Hillary_Retribution

by Angel Gelique

  ~10~

  Lieutenant Colonel Edmond Grant Rigsby, known to a very select few as Lieutenant Alan Langford, had been intolerable to be around lately, having had too many sleepless nights for the past couple of weeks. His ass was on the chopping board and the only way to prevent the ax from falling would be to find Hillary Greyson. What the hell was he thinking leaving such a dangerous psychopath in the care and custody of a civilian neurologist? He had set his sight too high, placing his faith in the doctor’s ability.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby had been recruited to join the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID), pronounced YOU-SAM-RID, twelve years prior, when he was just a fledging neurologist. USAMRIID, the Department of Defense’s leading laboratory for biomedical research, had been a dream come true for the young, ambitious doctor. He had visions of finding treatments and cures for all sorts of nasty biological infirmities. He had started out with good, noble intentions...to help others, to better humanity. Somewhere along the line, between everyday stress and the pressures exerted upon him from superior officers, his aim went astray. Instead of bio-defense, his focus shifted to bio-offense, though the overall goal—to protect against biological threats—remained the same. Or so he believed at the time.

  “The best bio-defense is bio-offense,” Colonel Jackson would repeatedly say as they toyed with unnatural super-pathogens.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby worked diligently and tirelessly, surpassing the achievements of seasoned colleagues and rising above expectation as he became the director of several projects. His work with bioengineered pathogens became, at first, his passion and then his obsession. Sometimes he would spend days at a time at the laboratory, napping on a cot in the break room. He saw it as ambitious. His wife saw it as unacceptable. Biomedical research had proven to be a most egregious mistress. Their seven-year marriage was over faster than he could grow bacteria in a Petri dish.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby hardly seemed to care. He had a four-year-old son whom he would see every weekend for several months, then every other weekend for several more months. As the months passed, he grew too busy to even spend time with his own child. He’d see him once every month or so, often on holidays. Even when he was physically there for his son, his mind never strayed too far from whatever project he was working on at the time.

  His ambition seemed limitless. He had accomplished a great deal over the years, but like a rail-thin anorexic grievously staring at her misperceived “fat” reflection in the mirror, he didn’t acknowledge the significance of his contributions. It was as if he was always trying to prove himself to someone. Mediocrity was not an option. His delicate ego would never settle for inferiority. He thrived on distinction.

  Hence, when the lieutenant colonel read about the drug Neuronentin in the medical journal, he felt a mixture of excitement, anger and envy. While it is well-accepted that the two areas of the brain responsible for aggressive behavior are the amygdala and the hypothalamus, the actual mechanics involved have largely eluded researchers. For years, Lt. Col. Rigsby had come so close to isolating the specific neurons and neurotransmitters within the amygdaloid pathways that triggered rage. Only a thorough understanding of this neurological data would enable scientists to develop a way to control aggression.

  It had been Lt. Col. Rigsby’s goal to be the scientist who unlocked that well-kept secret of the brain. Instead, Dr. Patrick Morrison had laid claim to his dream and had even gone a step further. He had a drug all ready for testing. Lt. Col. Rigsby’s fragile ego could barely withstand the crushing blow. There was just one way to cope: When you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

  Neuronentin held such promise. It was the drug of the future. It would change lives in ways never before thought possible. It would alter the very fabric of society. But it would do something even more important. Its ramifications for military use were significant. It was the key to controlling and suppressing rage. But it was just the beginning. For what could be controlled one way, could also be controlled the other way. In time, they would develop a drug that increased rage as well, all within contained parameters. They would create savage monsters to fight for our country...a force of muscle-bound soldiers with angry robotic brains, murdering on command without any thought of self-preservation. Dr. Morrison would be the genius who unlocked the secret, but Lt. Col. Rigsby would be the mastermind behind the creation of a whole new breed of killing machines.

  Yet, each time Dr. Morrison sought authorization to conduct his clinical trials, he was denied based on concerns of insufficient studies in animal populations and adverse drug effects that had been observed in some of the cases. Lt. Col. Rigsby’s patience was thinning out fast. He knew that it was just a matter of time before the drug was approved. But he also knew that it would be a very long and drawn out process. It could take several years before they even approved the clinical trials.

  Drunk with overzealousness, Lt. Col. Rigsby felt compelled to lend fate a hand. It was he who had met with the commanding colonel, Colonel Oliver Jackson, to discuss the inevitable implications of Dr. Morrison’s research findings and new drug. It was he who had planted the seed in the colonel’s head, shrewdly appealing to the man’s own ego and hunger for power. It was he who had given birth to The Division.

  Hence, when Hillary Greyson conveniently gained notoriety at the critical culmination of this egocentric scheme, using her as guinea pig seemed like a necessary and logical choice. Later, Colonel Jackson would insist (within a very small circle of people privy to the assignment) that it was Lt. Col. Rigsby’s idea entirely. Colonel Jackson would fervently deny knowledge and responsibility for any part in Hillary Greyson’s inclusion in the unauthorized research.

