by Mike Wech
I'm stepping back out to take this call. This time I’m going to tape him so he can’t swindle me out of my money.
AUDIO LOG:
TUESDAY DECEMBER 14, 2010 – 8:06 PM
“Hey Carl,” I answered.
“Hey partner.”
“You get my message?”
“Yeah. Let’s talk.”
“Yeah. Let’s," I told Carl. "You said fifty grand if I proved Dobson was here. Why’d you tell Mel, ten?”
“I didn’t?”
“You didn’t, what? Say ten.”
“Yeah, I said ten. Ten for what you got.”
“You mean what she showed you or what I got?
“What do you have, Eddie?”
“Proof that Annette Dobson’s here, just like I said. I got a video interview and footage of her giving birth.”
“You’re kidding me,” Carl excitedly answered.
“Not kidding, my friend. I sent it to Mel today, along with case files I took from the mad doctor running this loony bin.”
“Beautiful. What else?” Carl asked.
“What else?" I said, in shock. "What do you mean, what else? That ain’t enough! You want more? I got more! It’s everything I said was here plus Timmy Tyler to boot.”
“Don’t lie!”
“I’m not." I told Carl. "I’m dead serious. He was on that tape Mel played for you.”
“That shit spooked me. What the hell was it?”
“Some kind of hypnotherapy session, mind games. Demon control. I don’t know. Crazy shit goes on here. They experiment on inmates. My guess is for pharmaceutical companies or some kind of bio-drug. Maybe bio-weapons to induce fear.”
“Keep going," Carl told me. " Anything substantiated?”
“Tyler told me he was framed for trying to rat out Dow Lantra about some fear drug, hallucinogen, or something that was going to be put into our food supply. They keep him locked up tight and say he’s possessed by eight demons."
"What?" Carl inquired.
I continued, "For all intents and purposes, I’m on demon farm. People see demons, act possessed, exhibit multiple personalities. Talk in fucked up languages they don’t speak. It's big-top business; a dog and pony show for some serious players. I’m thinking the FDA may be letting something slide through as a preservative or additive, with the side effects may include tag.”
“You can’t just make these claims Eddie!” Carl warned me.
“Something big’s going on, Carl. They’re faking deaths and shipping people here. That’s huge, right? They told me their research is protected.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know," I told him, looking around my surroundings to make sure the Sheriff or some other intruder wasn't listening in on us. "That’s what I’m trying to find out. The state. The Feds. Private equity investors. The pharms. I don’t know who's behind this.”
“Can you substantiate any of your claims?” Carl asked.
“I sent files from Dr. Alan Haworth, the boss man running this freak show. I don't know what's on them, so look through… I’m risking my life, Carl.”
“You trying to jack up my price?” he laughed.
“No," I said with a dead serious tone. "What’s it worth if I’m right?”
There was a moment of silence and I knew that Carl was running numbers in his head, so I got quiet and let my words work their way into the equation. He finally came out with, “Two fifty up, against a fifty-fifty split."
"Alright," I told him. "Fair enough."
"You have a best seller, Eddie," he told me. "I can get us at least a mil for the movie rights. But I need the whole story. Substantiated.”
“Fifty tomorrow. And I’ll have Mel turn over my files.”
“I only got ten, Eddie,” Carl said. I knew he had more.
“Fifty!” I added sternly.
“If it’s what you say, all I can do now is twenty tops. You’ll get another twenty next month. I’m strapped. We're in a recession.”
“Don't give me the partly line, Carl. I know you," I told him. "I want it in writing. And so you know, buddy. I’m recording this. So listen carefully. Do you agree to pay me forty thousand dollars, for my files up to December 14, 2010? Two hundred and fifty thousand up front for substantiated findings that back the claims that I spoke about in this conversation, and a fifty-fifty split of any movie rights or deal we make, with me holding my authorship rights to my story.”
“I agree, it’s a deal,” he told me.
