Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  I ne­ed to go. I ne­ed to go. I ne­ed to get out of he­re.

  He step­ped back to the bars and held them in his hands, pres­sing his fo­re­he­ad aga­inst the cold me­tal. "HEY! HEY! YOU CAN'T KE­EP ME HE­RE.

  I NE­ED TO GET OUT OF HE­RE! THEY'LL KNOW I'M HE­RE. IT KNOWS I'M HE­RE! I CAN'T LET…" His vo­ice drif­ted off. He didn't want to say too much,, He knew he ne­eded to be ca­re­ful abo­ut his exact words.

  Think. Think. Think. Don't co­me apart now.

  Dr. Cla­ric step­ped away from the bars and lo­oked aro­und his small cell.

  The eight by eight ro­om had a small bunk, a sink and a to­ilet wit­ho­ut a se­at.

  He mo­ved back to the bed and sat on the thin she­et. He be­gan to bo­un­ce his legs as so­on as he was se­ated, and fol­ded his arms and then un­fol­ded them.

  His he­ad tur­ned qu­ickly and he lo­oked at the flat pil­low at the top of the bunk.

  I sho­uld lie down. I sho­uld sle­ep. I sho­uld rest. I can't rest, tho­ugh.

  What wo­uld hap­pen?! might not wa­ke up. I don't know whe­re they are. I can't do that. I ne­ed to go. I can't stay he­re. It's crazy. This is crazy. This can't be re­al. So­me­one sho­uld know what's go­ing on. So­me­body sho­uld just step up and say. So­me­one ne­eds to exp­la­in it. Tell them. I can't be the only one!

  He sto­od and mo­ved qu­ickly to the bars of his cell. "HEY! HEY! I NE­ED TO TALK. I HA­VE TO TELL YOU SO­MET­HING! YOU HA­VE TO HELP ME! I CAN'T STAY HE­RE. THEY CAN FIND ME. IT KNOWS WHE­RE I AM. THEY'LL FI­NISH ME. THEY'RE TRYING TO DRI­VE ME CRAZY!"

  "HEY BUDDY!" a vo­ice so­un­ded from the cell next to him. "I got news for you. You're al­re­ady a fuc­king lu­na­tic so shut the fuck up."

  "YOU DON'T UN­DERS­TAND!" Dr. Cla­ric scre­amed, te­ars flo­oding his eyes. "I know what they're do­ing. I know what's hap­pe­ning. I know." His hands drop­ped from the bars and he sto­od mo­ti­on­less.

  I know what they're do­ing. I know who he is. Af­ter all the­se cen­tu­ri­es, he's re­tur­ned, and we're all go­ing to die.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Mic­ha­el Wen­ton and Mitc­hell Wa wal­ked slowly to­wards the in­for­ma­ti­on desk in the lobby of ECOR Phar­ma­ce­uti­cals. Wen­ton lo­oked at Wa.

  "You ten­se?"

  Wa lo­oked at him as both men con­ti­nu­ed to walk. "Why?"

  "Aren't you sus­pen­ded right now? Tech­ni­cal­ly, you ha­ve no right to be he­re. You might be fuc­kin' up an of­fi­ci­al po­li­ce in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on."

  Wa lo­oked away from him. "Don't play ga­mes with me."

  Wen­ton snor­ted. "This Ed­ward Car­ter shit has re­al­ly fuc­ked'you up. The old Wa wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve ta­ken a risk li­ke this."

  "You might be right. I am a dif­fe­rent per­son," Wa ans­we­red with no tra­ce of sar­casm. "And that's why I'm he­re. I ne­ed to find the old Mitc­hell Wa."

  As they step­ped to the desk a se­cu­rity gu­ard lo­oked up from his com- pu­ter. "Can I help you?"

  Wa flas­hed his po­li­ce ID. "We're he­re to fol­low up on re­cent events. We'd li­ke to talk to Mr. Met­tin­co­urt."

