernatural shit again will be fired on the spot. Got it?”
Bob heard no more of Ted’s harangue. The crowds that had gathered to watch the spectacle began to disperse. He slipped among them and made his way to Colfax where he caught a bus.
As the bus lumbered up Capitol Hill, Bob saw Herbert Townsend trudging along the opposite side of the street.
Townsend seemed sad and listless, as if his inner fires had burned low. Even his aluminum foil headgear seemed lusterless. Occasionally Townsend would turn to accost someone, but when they ma-neuvered out of his way, he made no attempt to detain them. Mostly he plodded along, head bowed.
Will I end up like him, endlessly roaming the streets with a message no one wants to hear? Bob flexed his fingers and found his answer: no.
Townsend seemed a frail creature without inner reserves of strength to sustain him. Bob, on the other hand, was a finely turned instrument at the height of his mental and physical powers.
More importantly, he had Kerry on his side.
***
Bob was sitting on the porch swing when Kerry came home, a troubled expression on her face.
He jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Yesterday a man and a woman came into the restaurant asking about someone who matched your description, and they used your name.”
He
felt as if his heart had skipped a beat. It was one thing to realize how close they were to finding him. It was another thing to realize how close they were to connecting him to Kerry.
“We have to leave,” he said. “I’ll never forgive myself if something happened to you on my account.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay. If they find me, I’ll tell them where you are, then I’ll go back to Pete’s Porches.”
He laughed because she wanted him to, but he scrabbled around in his mind for a way to keep her safe. “You’ll have to come with me.”
“Anywhere.” After a moment she said, “Where are we going?”
“Thailand.”
A joyful light appeared in her eyes, then slowly faded. “I can’t.”
“Why not? Isn’t this what you’ve been living for—a chance to travel? And besides, if you don’t come, who’s going to check out the hotel room for me?”
She set her jaw. “I don’t have the money.”
“But I do.”
“I can’t take your money. I made a promise to myself when I left Pete’s Porches that I’d never give myself away again. Don’t you see? If I won’t give, I can’t take.”
“I understand,” he said gently, “truly I do. But having ISI operatives appear at your place of business changes everything. We’re in this together. I can no longer assume you’ll be okay, and I can only protect you if you’re with me.”
He took a step closer. She stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“I don’t need you to protect me.”
He put a hand over hers. “Maybe I need you to protect me.”
She gave him an uncertain look.
He lifted her hand and kissed it. It felt cold against his lips. “You must be sorry I came into your life.”
A smile lit her face, and laughter was in her eyes. “You didn’t come into my life. I dragged you in, remember?”
“Then it’s settled. First we need to go shopping and cash the rest of my traveler’s checks, then we need to buy IDs from your friend.”
***
“I don’t even know what kind of clothes to get,” Kerry said as she drove them to a new mall southwest of Denver. “What’s the weather going to be like?”