“Shit!”
“What? What?” Carl asked.
“That Sheriff. He’s coming back here again," I told him. "This guy’s been busting my nuts since I got here. I’m telling you Carl, it’s dangerous. I’m not lying. I’m risking my life.”
“Nothing you haven’t done before Eddie. You always come out with the story. Be smart and Git ‘er done!”
“Twenty tomorrow. You… Git ‘er done,” I said.
“Done deal.”
“Carl. One last thing quick," I added. "Check Dow Lantra and the FDA. See if anything’s moving through. Dr. Alan Haworth, he testified in Tyler’s trial. See what you can find on him. The other main guys are Dr. Mark Prescott and Reverend William H. Billings. Dig in. See if there’s anything I missed. Please. I got to run.”
“Will do! Get me that story.”
“You got it... Bye!”
“Up against the car," were the next words I heard as the Sheriff approached me with his gun pulled. "Give me your phone now.”
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 15, 2010
JOURNAL ENTRY:
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 15, 2010 – 1:41 AM
Dell City is no longer a safe zone. And much like every other lesson I learned in life, I found out the hard way. Uphir is at a very strategic location, handpicked to avoid people like me, and dispose of them, if necessary. My biggest mistake was not planning an emergency exit strategy, in case I ran into trouble in Dell City.
The next closest city is Sierra Blanca, Texas, a literal sewage dump of about five hundred people, 70 miles south of here. Then it’s over a hundred miles to either El Paso or Carlsbad, New Mexico depending if I trail east or west when I get back to Route 180. Everything on the road to Carlsbad is National Forest. And with most of these dirt roads off the grid, I’ve never been able to fully track my bearings. All I know is that Uphir is tucked in somewhere near the Guadalupe Mountains. I’m not even sure if I’m in New Mexico or Texas.
The satellite maps show about a hundred fifty crop circles around the dell, and once you get past the farms and go off road, it’s no man’s land with Dell City’s four hundred residents being the last vestige of humanity.
I figured Dell City was safe, but now I’m convinced they played a big part in Uphir’s development, and all that money bought off the town, and provided privacy, water and food routes. I never talked to the food truck guy, but I saw him leave last Thursday, then bring back a load Friday. At the time I didn’t think much of it.
But now that I think about it, only he, Billings and Prescott have ever left and returned, other than me. Maybe God is smiling on me.
Tonight was another shining example and I dodged another warning shot, literally. I’ll recap these events while they are fresh in my head, like the seven stitches I just had sewn in.
How’d my head split open? I’ll answer that soon. After I got off the phone, Sheriff Mason arrived like he was checking out a crime scene. He jumped me like a rabid dog, took my phone, frisked me, and then confiscated my camera from the trunk.
Luckily I transferred all the data and cleared the cards during dinner. He’s too much of a back ass dip shit to understand digital video, so I gladly cooperated and proved to him that I did not film anything without permission.
I led him through the camera menus and showed him how to check everything. I kept some photos of LA, Melody and Uphir with Dr. Haworth, Reverend Billings and of course, my lovely cottage, so he wouldn’t be suspicious about me deleting everything.
It’s a thousand dollar fine, payable in cash, or ten days in jail he warned me, as he cuffed me and dragged me to the Police Station; then preceded to rifle through my belongings. My computer was clean of any evidence I gathered. I only let them see what I want them to see. That’s my plan.
It’s worked so far as I sat in my cell, getting a taste of what it feels like on the inside. My life hangs on two 16-gigabyte thumb drives, cleverly designed to look like a credit cards. One is American Express and the other is a MasterCard. Luckily, the Sheriff had no idea what they were when he glanced through my wallet. Those drives have everything on it, all my journals, video and audio recordings.
I have another backup in the glove compartment of my car shaped like a key, in case of emergency.
After checking through my things, the Sheriff left and returned about ten minutes later, saying that Dr. Haworth requested I return to Uphir.
