by Jeb Bohn
“Don’t beat yourself up, most women can’t resist my patented combination of anxiety, self loathing, and bourbon.” He held the door as she brushed past him, casting a glance back as she entered the ride she had summoned. “You sneaky little snake.”
With his company departed, Herman set up shop in front of his computer. A cursory search yielded little information about Amanda Marsh. This didn’t come as a surprise as she didn’t strike him like much of a social media type. He was scrolling through news articles to cleanse his mental palette when a headline caught his attention:
Truck Bomb Levels House Near Sioux Falls; Authorities Work to Quell Terrorism Fears
He grabbed his cell phone, dialing the Tall Man; the call went straight to voicemail. Herman tried to rationalize why that might happen and was doing okay until he watched news footage from the scene. The camera panned to show the devastation. Evidence markers dotted the yard, pieces of wood and metal strewn haphazardly. He paused the video, enlarging it to verify one specific piece of debris: a black cowboy hat. It was grainy but Herman had little doubt at what he was seeing.
He redialed the number and again got the voicemail. His next instinct was to call Ray, scrolling down to his name and staring blankly as he realized that his friend would never pick up that call again. “Keep your shit together, Herman.” His head was swimming, the air growing hot as the walls drew closer with every frantic breath.
Schultz, I’ll call Schultz. He rummaged through his pockets until he found the number scrawled on a post-it. The line rang several times before a robotic voice stated that the caller could not be reached. “Fuck.” He thought about Amanda’s certainty that Schultz had played a key role in forcing the project through at any cost. He thought about what Ambroise had said to him about the ringleader: He’s dangerous.
He needed to talk to someone and his top choices were unavailable. There was the dead scientist’s daughter, but he didn’t know her well enough to get into everything that was on his mind. Furthermore, her mind seemed to be firmly planted on one train of thought. He could call Rosewood but wasn’t sure how she would react to everything that he knew about Schultz and the destruction he had left in his wake. Surely he was already lying by omission and he accepted that, he just wasn’t ready to face what it might mean for him.
Taking the only route that he felt comfortable with, Herman dialed one more number. “Hey Walt, it’s Herman.” It took a few minutes to get Walt to agree to hear him out and it was clear that the man wanted nothing more to do with QNI. Herman did his best to ease the concern. “I just need help looking into this guy’s background, specifically the past year. Maybe you can find something that I missed.”
His persistence paid off as Walt agreed to do a little digging. “What was the guy’s name again?”
“Gregory Schultz.” Herman told Walt what he already knew before thanking him and ending the call. He had a bad feeling and he hoped that he wasn’t putting his friend at risk but this was too important. Things were spiraling out of control and bodies were stacking up.
He started looking into the men whose bodies had mysteriously disappeared from the coroner, finding information hard to come by until he stumbled upon an article from a small newspaper in New Mexico. One of the men had a photo ID, naming him as Xavier Burstrom. Researching this, Herman found a twenty-two year Army veteran who had received a medical discharge in 2014. Further examination showed that Burstrom’s release had been due to spinal glioma. Burstrom had become an advocate for cancer-stricken veterans, making several appearances on TV and radio as well as a trip to the White House.
“So, you already had cancer.” It didn’t exactly tear Amanda’s theory apart but it did add a new wrinkle.
The pieces were falling into place, but Herman wasn’t quite there yet. The most recent article that he could find was an interview from Burstrom’s hometown paper in which he said that he had signed on for an experimental treatment. The regimen was to occur at Skywood Neuroscience, an entity that Herman was not familiar with. He learned that the facility was founded by a neurologist named Paul Neumeier in 1980 and that their early work involved studying the damaged areas in the brains of stroke victims. Within five years they had developed an implant that stimulated dead areas of the brain and helped the debilitated regain functions they had lost.
