The Veritas Deception

by Lynne Constantine

  “It’s going to be okay. The baby’s going to be fine.” A meaningless platitude. He didn’t have anything else to offer.

  She shook her head. “I’m not even talking about this.” She gestured around the room. “I mean, just, in general. I was so busy trying to get pregnant, I never thought about the fact that this little life would be looking to me for all the answers. Poor thing.”

  “Poor nothing. That baby couldn’t have a better mother. I’ve never known anyone as fiercely loyal to those she loves as you.”

  She shrugged. “Will it be enough? Will I be enough?”

  He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to be, that he’d be with her to help her if she let him. Instead, he said simply, “You will be plenty.”

  She closed her eyes and yawned.

  “I’ll let you get some sleep,” he whispered.

  Without opening her eyes, she said, “Would you mind staying until I do?”

  He’d do her one better. He’d sit in that chair all night and make sure nothing came near her or her baby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Institute, 1975

  September

  I have learned more about his upbringing, of the mother who did nothing to protect him from a father who delighted in tormenting and abusing him. Things changed when he turned fourteen.

  He sits expressionless and tells his story. “My father couldn’t keep a steady job. He worked odd jobs for the other families until they fired him for showing up drunk and belligerent. So, he found a job for me, told me it was time I pulled my own weight. There was a man everyone knew only as ‘the cripple in the big house’. He had plenty of live-in help, but he was looking for a companion, someone young to play chess with, to entertain him. The rest of the boys in the town were cretins, too busy drinking beer and driving around in their ridiculous jacked-up pickup trucks. Even though I was worthless in my father’s eyes, he couldn’t deny my intelligence. It was his one source of pride. He offered me up to the man as a sacrificial lamb. It was a Saturday.

  “‘Come here boy. I done got you some work.’”

  “‘Where?’”

  “‘Workin for the cripple up on the hill.’”

  ‘“I hear he’s a pervert.’”

  “My father lifted his shirt and scratched his skinny belly.

  ‘“So what if he is? What’s he gonna do, chase you? He’s in a chair for crying out loud. So, if wants to cop a little feel, let him. What’s the difference? You sure as hell ain’t getting any action from the girls, ugly as you are.’”

  “‘I won’t do it.’”

  “He took a long pull from his cigarette. The next thing I knew; the hot end was on my cheek. I jumped and put my hand up to my stinging flesh. That’s when I made up my mind. I would figure out a way to get rid of him forever.”

  So that’s where he got the small scar. His hand goes to his cheek and he unconsciously rubs it. He is on his feet and has a faraway look in his eyes I haven’t seen before.

  “That is all for today.”

  “Wait,” I whisper.

  He looks at me, and the faraway look fades. In its place is hatred, the fierceness of which terrifies me.

  I force myself to speak despite the pounding of my heart warning me of my folly. “Your father used his power to control you, and you hated him for it. Don’t you see that you’re doing the same thing to me?”

  He stares at me and says nothing for a full minute. Finally, he speaks. “I am disappointed in you. Did you think such a transparent attempt at pop psychology would work? I won’t even dignify that with a response.” He shakes his head.

  “I’m just saying—”

  He puts a hand up to silence me. “You’re trying to analyze me. It won’t work. I have a purpose, and it won’t be thwarted. A shame, really, that your education had to be cut short. You could have been a part of the work here, but at least your contribution will live on. Come, I’ll let you have a look at how the training progresses.”

  We sit in another of his screening rooms. There are ten beds in a row, all with white sheets and wool blankets. Next to each is an IV stand with a liquid-filled bag. My stomach tightens as my imagination goes wild imagining what is in those bags. Dr. Strombill walks in, followed by a number of students from my fellowship group, as well as some students I’ve never seen before. They stand around the perimeter of the room and listen to him as he begins. He holds a stopwatch.

  “Are they a new group?” I ask.

  “They are recent law graduates, here for a special training program.”

  I am about to ask him more when Dr. Strombill speaks.

  “It is all well and good to watch films and have discussions on the merits of euthanasia.” He stops for emphasis. “But it is quite a different thing to experience the agony of disease as well as to make the difficult decision to end a life.”

  My leg twitches, as if it knows before I do, that something terrible is about to happen. He begins to speak again. “In a few moments we will begin the experience. Medical students, please take a paper from the bowl on the left.”

  I see Brian dip his hand in and pull out a small piece of paper. I wonder what it says. Dr. Strombill moves to the middle of the room and addresses them.

  “Find the person who goes with the name on your paper. That will be your patient. Lead him or her to a bed and have them lie down.”

  He waits until they have all taken their places.

  “You can now insert the IVs into your patients.”

  Brian raises a tentative hand. “May I ask what is in them?”

  Dr. Strombill’s bushy eyebrows shoot up. “You may indeed. It is diazepam. It will counter the effects of the strychnine, so that we won’t lose our patients. It will not eliminate the pain or convulsions, but it will keep them alive.”