That got me thinking. There must be an emergency phone line out of Uphir and the Sheriff must have access and communication with Haworth.
I wonder now if my package was even mailed out to Melody?
Is Dell City is a part of this whole setup? How much is really at stake? Everything that’s happened to me may be planned, coordinated and calculated down to the minute detail.
I was escorted out of the station and back to my car. The Sheriff trailed me all the way back, following a few car lengths behind. He seemed to know the roads as well, if not better than I did. As I weaved down the trails, he’d flash his high beams giving me direction by turning on a blinker to guide me.
We were pretty deep into the woods when I heard a gunshot. The first one was deafening and ripped through the silence with a thundering crack!
I froze for a second on the tiny road, in the pitch-black forest and looked around, only seeing the light of a flickering campfire well in the distance. The blast of the Sheriff’s horn shook me and I kept driving deeper into the woods toward Uphir, now slower and cautiously.
My headlights were cutting through the blackness when I saw something dart across the road. I thought it was a deer but it moved too quickly, and the color was lighter brown, more like a leopard, now that I think of it. It moved fast and I barely saw what was out there, but it was big. Real big. Maybe someone was after it, or after me.
A moment later another gunshot roared through the air, but this time within a second I heard it rip through the metal of my car and wedge into something. The next bullet went through the hood! Then one shattered my rear window and my nerves shot into high alert!
The hairs on my arms were standing on edge, and my hands were shaking, gripping tightly to the wheel as I peered into the rear view mirror and saw the sheriff, in front of his car, firing back into the night.
Another bullet whisked through the back window. I lost control and the next thing I know I swerved into a tree.
I hit it me really hard and I got knocked back with the airbag. A tree limb snapped through the driver’s window, ripping into the side of my forehead. I was dazed and got out of my car, yelling. The Sheriff drove up and tried to get me to ride with him, but I wasn’t leaving my car in the woods, alone with my camera, computer and thumb drives and no way back. I rushed back into my car and locked myself in. I couldn’t hear any more gunshots and I think that freaked me out even more.
Trying to start the car in dead silence was terrifying. I kept thinking about death, and how I chose it, and how any second the next shot could come ripping through the window, and take me out. I could feel the warm blood dripping down the left side of my face, and all I wanted was for that car to start.
I yelled, “God save me. I don’t want to die,” as I kept turning the ignition, but nothing happened.
Then just as the Sheriff pulled along side of me and BANG!
The car started and I backed away fast, leaving scraps of metal wedged in the tree. I backed out on to the road and sputtered through the woods, praying all the way that I’d make it back alive.
The drive was excruciating, mentally, physically and emotionally. I could taste my blood hitting my lips, running down my face, blinding my eyes, as the headlights kept flickering, making the nebulous woods seem like they were strobing in front of me. It felt surreal, winding through silent black roads, shadows reflecting off trees, and the sound of my engine sputtering and tires spinning, anticipating another crack of a shotgun any second, that could usher in my last breath.
Somehow I made it to the threshold, and could see the pale lights of the asylum welcoming me home. As we pulled up to the gate, smoke began pouring out of my hood.
The night security guard arrived to greet me, but it wasn’t Curtis. It was a new guy, Reggie, this dark mountain of a man, who I guess did some serious time, judging by that menacing look in his eye, and ice-cold stare that seemed to ward me off.
When I asked him where Curtis was, he finally perked up with a salacious grin and said, “You don’t want to know brother."
"What?" I asked.
"You don’t want to see him," Reggie told me grinning. "But he’d love to see you!" And then with a stern look he told me, "Report to Ward A. Doctor Haworth is waiting for you.”
I drove off and the Sheriff followed me into Ward A, where the night nurse met me and cleaned up my wounds, sewing seven stitches into my forehead. She removed a few chunks of glass from my skull, then bandaged up my wrist and ankle for support.