  The gu­ard didn't se­em surp­ri­sed and lo­oked away from them as he be­gan tap­ping on his key­bo­ard. "It's Dr. Met­tin­co­urt ac­tu­al­ly. Do you ha­ve an ap­po­int­ment?"

  "Is he in the bu­il­ding?" Wa sa­id ab­ruptly eno­ugh to snap the man's eyes off the com­pu­ter scre­en.

  "Yes, I was just chec­king his sche­du­led me­et-"

  "Then we ha­ve an ap­po­int­ment," Wa sa­id firmly.

  "Yes, well, Dr. Met­tin­co­urt is qu­ite busy, and alt­ho­ugh we want to pro­vi­de comp­le­te as­sis­tan­ce to the po­li­ce on- "

  "What's yo­ur na­me?" Wa bar­ked and pul­led a po­li­ce no­te­pad out of the in­si­de of his sport co­at, flip­ping it open.

  "I'm sorry?" the se­cu­rity gu­ard sa­id, lo­oking from Wa to Wen­ton, ho­ping to find an exp­la­na­ti­on for the qu­es­ti­on. Wen­ton lo­oked away from him.

  "What is yo­ur na­me?" Wa sa­id slowly and evenly. "And you bet­ter spell it so I ma­ke su­re I get it right."

  Two mo­re se­cu­rity gu­ards we­re stan­ding at the ot­her end of the desk.

  They per­ked up and watc­hed in­tently.

  "I… My na­me's Wil­li­am… Lo­ok, I'm just do­ing my job he­re. I don't want any tro­ub­le."

  Wa le­aned over the desk and spo­ke di­rectly in­to the man's fa­ce. "No. You aren't 'just do­ing yo­ur job.' You're fuc­kin' with us. You think you can jerk us aro­und and then may­be we'll le­ave. Well, I'll tell you what. You pick up that fuc­kin' pho­ne right now and use yo­ur stubby lit­tle Ne­an­dert­hal fin- gers to punch in Met­tin­co­urt's num­ber. Got it? And you tell Met­tin­co­urt to can­cel his ap­po­int­ments for the rest of the af­ter­no­on."

  The of­fi­cer lo­oked from Wa to Wen­ton, trying to jud­ge the si­tu­ati­on. He pic­ked up a pho­ne and tap­ped a num­ber. He tur­ned away from them and spo­ke softly but ur­gently. When he fi­nis­hed, he hung up the pho­ne and lo­oked back to them. "Deb­ra, his re­cep­ti­onist, will be down im­me­di­ately.

  She'll es­cort you up. I'm sorry for the de­lay,"

  "Fi­ne," Wa sa­id flatly and flip­ped his no­te­pad shut, tuc­king it back in­to his jac­ket. He and Wen­ton he­aded to­wards the ele­va­tor cor­ri­dor.

  Once they we­re out of ears­hot of the of­fi­cer Wen­ton smi­led. "Well do­ne."

  "Don't piss me off, Wen­ton," he war­ned.

  They only wa­ited a few mi­nu­tes be­fo­re an im­ma­cu­la­tely dres­sed wo­man in high he­els step­ped off an ele­va­tor and wal­ked pur­po­se­ful­ly to­wards them. The in­ten­sity of her stri­de and her un­wa­ve­ring eyes we­re sus­pi­ci­o­us.

  In the con­ti­nu­o­us mo­ve­ment of pe­op­le in and out of ECOR, this per­son knew exactly who she was lo­oking for. Wen­ton ca­su­al­ly lo­oked up to the high ce­ilings and nod­ded at the ela­bo­ra­te ar­ray of vi­deo ca­me­ras. The wo­man must ha­ve be­en watc­hing them al­re­ady.

  "Gent­le­men," she sa­id as a bro­ad smi­le swept over her. "I'm Deb­ra

  Wil­son, Dr. Met­tin­co­urt's per­so­nal as­sis­tant."

  Wa to­ok her hand. "I'm Ser­ge­ant Wa and this is Dr. Wen­ton."