  Whether or not his own conscience acknowledged his part in her exploitation, Lt. Col. Rigsby was a key figure in Hillary’s capture and subsequent imprisonment within Dr. Morrison’s home. It seemed well worth the risk at the time. He had initially been eager enough to set off on a mission to find Hillary Greyson for the sole purpose of delivering her to Dr. Morrison.

  He had never been too keen about being away from the laboratory for too long, and any other field mission would have been out of the question. But capturing Hillary Greyson became his very own clandestine operation. Not even the soldiers who had accompanied him knew the plan. They did what they were told and didn’t ask questions.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby, who wasn’t at all accustomed to front-line violence and bloodshed, was disgusted and flabbergasted when he encountered the body of the girl Hillary had butchered. She didn’t just kill the poor teenager she had degutted her and was taking a perverse pleasure in handling the viscera at the time one of the soldiers shot her with a tranquilizer. Lt. Col. Rigsby had to look away from the horrific mess. He hadn’t meant for the victim to get killed but her blood was on his hands nonetheless. He had used her as bait. Yet, the euphoria Lt. Col. Rigsby experienced far outweighed any fleeting pangs of guilt or shame. He had Hillary and his dream would soon be realized.

  He ordered one of the soldiers, Sergeant Raymond Hughes, to grab Hillary and carry her to his HMMWV (High-Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle—commonly called a “Humvee”). He ordered the remaining few soldiers to return to their base after sternly reminding them that the mission was strictly confidential and never to be discussed with anyone.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby rode with Sgt. Hughes to the Whiteshore Psychiatric Hospital. On the way, he contacted Col. Jackson to advise him that the operation had been successful. He gave the colonel the coordinates to the dead girl’s body. It was not his problem. The colonel would have someone from the proper law enforcement agency—someone on his payroll—report that Hillary was killed during apprehension.

  The military duo took a gurney from an emergency vehicle that was parked outside the psychiatric hospital. It was a lot easier than carrying the lifeless teenager’s body into the hospital and it wouldn’t draw as much attention. Lt. Col. Rigsby already knew that Dr. Morrison was on duty. It was sheer luck that he was on
e of the first staff members they encountered.

  Dr. Morrison was understandably confused by their arrival. After meeting with him privately in his office, Lt. Col. Rigsby (who introduced himself as Lieutenant Alan Langford) explained his purpose in being there. He was delivering a gift. Dr. Morrison had his very first research subject. She was a perfect candidate—a vicious serial killer. Stroking the neurologist’s ego with honest praise and reverence, Lt. Col. Rigsby did not need to twist Dr. Morrison’s arm. He was more than eager to embark on his clinical trials, even if he had just one subject. Even if it was highly unethical. Highly unethical on so many levels. It involved a minor. It involved involuntary participation. It made a mockery of the doctrine of informed consent.

  Dr. Morrison had his reservations, but after so many crushing denials, here was his chance to break through the roadblock. Lt. Col. Rigsby gave him little time to decide. Before he could even fully appreciate the magnitude of his commitment, he hastily agreed. Somehow he knew that he would regret his decision. But he had no idea just how much he would rue the day he agreed to use Hillary Greyson as his personal guinea pig.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby would receive monthly reports from Dr. Morrison and the two neurologists conferred via telephone bi-weekly. He was aware of the close calls Dr. Morrison had experienced. The worst was the time Hillary had gouged out Morrison’s eye during an attempted escape. Lt. Col. Rigsby was ready to pull the plug on the entire undertaking, but Dr. Morrison assured him that he had everything under control. If only he had followed his instincts instead of his crazed obsession for glory.

  After Dr. Morrison’s murder had been brought to his attention, he received orders to quickly assemble a team and do as much damage control as possible. Lt. Col. Rigsby was outraged. That wasn’t in his job description. He was a scientist, a researcher, a physician; he wasn’t a two-bit bounty hunter. Sure, he had been willing to embark on the search for Hillary when the girl was useful to him, but now...after it was all ruined?

  His ranting, raving and complaining was for naught. His feelings were inconsequential. He had received orders and he had to obey them. Accompanied by two other soldiers, Lt. Col. Rigsby once again traveled to South Carolina in search of Hillary. By the time they arrived on the scene, it was too late. Federal agents, complete with their high and mighty attitudes, were already at the Morrison home.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby had spoken to the Special Agent in charge, Mister Douche Bag himself, and had gotten absolutely nowhere even when he, himself, had gotten nasty and hurled seemingly valid (though absolutely baseless) threats. The special agent questioned his identity and authority and made it clear that he did not have jurisdiction over the matter. In the end, there was no way for Lt. Col. Rigsby and his team to strong-arm the Feds. They just didn’t belong there.

  “What do we do now, Lieutenant?” A young soldier inquired.

  “Nothing much we can do...not here, at least,” he replied arrogantly. “Let’s move out.”

  Lt. Col. Rigsby and his two “goons,” as he liked to call them, returned to the Humvee. He detested having to waste his time with a group of dim-witted non-physicians. He felt completely out of his element. They were there not for brains, but for brawn. They were the muscles of this operation.

  It had been a long day of driving. Time wasted. Time better spent on research. But Lt. Col. Rigsby couldn’t return to his cushy laboratory just yet. The orders were top priority: Eliminate evidence and eliminate the girl.