Dr. Haworth and Sheriff Mason had a quiet conversation in the hallway. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I don’t think it was good, because two more security guards came up within minutes and positioned themselves outside my door. The looks they threw me were not inviting, as I tried to make conversation. When the nurse finally finished, they forcefully escorted me down the hall to my room.
Making matters worse, I passed Santiago on my way. I heard someone crying and looked inside the room as I was dragged past.
It was Santiago, propped up on the bed, motionless with his head bandaged and his leg strapped up high, in a harness. He looked like he was being tormented by something. His eyes were wide open and tears ran down his frozen face. His skin was ghostly pale and his body frail.
His face was locked in this expression of terror, like he was trapped in a constant nightmare he could not escape.
He was disturbing to look at, and even though it was a brief second, it seemed like eternity. Time froze up, like the midnight air, and my body tightened to the fact that I was alone in this fight, and my search for allies was narrowing by the minute.
I was greeted by icy stares and silent answers. Now trapped inside the recovery room, my options for finding the truth of this story, and getting it back to the outside world, are significantly diminishing.
I have a sinking feeling that I am no longer a visitor, but a patient judging by my hospital wristband, new patient number and gown. I’m probably staying here under observation until the morning, but this place is far better than sitting in that seclusion room.
I’ve been stripped of all my things, except for my laptop, so I’m being careful with what I write for now. This is the one freedom that allows my mind to focus on the task at hand, and take it off Santiago’s desperate crying.
His moans are a constant, dulling background noise, like the space heater, fluorescent bulbs and medical machines, that accompany the tapping of my keyboard, the footsteps of the guards, and the occasional gust of wind that taps on the window behind me, beckoning me to see the world outside.
That won’t come until tomorrow, when I’m scheduled to meet with Dr. Haworth for my re-evaluation.
AUDIO LOG:
WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 15, 2010 – 9:00 AM
Here I was again, face to face with Haworth in his office. With the dulling silence killing me, I decided to turn on my recorder and get this party started.
“This is Eddie Hansen, Wednesday December 15th and I am at the Uphir Behavioral Center in Uphir Texas. May I have permission to tape this interview Dr. Haworth?"
“You may. May I have permission to examine your computer?”
“Excuse me,” I responded.
“I’d like to see your files, Mr. Hansen," he told me, getting up from his desk. "I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t,” I told him, playing innocent.
“Would you like me to play a video to refresh your memory?”
“That’s okay,” I said, watching him walk toward me and circle around like a vulture as he stated, “What impressed me is how you figured out my password.”
“I didn’t figure out any...”
“Mr. Hansen,” said Haworth interrupting harshly. “I hoped our relationship would be built on trust. But you seem to keep violating that trust and creating your own rules for this assignment.”
“Investigation,” I corrected.
“Certainly, investigation," smiled Haworth, peering over my shoulder. "Call it what you wish. But let me ask you, what are you trying to find that I haven't already shared with you?”
“Why did you let me in here?” I asked him, standing up so we could meet eye to eye.
“You led yourself. I have nothing to hide,” he told me, squaring off to me.
“Really, then I'd like to see your video control room, your tape archive. I'd like to see Ward E. To see what you’ve done here.”
Dr. Haworth sighed and returned to his seat, “Oh you will see everything, firsthand. But first we must address the rules," he said, pulling out my file from his desk. He slid a contract in front of me, stating, "You knowingly violated article seven of your consent agreement, which states, explicitly, that no alcohol or drugs may be brought on to this premises during your visit. Not only did you violate this rule, you provided excessive amounts of alcohol to staff security, who became negligent in their duties, and allowed a fatality on our property.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, surprised at this news.
Haworth stood up again and confronted me, “You didn’t know or you didn’t care. The first is ignorance, the second is foolishness and foolishness is not tolerated. Foolishness is why Curtis Anderson is being held in Ward D, awaiting his sentence, why Simon Manning is dead, and why Santiago Ortiz is in a coma. Foolishness!”