Soul Suites

by Hulden Morse

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “It’ll be really quick. I promise,” the sweet woman said.

  “Sure. Yeah.”

  Two police officers, one tall and gruff, the other shorter yet broadly muscular, walked into the trauma room and removed their hats as they approached the patient. The taller man spoke to the CEO with a deep, no-nonsense voice.

  “Sir? I am Officer Bridges. This is Officer Dean. May we ask you some questions?”

  “Yes,” Charles said, allowing the nurses to help him sit up on the hospital bed.

  “Great. Thank you. First, what is your name?”

  “Charles Pearson.”

  “Alright. Well, Mr. Pearson, this is quite incredible. We’ve been searching for you for quite some time. This truly is amazing.” The officer pulled out a pen and paper but remained fixated on the CEO, seemingly in disbelief that he was talking to the man whose face had been plastered all across the country.

  “Okay, Mr. Pearson,” he continued. “We’re going to rewind everything that has happened, from now all the way back to your disappearance. And take your time. We want this to be as accurate as possible.”

  “Alright.”

  “Great. Now, start us out with what happened most recently. What do you remember before being brought into this hospital?”

  “Well, I was strapped to a table. And the doctor, Doctor Raymond is his name, I know what he looks like, he put wires on me and then shocked me and killed me.”

  “He-he killed you?” the officer said, skeptical.

  “Yes. I know it seems impossible. But that’s the experiment. They’re killing people and then bringing them back in order to prove there’s an afterlife. That’s what they do at the facility!”

  “Alright, alright. Instead of us trying to understand right now, let’s just get down the facts as you say them. So you are killed by this doctor. Doctor Raymond. Then what?”

  “Well, then I wake up here.”

  “And how do you know you were killed? What made you think that was happening?”

  “‘Cause it has happened before. I felt at peace all of a sudden. I saw this… well, I just felt like I was dead. Like I was in Heaven.”

  “You say you saw something?”

  “Yeah. But it probably wasn’t real. No, I didn’t see anything.”

  “Sir, are you sure?” Officer Bridges asked, patiently waiting with his pen on the paper.

  “Um, yeah. There was nothing. Just, felt at peace.”

  “Okay, Mr. Pearson. Thank you very much.”

  “Wait, but what about the rest? I can tell you about the facility. What about Doctor Raymond?” Charles tried to stand up from the bed as the two police officers turned to leave, but was immediately stopped by the nurses and the doctor who insisted that he relax in the bed for a while.

  “We have what we need. Thank you, Mr. Pearson.”

  The patient looked around the room and studied what he was seeing. It seemed weird. Everything seemed weird, almost as if the hospital were too perfect. Every object had its place, and there were no used materials discarded on the floor, which would have been expected considering a team of medical professionals had just brought him back to life. The wires were neatly hung on their hooks, the medications were tediously stacked with the labels facing out, and every piece of machinery looked as if it had never been used.

  Someone began to yell from outside the trauma room door. With great fury and energy, Dr. Raymond burst through the heavy door and came bounding toward the subject. He shoved the police officer with the pad of paper toward the bed and began to chastise the man for being incompetent.

  “He just said he saw something!” the real doctor yelled angrily. “You heard him hesitate! Follow the damn script! You’ve done this before!”

  “Sorry, boss. I didn’t want to pressure him and blow the cover.”

  “Blow the cover. If it comes to either getting the truth or not getting the truth, blow the damn cover!”

  Charles sat there in utter shock. His mouth hung open and his muscles froze in place, preventing him from breathing or blinking. He was motionless as the technicians in scrubs stood around awkwardly, watching their coworker get berated by the doctor.

  It was fake. The entire thing was fabricated. He had been tricked into believing he was safe. He had cried as the sweet release of stress overwhelmed his body. How could someone play such a cruel, insensitive trick on another human?

  “He’s not telling you something! And you need to get it out of him! This is all part of the research. Knowing when the goddamn subject is lying to you!”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’re right. What do I do now?”

  “Nothing. Get out of here. Get out of your costume and do something productive. I’m taking over.”

  Dr. Raymond swiped the pad of paper from the fake officer and then stared down the man on the bed. Charles looked back at him, unable to process what was going on in his crumbling world.

  “Alright, Pearson. You are going to talk to me. What did you see after you were killed?”

  “I-I saw nothing,” he said, not wanting to give that monster the pleasure of having what he wanted—complete access and control of his mind.

  “You know I’ve been doing this for a while. I can make people talk. What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see anything, Doc. Just blackness.”

  Furious and out of patience, the doctor swung around and grabbed a scalpel from a nearby drawer. He ripped open the bag in which the scalpel was kept and shoved it under one of the subject’s fingernails.

  Charles screamed in pain as the blade was pushed into his soft tissue. Technicians pounced on the subject to hold him in place, preventing the man from moving while they maintained a steady grip on the injured arm.

  Dr. Raymond pushed the tiny, piercing object further under the nail and then viciously yanked up the scalpel, removing the nail with a faint crackle. The CEO cried out as his hand began to bleed. The doctor, holding the dripping blade, stared into the man’s watering eyes and waited for him to stop wailing.