  She pa­used, her hand still in Wa's. "Dr. Wen­ton? I see." She re­le­ased Wa and to­ok Wen­ton's hand in her firm grip.

  Wen­ton nod­ded. His eyes qu­ickly dar­ted past her tight blo­use to her gun­me­tal gray skirt as she re­le­ased his hand.

  "Fol­low me, gent­le­men." She whir­led and stro­de back to the ele­va­tors.

  The two men fol­lo­wed be­hind and Wen­ton le­aned to Wa. "We're sup­po­sed to be imp­res­sed. All the for­ma­lity and po­wer."

  Wa ig­no­red him and they all step­ped in­to a wa­iting ele­va­tor.

  ***

  Deb­ra led them to the top flo­or of ECOR. Out­si­de the ele­va­tor, they fo­und them­sel­ves in an enc­lo­sed se­cu­rity al­co­ve with one do­or off each si­de. She to­ok them qu­ickly thro­ugh the Ple­xig­las do­or on the right and down a cor- ri­dor to a small re­cep­ti­on area. In the back of this area was an im­men­se set of do­ub­le do­ors. She mo­ti­oned for them to wa­it as she step­ped be­hind her desk and pres­sed a but­ton. Her at­ten­ti­on sug­ges­ted she was re­ading a disp­lay on her in­ter­com. She must ha­ve got the "gre­en light" to bring them in. She swept out from her desk and ope­ned both do­ors with a flo­urish.

  "Dr. Met­tin­co­urt, this is Ser­ge­ant Wa and Dr. Wen­ton."

  The in­ner of­fi­ce was mag­ni­fi­cent. Va­ul­ted ce­ilings, dark wo­od fur­ni­tu­re, and an aged le­at­her co­uch aga­inst one wall. A bo­ok­ca­se stretc­hed to the ce­iling, fil­ling anot­her wall comp­le­tely. Dr. Tra­vis Met­tin­co­urt was se­ated be­hind a mas­si­v
e ma­ho­gany desk, his back to a wall of win­dows that over lo­oked the city. The si­ze of the ro­om ga­ve the il­lu­si­on that his desk was not grossly over­si­zed but Met­tin­co­urt's short, squ­at fra­me con­fir­med it. He sto­od, pres­sing his le­at­her of­fi­ce cha­ir back and mo­ti­oned dra­ma­ti­cal­ly with both hands.

  "Wel­co­me. Ple­ase co­me in. Ha­ve a se­at."

  They en­te­red the ro­om and mo­ved to­wards the half circ­le of cha­irs fac- ing the desk. As they mo­ved, Wen­ton to­ok the op­por­tu­nity to scan the ce­il- ing and bo­ok­ca­se for ca­me­ras. No­ne we­re vi­sib­le.

  "Thank you Deb­ra," Met­tin­co­urt an­no­un­ced and sat back in his cha­ir. The do­ors cre­aked as she exi­ted.

  Met­tin­co­urt exa­mi­ned both men ca­re­ful­ly be­fo­re he spo­ke aga­in. He fo­cu­sed on Wa.

  "You must be Ser­ge­ant Mitc­hell Wa," he an­no­un­ced.

  Wa nod­ded.

  "Which me­ans you're the gre­at Dr. Wen­ton," he al­most la­ug­hed. "At last we me­et."

  Wen­ton ha­ted Met­tin­co­urt ins­tantly. "Do you know me?"

  "I know of you," he sa­id, smi­ling aga­in.

  "Go­od for you," Wen­ton sa­id with dis­da­in.

  "Dr. Met­tin­co­urt," Wa in­ter­rup­ted, "We re­al­ly ne­ed to dis­cuss a few things, cle­ar up a few qu­es­ti­ons."

  "Yes, yes," Met­tin­co­urt sa­id qu­ickly, dis­mis­sing Wa wit­ho­ut shif­ting his at­ten­ti­on from Wen­ton. "I'm su­re you're full of qu­es­ti­ons."