  I gasp. In Brian’s eyes I see the horror I’m feeling mirrored. It is very likely that they will lose some of the patients. I know what the law students do not—strychnine attacks the nervous system, and most people die of asphyxiation, but only after all their muscles spasm and contract into tight balls. The pain will be horrific. I begin to hate Dr. Strombill now, this man whom I have idolized. I turn to Damon.

  “How can you allow this? It’s inhumane.”

  “Ah, Maya, you are upset.” His voice is soothing, and he puts a hand on my arm. “My dear, sometimes drastic measures are required to pave the way for the greater good. The patients here are the future lawmakers, judges, and politicians. They must experience the agony and pain we subject people to when we refuse to allow a way out of their suffering.”

  I shake my head and pull my arm from him.

  “You’re crazy. You don’t have to inflict pain on someone for them to have empathy. Not everyone is a cold, non-feeling monster like you.”

  “Quiet. You’re missing it.” He points toward the window.

  Dr. Strombill resumes his instructions. “Doctors, you will administer the drug on my cue.” He holds up a small cup containing the powder to be swallowed. “The onset of pain will be sudden and will continue for the next thirty-six hours, when you will be carefully monitored. There will be no relief for you unless you ask for euthanasia, in which case, you will be given morphine for the pain until the poison is out of your system. If you do not opt for euthanasia, you will be given no pain killer.”

  One of the law students raises his hand.

  “I don’t mean to be impertinent, but why would anyone not ask for euthanasia if it’s just an experiment and would end the pain sooner?” His Southern accent is strong. He smirks and looks around at his fellow students as if he’s just solved the riddle of the enigma.

  Dr. Strombill purses his full lips. “Because, Mr. Hamilton, five percent of the dosage pumps will give you enough morphine to stop your heart entirely.”

  They all stare at him.

  Dr. Strombill sighs. “In other words, you might actually be euthanized. We will see who ca
n live with the pain and who can not. It is time.”

  Brian hands his patient the cup. The woman’s face is ashen, and she has wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Brian looks down at the floor, avoiding meeting her eyes, but I can see the terror in them. He tears open the alcohol patch and rubs it on her arm. He finds a vein and inserts the catheter.

  Dr. Strombill clicks the stop watch. The room is silent, and the air is thick with anticipation. The red hand on the stopwatch dances in circles, ticking off the minutes. A cry stabs through the silence. A second scream, then a third, and soon there is nothing but the agonizing sound of human misery. Then the twitching begins. Arms and legs jerk into the air in a grotesque ballet. I want to shut my eyes and cover my ears to drown it out. I sit helpless, watching as the poison progresses, and I cannot tear my eyes away as the men and women in the beds jackknife into contorted poses of agony.

  My face is wet with tears. There is no decency in Damon—his father has killed it. What might he have been in different circumstances? If, instead of abusing and torturing the little boy he once was, someone had loved and nurtured him? I think of the baby growing inside me and am filled with an intense agony I have never experienced before. What lies in store for him or her? Will my child become as consumed with evil as Damon? I cannot contemplate the possibility that my child will grow up to be like its father. Dear God, help me. Help my child, I pray silently. Don’t abandon us to this insanity. Does God hear me? Or am I praying into a void?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Institute, 1975

  September

  “Take me back to my room. I can’t watch anymore.” Bile rises in my throat, and I put my hand up to my mouth reflexively.

  He gives me a look of pure disgust. “I’m disappointed in you, Maya. You’re not the scientist I thought.”

  “That’s not science,” I say.

  I shudder to imagine what other experiments are being conducted here. What astounds me is the fact that no one in the room raised an objection. Not one person refused to participate in that horror show he calls science. Surely I would have been different, would have walked away. Wouldn’t I?

  He is silent as we walk down the hallway to the elevator. I feel as though I’ve aged years in an hour. My heart is heavy, and I find it difficult to take a breath. When we reach my room, he doesn’t follow me in, and I’m relieved to hear the click of the door behind me. I fall onto my bed and close my eyes, but the images haunt me. I can’t erase the picture of those men and women in agony. I clutch a pillow to my chest and let go, crying until I have no tears left, my body wracked with sobs.

  Hours later, I refuse the tray of dinner brought to me—the nausea returns when I take one whiff of the beef stew. I think of our conversation about my parents, and I wonder again at what Damon meant when he asked if I knew of any treasure from Greece. I try to remember anything, the stories my mother told of those days on the island, but there is nothing about a treasure. Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding. I cannot bear to think of him going near my mama and papa.

  I hear footsteps and brace myself. The door opens and he walks in, carrying my tray.

  “You have to eat, Maya. The baby needs the nutrition.”

  “How do you expect me to eat when everything you do and say makes me sick?”

  A flash of anger crosses his face. “This is not open for debate.”

  I get up from the bed and face him.

  “I don’t like red meat. I’ve told you that before. You can force me to stay here, but you cannot force me to eat.”

  He arches one eyebrow. “The iron is necessary for you and the baby. Maybe I can’t force you to eat. But I can have you restrained to a bed and hook you up to an IV.”