  “Stop! Please stop!” Charles yelled.

  “Then tell me what you saw!”

  “No more! Please!”

  “Tell me what you saw!”

  “I saw Louisa!”

  The doctor cocked his head in confusion. He placed the used scalpel on a tray and furrowed his eyebrows, racking his brain for any mention of someone named Louisa during one of their lunchtime conversations.

  “Who the fuck’s Louisa?” he asked as the subject breathed rapidly, tears running down his cheeks.

  “Pearson. Who’s Louisa?”

  Charles continued to sob uncontrollably. One of the technicians stepped forward and tapped her boss on the shoulder.

  “Doctor? We’re really behind schedule,” she said hesitantly.

  “So? This is important.”

  “You can ask him later. Let the guy rest. Ask him later.”

  Dr. Raymond glared at the CEO and then stormed out of the room. One of the technicians, still dressed as a nurse, grabbed some gauze and began to bandage Charles’s hand. The others started to wheel the machines and cabinets out of the room and back into storage. The subject could not control his reaction to the pain he had just endured. Being physically harmed was something he would overcome as his body quickly healed, but being deceived into thinking he had been rescued from the grasp of Satan’s servants was something from which he would never recover.

  Chapter 46

  The flooding began as floods often do, with a storm overhead and memories of sunshine slipping further into the past. The water overwhelmed a once dry landscape as torrents of rain drenched the earth with a lucid reminder that life was nothing more than a series of tragedies broken up by brief periods of reprieve.

  The rain was brought about by supp
ressed emotions of those shrouded in shadow, the shadow from darkened clouds that acted to extract the anguish and misery and terror and dismay that ruled the lives of innocent people. They were thrust into a world by the will of culture-labeled sin, bequeathed unto society like a functioning object that needed breaking, and ruled by those that held the bleeding hammer.

  Nothing could prepare a child for a lifetime of discovering what was wrong with humans. Nothing could prepare a child for the storm cycle that never seemed to cease. And when the storms came, so did the rain. Sometimes it would pour for a minute, or sometimes it would pour for days. Not knowing when the flow would stop brought excitement and strain. As the storms came, time ticked away, counting down the seconds until worms made sinners holy once more, releasing their soul to be judged as it descended into Hell. It was a poetic end to a comedic life. A future that all persons awaited with their hands tied and feet bound, with storm clouds overhead and the final touch of rain upon their faces. It would be the last flood. They would cry for the last time.

  Emotion had finally caught up to Hamilton. She sat in her home office, the desk scattered with papers and a sweaty cell phone in her lap, and she could not stop the deluge of tears. The assistant had been impressed with her ability to maintain composure through that entire ordeal. However, after hearing the pain in Marlene Pearson’s voice, that concrete wall that was used to shield herself from the outside world crumbled to the ground, exposing her vulnerable innards to an onslaught of social hostility. She had possessed no desire to even make that phone call. In fact, Hamilton had been dreading it.

  “Do you know if Charles was, um, I don’t know how to ask you this, Marlene,” she had said just over a minute ago. “But, um, do you know if Charles was involved in anything illegal at RD?”

  “What? My goodness! Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m sorry!” Hamilton had tried to recover her dignity. “I have to ask. With new things coming to light, I have to.”

  “Paula. You’ve been a friend of this family for years. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I-I, God, I just need an answer, Marlie. Do you think he could have—”

  “No!” the woman had screamed into the phone. “There is no way my husband’s capable of anything even remotely cruel. He cared for those people! And the media is making him out to be some sort of… of… criminal!”

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry!”

  Those words echoed through her mind, replaying over and over with such brutal repetition that it brought tears to her eyes. The Pearsons had been forced to relocate thanks to the unwavering attention—mostly harassment—from the media, not to mention the incessant onslaught of abuse expressed by the public. In addition, their father and husband, Charles, was still missing. The chances of finding him with a pulse became slimmer and slimmer. On top of it all, here was a dear friend, someone they trusted, accusing that same man of possibly being at fault for the corruption within Reaching Dreams. Of being the monster the media professed him to be.

  “How could you?”

  Yeah. How could I? How could I even say such a thing to poor Marlene? The words of that tortured wife still hung in the air like the stench of dead fish in a cannery. It refused to dissipate.

  Hamilton continued to cry in utter agony, looking around for the bottle of whiskey she usually kept in her office. Where is that damn thing, she thought. I fuckin’ need it.

  Before she could locate the magic elixir for carrying on, her phone began to ring. Hamilton wiped her watery eyes on her sleeve, sucked down the last of her tears, and answered the phone.

  “Paula Hamilton.”

  “Paula! It’s Sandra. I just met with Bob. I was showing him our internal audits and reports. Just to compare them to those documents we got.”

  “Okay, and what did you find?” Hamilton could hear the strain in her voice. It was obvious.

  “Whoa. Paula, you okay?”

  “I just talked to Charles’s wife. I’m fine. What did you find?”