  "This is a se­ri­o­us mat­ter," Wa sa­id mo­re sharply. "I'd ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur co­ope­ra­ti­on."

  Met­tin­co­urt con­ti­nu­ed to ig­no­re him, cho­osing to fo­cus on Wen­ton. "How's the uni­ver­sity, pro­fes­sor?"

  Wen­ton was abo­ut to res­pond when Wa cut him off. "Lis­ten. This is a po­li­ce in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on and if you'd rat­her go down to the sta­ti­on and dis­cuss it I'm su­re we can ar­ran­ge that."

  Met­tin­co­urt fi­nal­ly tur­ned back to Wa. "Is that right?" he as­ked in mock con­cern. "You'd ac­tu­al­ly ar­rest me and ta­ke me to the sta­ti­on?"

  "Obstruc­ti­on of jus­ti­ce is a se­ri­o­us of­fen­se."

  "Well then, you bet­ter slap the cuffs on me, Ser­ge­ant." He held his wrists out­to­Wa.

  "He knows you're sus­pen­ded," Wen­ton sa­id qu­i­etly.

  Met­tin­co­urt eased back in­to his cha­ir, unab­le to ta­ke the grin off his fa­ce.

  Wa tur­ned on Wen­ton. "What the fuck are you tal­king abo­ut?"

  "Met­tin­co­urt knows you're sus­pen­ded from ac­ti­ve duty," Wen­ton sa­id evenly. "And he knows abo­ut my prob­lems at the uni­ver­sity."

  "What the fuck are you tal­king abo­ut?" Wa sa­id in dis­be­li­ef.

  "Yo­ur lack of hig­her edu­ca­ti­on must pre­vent you from se­e­ing the ob­vi­o­us," Met­tin­co­urt sne­ered at Wa. "What Dr. Wen­ton is tel­ling you is that I know that you're sus­pen­ded from the po­li­ce. You be­at up a sus­pect-a big no-no. I know that you ha­ve no le­gal right to be sit­ting in my of­fi­ce right now. I know that if I cal­led the po­li­ce su­pe­rin­ten­dent, one of my clo­sest fri­ends, and sa­id you we­re po­sing as a ser­ge­ant on a re­al in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on, that you'd ha­ve so­me tro­ub­le ke­eping yo­ur job."

  "How the fuck do you know anyt­hing ab­put that?"

  "Oh, I know lots of things," he grin­ned.

  "You're a pretty smart guy, Tra­vis," Wen­ton sa­id. "Pro­bably so smart that you aren't li­kely to re­port this me­eting to an­yo­ne out­si­de of ECOR, eh? I don't ima­gi­ne you want a lot of at­ten­ti­on on yo­ur com­pany right now."

  He tur­ned to Wen­ton. "What ma­kes you think that?"

  "What did you do to Barry Bo­se­man?"

  Met­tin­co­urt la­ug­hed out lo­ud. "That use­less guy? He'd only be­en he­re a few months. He was a jac­kass. Is that why you're he­re?"

  "I don't ca­re how long he'd be­en he­re," Wa sa­id. "He over­he­ard you tal­king to so­me­one abo­ut a sec­ret pro­j­ect."

  "Sec­ret pro­j­ect?" Met­tin­co­urt la­ug­hed. "What a bunch of bul­lshit. It think that's all the ti­me I'm go­ing to was­te on you two," Met­tin­co­urt an­no­un­ced as he sto­od. "Get out of my of­fi­ce." He po­in­ted to the do­or.

  "It won't end he­re," Wen­ton sa­id qu­i­etly.

  Met­tin­co­urt lo­oked at him. "What's that?"

  "We can le­ave but it won't end he­re. We want ans­wers."

  A smi­le spre­ad back over Met­tin­co­urt's fa­ce. "Answers?" he sa­id. "Try as­king the right qu­es­ti­ons."