  He had failed miserably at eliminating the evidence. Now clean-up would have to come from the top in the form of favors, bribes, blackmail...whatever it took. He was already in hot water, he wasn’t about to ignite the flames of his own demise. He would find the girl. He would find Hillary Greyson and carry out his directive.

  Of course, with his ass on the line, Lt. Col. Rigsby knew he couldn’t rely on the Colonel to bail him out. Even though the colonel had known damn well what was going on—even though he had a major hand in it—he would deny all knowledge and responsibility. The blame would be passed down the ranks. Shit always rolled downhill.

  Finding Hillary hadn’t been as easy as Lt. Col. Rigsby expected it would be. He figured she would be hiding out in the woods again. His team had spent a full week carefully canvassing the woods. There was no sign of her, no indication that she had returned there. They had searched similar wild areas near Dr. Morrison’s residence with no greater luck.

  With each passing day, Lt. Col. Rigsby’s anxiety level spiked as he thought about all the work in his laboratory that went undone in his absence. He could be working on a breakthrough instead of hunting down a merciless serial killer. Then again, he knew that his failure to find her would be his undoing. All that he had worked so hard to achieve would be nil. He would be finished. So despite his growing consternation, he remained diligent in his efforts to locate Hillary all the while cursing himself for not implanting a tracking device under her skin. He had failed to consider the possibility that she would escape and thus, had failed to take any precautions.

  It had been a most harrowing string of unproductive days. Lt. Col. Rigsby didn’t have a clue where to find Hillary until the colonel told him about the murder at the bus terminal. It was a bittersweet discovery. Whereas they were fairly certain that it had been Hillary who committed the murder, the fact that she was at a Greyhound bus station meant that she could now be just about anywhere in the country. The colonel assured him that he would do some more probing and figure out which bus Hillary boarded.

  While they waited for the colonel to feed them additional information, they drove north to Richmond, Virginia. This time, instead of tranquilizers, they had plenty of bullets. There was no need to capture the girl alive. She was no longer of any use to Lt. Col. Rigsby and he was anxious to make sure that she never spoke about what had happened to her. Not that she could implicate him. She had no idea who he was and that he even existed.

  Lt. Col. Rigsby was partially correct with his supposition. Hillary didn’t know him by his real name, but she absolutely knew that he existed. She was just as anxious to find him as he was to find her. More so, even. And it was just a matter of time before their paths would cross.

  ~11~

  Miss Billie was unable to sleep or even read her Bible for the remainder of the bus trip. There was too much on her mind. What exactly had happened during the time that the girl sitting beside her—the girl who called herself “Caleigh”—had been out of her sight? She rightfully suspected that the girl had something to do with the reason why the cops were at the bus terminal. Had she stolen something…or worse?

  She watched the young girl sleep so peacefully. There was a raging tug of war between her heart, which wanted to save the terribly lost child and her brain, which wanted to save herself from the dangerous path she was treading.

  Miss Billie truly tried to have faith in the girl who had barely ever so much as raised her voice to her before. Yet, she knew that the girl was capable of a great deal of mischief. She would have to put forth an even greater effort to save her soul than she usually did with her troubled kids.

  “Hey, Caleigh,” she called to the sleeping girl as she gently nudged her shoulder.

  Hillary’s eyes fluttered open. Why was this woman waking her? She had finally gotten her mind to stop worrying about what might happen when the bus stopped in Silver Spring. She had finally slipped into a blissfully inviting slumber. Now Miss Billie had yanked her from her much needed respite from reality.

  “Are we almost there?” She asked with a yawn.

  “Oh, no child, we’s still gots time ta go yet.”

  “Oh...I was...sleeping.”

  “I know, but it’s impo’tant. We needs ta talk.”

  “Now?”

  “No better time like the present,” Miss Billie said in a sing-song voice.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I needs ya ta be perfectly honest with me, Caleigh...can ya do that?”

  “What’s wrong, Miss Bi
llie? Why are you acting so suspiciously?”

  “Lemme ask the questions first, honey...okay?”

  Whatever, Hillary thought irritably. She just wanted to go back to sleep. She nodded listlessly.

  “What happened at the bus terminal?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “C’mon, honey, you can level with Miss Billie. I’m on yo’ side, sugar. Ain’t we in this thing together?”

  No, Hillary thought. She’d been on her own for longer than she cared to remember. She nodded in spite of her true feelings.

  “So tells Miss Billie what happened back there. Why that cop stop ya like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Hillary said shyly. “Like you said, maybe he just thought I was pretty.”

  “I think you’s hidin’ somethin’ from me is what I thinks.”

  “That’s silly. You wanna know what I think? I think that maybe that skinhead guy was trying to start trouble. He probably called the cops and said that you were kidnapping me or something. The cop was just trying to see my reaction and left when he was satisfied that I wasn’t your prisoner.”

  “That’s ridiculous, I ain’t no kidnapper.”

  “Of course not. That’s probably the reason though. That guy sure was nasty. He was trying to cause trouble for you.”

  “Poss’bly,” Miss Billie said with a slow nod of her head. Still, she wasn’t convinced.