  “Um, yeah. Well, our reports confirm that the company as a whole never saw a trace of that money.”

  “Yeah. We know that. What does Bob think?”

  “Well, the guy certainly has a good poker face. Not sure if he believes us or not, but he certainly seems willing to work with us. So I guess that’s good.”

  Hamilton got up from her chair and began to walk around the room. She felt more comfortable on her feet, more like she was in work mode. Sitting in the chair made her feel too vulnerable, too relaxed, too ready to hear bad news. Pacing the room somehow seemed more productive and she could feel her senses coming back to her.

  “Alright. That’s good. What’s the next step? Is he going to contact these companies?”

  “He hasn’t decided yet. Or, he probably has decided but hasn’t told me. Though he was dumbfounded that a part of the company could be getting so much money and none of us knew about it.”

  “How could we? They never reported it.”

  “That’s what I said. He didn’t realize that we enacted Charles’s Law.”

  For the first time in what felt like forever, Hamilton grinned.

  “Don’t call it that, Sandra.”

  “Sorry. It’s a habit. But yeah, I explained that to him and his whole demeanor changed, like he suddenly realized how this could be happening.”

  “You know, putting in that rule five years ago seemed like a good idea. But now I regret allowing each district to receive its own donations.”

  “Stop it. It was brilliant. Local businesses could help their local districts, rather than having to donate to the entire organization. It was brilliant.”

  “But look at what happened! We’re in deep shit!”

  Pinner paused, waiting for the assistant to calm down.

  “Paula, it’s not because of that rule. But look, we’ve potentially got the IRS on our side, which is awesome. Now we just need to prove our innocence and maybe we can save the company. Or at least save ourselves.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. Sorry.” Hamilton said somberly.

  “No worries.”

  The line was silent for a couple seconds before the assistant spoke again. “Did you do any calculations with those documents from Noitacav?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. I did. And I checked the numbers multiple times,” Pinner replied.

  “How much were they getting?”

  “Collectively, the five districts were getting three million dollars a month.”

  Chapter 47

  There was a fly hovering above Charles’s head. It seemed fascinated by his hair, as if there was an entire unexplored world within the thin strands atop his scalp. The insect would land periodically, sometimes in the brown, greasy forest, other times on his ear or on his cheek, yet the subject could not find the strength to swat the fly out of his face. His body was tired, his chest was in pain, his hand was throbbing, and he was sitting in front of the man who had intentionally caused every sting, cut, burn, and throb.

  “I am going to ask you again, Pearson. Who is Louisa?”

  Charles ignored the doctor’s question and stared at the pasta he had been given. There were pieces of vegetables and shrimp in the dish, along with a peppery tomato sauce and a roll on the side. It smelled incredible, a dish he could order from a decent restaurant, though his body rejected the very notion of putting energy into digestion. He wanted nothing to do with nourishment.

  “You listening to me? Who is Louisa?”

  It was delightfully clear that Dr. Raymond was becoming more frustrated as the worthless, lifeless, research tool defied his request.

  “Pearson! Are you listening?”

  “Why do you need to know everything?” Charles said suddenly.

  “I am asking you a direct question. Who i
s Louisa?” the doctor huffed.

  “You have to have all the answers, don’t you? How dare someone keep something from you?” The subject waved his bandaged hand at the man across the table.

  Dr. Raymond paused as if he were strategizing how to prevent himself from becoming involved in the CEO’s game. He was outwardly infuriated, but he did not fall into the trap. Instead, he played the only card strong enough to extract the desired information from the subject.

  “I offer my own story,” the doctor said, “in exchange for your cooperation. Like we did before.”

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Ah, but I know you are like me. You too want to know everything. And something has been aching in your mind for a while. I can see it.”

  Charles looked up from the pasta and into the soft eyes of his host. The man had managed to calm himself and thusly sat relaxed, poised, seemingly ready to have a civilized conversation. The subject did not want to provide that man with any sort of pleasure, but the reason the doctor left the clinic was burning a hole in his brain. He needed to know, and it was a curse.

  “Why did you leave the clinic if you loved it?” the subject asked.

  “Will you answer my questions?”

  “Answer mine. Why did you leave the clinic?”

  Dr. Raymond’s face contorted into a momentary glare, and then flickered back into a state of total composure. He nodded to his guest and accepted the position in which he had trapped himself.

  “Alright, Pearson. Fine. I will tell you. I was forced out of the clinic. In fact, I was barred from practicing medicine ever again.”

  “What?” Charles said, looking at the doctor like he was a dangerous criminal.

  “I did something that was frowned upon by some people. And that got me removed from the field. Well, removed from the country for a while too. But I was contacted about this experiment and helped make it happen.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Will you answer my questions?”

  “Yes,” he said quickly. “Now what did you do?”

  “Well, you see, I was a clinical researcher. That was my passion. I got to do sciencey stuff and also work with people. Two of my favorite things. As a researcher, I developed a medication that could severely limit the chance of someone having a child with any sort of mental illness or deformity.”