This breakthrough success was derailed when one of the first implant recipients began suffering extreme seizures. When doctors were unable to stabilize the situation, the patient committed suicide. The family successfully sued Skywood, slowing further research to a halt for nearly three years. Things began to turn around when a gifted intern named Desmond Ignagni discovered a synthetic protein that not only stopped the growth of brain tumors but in some cases caused them to shrink. Ignagni parlayed this discovery into a partnership with Neumeier and Skywood was back on track.
Herman traced Neumeier as far as he could, locating a private phone number. With nothing to lose, he dialed.
The voice that answered was weary yet upbeat. “Hello?”
“Doctor Neumeier?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name is Herman Ingram, I’m a journalist.”
“Ah yes, Mister Ingram. I’m aware of your work.”
Herman jumped in quickly, asking Neumeier about Skywood’s treatment regimen. Having left the company nearly three decades prior, the doctor couldn’t speak to any recent advancements. He did offer his opinion that whatever they were doing was likely short on morality. “Once Quinlan came along, science took a backseat to profit.”
“Who?”
“Lyle Quinlan.”
Herman asked if Quinlan was a scientist, an inquiry that drew raucous laughter from Neumeier. “Far from it. Shyster is a more apt title. Once Desmond’s original procedure gained traction it became obvious that it would be a cash cow, as vulgar a thought as that is.”
When Herman asked how a man like Quinlan had become involved, the doctor’s tone soured. He described Quinlan as a corporate raider who was looking to profit without having to do any actual work. “He knew business, I’ll give him that. I was too focused on my own work to handle that side of Skywood. I suppose I should have done my due diligence.”
“What about Ignagni? What did he think?”
When the doctor replied his inflection was that of a parent who had lost a child. “Desmond was young and naive. I invited his initiative when he floated the idea of becoming a parter. He was bright and he had earned it. Once Quinlan entered the picture, Desmond started to assign dollar signs to everything he did. It was very disheartening.”
Hearing this made Herman think of Ignagni as the antithesis of Edward Marsh and George Wilman. Those men had done what was right despite the danger it placed them in. Ignagni may be a genius but he was certainly lacking in character. “Is that why you left, your disappointment in him?”
“I planned my departure when everything became a means to profit. But, to your point, Desmond’s transformation broke my spirit and ultimately drove me away earlier than expected.”
Herman said, almost jokingly, that Neumeier had at least built a sizable nest egg. The doctor quickly countered that he had refused a buyout on principle. “The fact that my name is attached to everything that corporation has done will forever haunt me. I petitioned on numerous occasions to have it removed, yet it remains to this day, a constant reminder of science gone awry. Of course that vainglorious horse’s ass put his hame first.”
Herman paused, trying to make sense of that last statement. “Apart from the lawsuit around the implant, I didn’t see much negative press about Skywood and nothing with Quinlan’s name attached.”
Neumeier laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. “Come now, Mr. Ingram, Skywood is only one facility, I’m talking about the monolith that grew out of it.”
Herman put this comment out of his head, failing to see the point the doctor was driving at. “So Quinlan fast tracked procedures that weren’t ready? He used patients as guinea pig
s?”
The doctor sighed. “That’s putting it mildly, I'm afraid. I walked away in June of 1989 due to his virulent opposition to medical ethics. He bought Desmond out for a pittance that November and, in December, took the company public and made a fortune.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the best way for me to contact them, would you?”
When Neumeier responded he was cold and cryptic. “A time machine.”
“And here I am fresh out of plutonium.”
“Quinlan died a few years ago; heart attack, I believe. A lifetime of chicanery caught up to him.”
“What about Ignagni?”
“I’m afraid Desmond shot himself shortly after the company went public.” Neumeier paused. There was a hitch in his breath that carried more weight than any words could. “All that talent just thrown away. What a sin.”
Herman took a moment to digest this information before moving to his final question, concerned about the scorn he was sure was imminent. “Do you know if anyone at Skywood was studying mind control? Just a wild hunch I’ve got.”