  I see red. Before I can stop myself, I rush toward him and rake his face with my nails. I feel something wet and am gratified to see it is his blood. His hand goes to his cheek and he looks at his fingers as he pulls it away again. He grabs both of my wrists and holds them tight while I struggle to free myself. I want to hurt him more.

  He speaks, and the calmness of his voice chills me. “It’s good to see you have a strong will. I made the right genetic choice for my child.”

  He still holds my wrists, and they begin to ache. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, as reason returns. “Please let go.”

  He studies me for a moment. “If you ever strike me again, I will have your hands amputated.”

  It is then that I vomit all over him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Jack was jittery. He hadn’t slept well, had worried through the night that Taylor might take a turn for the worse. Every time he started to doze off in the chair, he’d hear a sound escape her, and he’d startle awake, afraid she was losing the baby. She was awake now, and had agreed with Jack that she should stay off her feet until the doctor examined her. He glanced at his watch. A little after noon. When was he going to arrive? He decided he may as well do something productive while he was waiting, so he took a seat at the kitchen table and studied the map Phillips had left for them. A knock at the door made him jump. He was pretty sure it was the doc, but just in case, he grabbed his SIG and held it behind his back when he went to the door.

  “Who’s there?”

  “The doctor you ordered.”

  Jack relaxed, tucked the gun behind the small of his back, between his jeans and shirt, and opened the door. The man had to lower his head to get through the doorway.

  Jack gave him a quick once over. His blood ran cold when he realized the man didn’t carry a doctor’s bag.

  “Who are you?” Jack asked. The man lunged toward him. Jack realized he’d made a mistake, and went for the gun but the man was quicker. He pulled Jack to him, wrapped his arm around Jack and pressed a knife against his neck.

  “Where is he hiding?” he asked.

  “Who?” Jack asked, playing dumb.

  The man tightened his grip. “Don’t play games with me Logan. You know damn well who. Where is Jeremy?”

  Jack could barely speak with the vise-like arm compressing his throat. He had to think. If he gave him nothing, he and Taylor would both be dead. Think. Who was this and who did he work for? Had Craig double-crossed him? No way. Jack held his hand out in surrender, and the man let go.

  Jack coughed and tried to regain his voice.

  “Have an idea. Don’t know exactly,” he croaked out.

  “Tell me what you know,” he demanded.

  Jack coughed again, stalling. Then he saw Beau peeking out from the bedroom from the corner of his eye.

  “Give me a second. I’ll get you what I have.” Jack quickly assessed his surroundings, ready to grab the fork from the table when he heard a deep growl. Beau flew from the next room toward the man’s neck in a single lunge. The intruder toppled over immediately, and the knife fell from his hands to the floor. Jack didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the gun from under his shirt, and fired. He needed only one shot.

  “Good boy!” He hugged the dog with relief.

  Taylor rushed in. “What’s going on?”

  Jack looked from Taylor back to the dead man, splayed on his back just feet away.

  “That’s not the doctor, is it?” she whispered.

  “No. Unfortunately no doctor’s coming. Somebody double-crossed my friend. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” If she was shocked by the sight of a dead man lying there, she didn’t show it.

  “Leave him. You’re in no shape to lift him, and I can’t do it alone.” Jack had a feeling that his friend Craig would never be coming to the cabin again. He felt sick, knowing that by reaching out to him, he was responsible for his friend’s death. But there was no time to think about it now.

  “Throw your stuff into a bag and let’s go.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in the truck driving down the dirt road away from the cabin. Taylor turned around just in time to see the lights go back
on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Institute, 1975

  October

  I have just finished my breakfast—bacon, eggs, and toast. I force myself to eat despite the fact that I feel like my appetite will never return. I am tired all the time, and my breasts are sore.

  The door opens, and he comes in.

  “It’s a beautiful day outside. Why don’t we take a walk?”

  I jump at the chance to leave these four walls, even if it’s with him.

  He picks up one of the sweaters that he’s provided. “Better bring this along. I don’t want you catching a chill.”

  I bristle at his solicitous comments and the charade of civility he affects. I grab the sweater without a thank you and follow him out the door and down the hallway. I can see from the windows that the sun is shining and for a moment my heart lifts. I’ve missed being outside, seeing the sky and the feeling of infiniteness surrounding me, instead of the confinement of my room. We go down in the elevator and emerge on the ground floor. People are coming and going, but no one pays attention to me, and everyone looks away from him deferentially. He opens the iron door, and I walk outside and feel the cool breeze kiss my face. I want to run and never stop. The leaves are beginning to turn, and I pick a fallen maple leaf from the grass. It is bright orange, and it makes me want to cry. Everything around me is a symphony of color, and the beauty overwhelms me. My isolation has made me forget what a beautiful world it is.

  We walk down a cleared path that leads to a large pond at least two miles in diameter. A paved walking trail encircles it, and I wonder if it’s used by the students in phase two. This morning we are the only ones walking.

  He begins to speak, and I brace myself for another tale from his childhood.

  “The best thing that ever happened to me was meeting Friedrich. He was a genius. He taught me how to play chess, what books to read, how to understand what was important and what was not.”