“No, not on my watch. We were focused on serving humanity, nothing more. Of course, I’ve been gone a long time now, so I really can’t say what sort of shenanigans have been going on.”
Herman thanked the doctor and bid him good night. Everything he’d learned indicated that soldiers like Burstrom and Wheeler had been taken in by the promise of a surefire cancer treatment. What they had found was a grifter who sold hope the people who were most desperate for it. Sadly, none of this meant a thing without proof.
He picked up his phone, dialing a number that was scrawled on his notepad. Amanda, half-asleep, answered. “Hello?”
“You up for a road trip?”
“What are you talking about?”
Herman explained the impetus for the sudden trip once they were on the highway, failing to convince Amanda. “You’re taking the word of a man who you don’t know? I mean, how can you even be sure that he is who he said he was?”
“I didn’t know you a day ago, doesn’t mean I’m going to disregard what you have to say.”
As I-95 carved a path into Virginia, Amanda tried to snuff the dim hope that Herman had. “What if we get there and it’s guarded?”
“Oh, it’s guarded.”
“Then why are we going?”
“Relax. Worst case, we find a bored security guard.”
“That just reaffirms my question.”
“Trust me, I have a plan for that.” Herman punched a number into his phone and waited as the line rang. A male voice answered, sounding out of breath. Herman apologized, stating that he had misdialed the number. “See, there’s a guard, now we know.”
Herman guided the car onto an exit ramp and followed a two-lane road for five miles before pulling onto the shoulder.
Amanda sat up, rubbing her eyes. “What are we doing?”
Herman extended a finger, pointing past where she sat. “Skywood is 200 yards through that tree line.”
“So we’re going to walk, through the woods, at night?”
“No, no. Well, I am. You see that bend in the road? Just beyond that is a turn off that leads to the parking lot. Pull into the spot farthest from the door, pop the hood, and lure him out to help.”
“Lure him?”
“Just get him to come out and help. Be convincing.” He turned and sprinted into the woods, tripped, and managed to catch himself before falling face first to the ground.
“I can’t drive a stick!”
“Even better,” Herman said as his voice faded into the distance, twigs snapping under his Sketchers. Fresh pine filled his nostrils as low-hanging limbs grazed his face. The trees thinned out before opening into a clearing behind a small, brick building roughly the size of a one story house. Having only had grainy satellite photos to go by, Herman suspected it wasn’t a massive building but this place looked more like his childhood dentist’s office.
Knees popping as he knelt, he clung to the shadows, closing to within twenty feet of the building when he smelled cigarette smoke. He paused, waiting until the smoke faded before crossing a shallow ditch when headlights washed over him. He froze, fearing that he’d picked the wrong time to make his move. The source of the lights moved erratically, the grinding of gears stabbing his eardrums.
Amanda, oh thank god. That sounds like about two grand of transmission work, though. With his back to the wall he watched the car lurch again and stall.
Herman could hear the guard muttering, the tone changing when Amanda emerged. “What’s the trouble?”
“I told know. I thought maybe I needed gas. There was a sign back there that said there was a station out here.”
“No, closest station’s ten minutes up the road.”
Amanda rubbed her temples, sliding her fingers towards her eyes. “It won’t make it ten more minutes, oh my god, I don’t know what to do. My dad’s in the hospital in Philadelphia; I have to get there.”
“It’s okay.” The guard stepped away from the building, slowly approaching the distressed woman. “Let me see if I can help.”
Herman peered around the building just as the guard flicked his cigarette away, the burning butt striking him directly in the eye. “Jesus, fuck,” he said, swatting at the projectile.
The guard turned abruptly towards the voice, temporarily forgetting about the stranded motorist. “Whoever’s out there, show yourself.” He sounded irritated and nervous.
Herman stepped around the corner and into the harsh glare of a roof-mounted security light, his hands above his head. When he spoke he nodded towards Amanda. “My wife and I are having car trouble.” Before he could finish explaining, the guard’s body straightened and convulsed, collapsing into a twitching heap. There, standing awestruck, was Amanda with a taser clutched in her hand. Herman rolled the man over, removing a ring of keys from his belt and making sure the man wasn’t carrying a firearm.
He placed his hands on Amanda’s shoulders, trying to snap her out of her state of shock. “There are bungee cords in the trunk of my car, can you bring me a couple? We need to tie him up in case he comes to.”
She began rubbing her ears in a manner that seemed foreign. “Just go and see what you can find, I’ll take care of him. More so.”
With the guard secured and his keys in hand, Herman made his way inside and found the records room. He found a cabinet marked as PATIENT RECORDS, using his pocketknife to pry open the drawer labeled A-C. “Burlingame, Burman, Burstrom.” He pulled the file out and began scanning through its contents. Burstrom had begun receiving treatments eighteen months ago. The first six had been administered at Skywood before he was moved.
“What the hell?”
The remainder of the regimen had been carried out at a research hospital at an undisclosed location. Prior to being moved, his tumor had shrunk considerably, a positive sign that the remedy was delivering on its promise. His arrival at the second facility, however, had seen the cancer metastasize. This led to a transfer back to Skywood, though the records didn’t indicate that he had undergone any further treatments. A note showed that he had been moved with a second patient by the name of Craig Wheeler.
Herman forced his way into the drawer housing Wheeler’s file. He had just opened the folder before he stopped dead at the sight of Wheeler’s photograph.
It was the man who had shot Ray, the one who had his knees blown out before being set on fire.
As he scanned the rest of the file, he saw something that brought Neumeier’s cryptic statement into focus: the footer of the document bore the name of the company that Quinlan had taken public:
QNI Research Associates
“Son of a bitch.” There were files bearing labels from locations across the country: Warren Valley, Ohio, Libertyville, Pennsylvania, Forest Green, New Jersey. Each location had been the site of an experiment, each one yielding grisly results: mass hallucinations, memory loss, murders, suicides. In each instance, the people at the center of each inci
dent had received treatment from QNI, directly or through a subsidiary. Most had been cancer patients though there were also cases involving schizophrenia, stroke, and brain trauma.
All the towns began to blend until Herman saw one that stood out: Awin, Alabama. The file and its yellowed contents told the story of a ten year old boy. The child had suffered a specific brain injury (coup-contrecoup, according to the documents — Herman had no idea what that was) at the hands of his father. While hospitalized, the boy had become a test subject for a highly experimental treatment. Undisclosed side effects led to ruptures of both eardrums, brain hemorrhaging, and dual globe ruptures.
“Jesus Christ.” Herman remembered the story the Tall Man had told about his brother. The information in this file checked every box. Then he saw the boy’s name:
Peter Jordan Williams.
Pete.
Herman was so engrossed by what he was reading that he didn’t notice the strengthening smell of gasoline until a wall of fire was licking at the window. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He turned towards the office door, clutching a handful of files. As he reached the hallway, he called Amanda’s name but got no response. An orange glow from the front door informed him that the fire had circled the building. The crackling of the blaze was all that greeted him when he called out again.
“Shit.” Using the dim security lights to navigate the hall, he made he way towards the front door. He had almost made it when he tripped and fell into the door. The radiance spilling in through the windows illuminated the body of the guard. Despite the poor lighting, Herman could see that the man was breathing. He knelt down, inspecting the guard’s belt and removing a ring of keys, immediately noticing that one was broken off. Using the flashlight on his phone he inspected the lock, confirming his fear: the other half of the key was wedged inside.
He brought his open palm down against his forehead, the sting of the impact barely cutting through his growing panic. “Pull your head out of your ass and think, Herman.” Heat from the fire was exacerbating his anxiety; his pulse beat like a kettle drum. His clothes clung uncomfortably to his skin and it was only getting hotter. The receptionist counter became a leaning post as his legs threatened to give up the ghost.