  "Are you ex­pe­ri­men­ting with elect­ro­nic we­apons de­sig­ned to af­fect a per­son's tho­ughts?" Wa jum­ped in.

  Met­tin­co­urt sat back in­to his cha­ir. He spun his cha­ir un­til his back was to­wards them and he lo­oked out the win­dows be­hind him.

  "What if we we­re?" he fi­nal­ly sa­id.

  Wa lo­oked at Wen­ton as if to ask if it wo­uld be that easy.

  Met­tin­co­urt con­ti­nu­ed, "What if we we­re de­sig­ning and tes­ting we­apons de­sig­ned to chan­ge the way a per­son thinks? What if we we­re using tech- no­logy de­ve­lo­ped du­ring tes­ting on nuc­le­ar we­apons? We might be trying to de­ve­lop a new met­hod of hel­ping the most chro­ni­cal­ly ill psychi­at­ric pa­ti­ents. What abo­ut it?"

  "You can't do that," Wa yel­led. "You can't play with a per­son's li­fe. You can't just test pe­op­le whe­ne­ver you fe­el li­ke it."

  Met­tin­co­urt spun back aro­und in his cha­ir. "I ne­ver sa­id we we­re tes­ting anyt­hing. I sa­id what if."

  "Okay," Wen­ton sa­id nod­ding. "I see the ga­me. I get it. Why don't I try pla­ying." He sto­od and scre­wed up his fa­ce as tho­ugh he we­re re­al­ly con- cent­ra­ting. Both Met­tin­co­urt and Wa watc­hed in con­fu­si­on as Wen­ton mo­ved slowly aro­und the big desk un­til he sto­od a only a step or two be­hind Met­tin­co­urt. "What if," he be­gan, "I sud­denly grab you aro­und the neck and squ­e­eze."

  Met­tin­co­urt le­aned for­ward qu­ickly. "You stay away from me."

  "I didn't say I was go­ing to to­uch you," Wen­ton cor­rec­ted. "I sa­id what if."

  "Get away from me," Met­tin­co­urt bar­ked, still le­aning for­ward un­na­tu­ral­ly.

  "Talk to us. Tell us what's go­ing on he­re," Wa or­de­red, trying to ke­ep Met­tin­co­urt off-ba­lan­ce.

  "Get away from me."

  "Is that a thre­at?" Wen­ton as­ked brin­ging his hands to his che­eks in mock fe­ar.

  "It's no thre­at," Met­tin­co­urt ans­we­red and fi­nal­ly pus­hed his cha­ir away to stand. "It's de­fi­ni­tely not a thre­at."

  "What's yo­ur prob­lem, Tra­vis?" Wen­ton as­ked. "You got a small dick or so­met­hing?"

  "Get out of he­re."

  "What'd you do to Bo­se­man?" Wa pres­sed.

  "Not­hing!"

  "What'd you do to him, Tra­vis? What hap­pe­ned to Bo­se­man?" Wen­ton spo­ke up from be­hind him.

  "NOT­HING! GET OUT!"

  "What'd you do to Barry Bo­se­man, Tra­vis?" Wa as­ked aga­in.

  "You fuc­kin' sli­me­ball," Wen­ton grow­led and threw an arm aro­und Met­ti­ri­co­urt's neck, pul­ling the man back­wards.

  "Get off of me," Met­tin­co­urt gas­ped and tri­ed to pull Wen­ton's arm off his neck. He was no match for the lar­ge psycho­lo­gist.

  "What the fuck are you do­ing Wen­ton?" Wa yel­led in alarm. This was ta­king things too far and he wasn't com­for­tab­le with it.

  "Let me go. Let me go. Let me go!" Met­tin­co­urt sa­id in a fe­ve­rish pa­nic.

  "You fuc­kin' pat­he­tic lit­tle shit," Wen­ton spat and threw the man ro­ughly aga­inst the desk.

  Swe­at was po­uring down Met­tin­co­urt's chalk-whi­te fa­ce.
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  "Talk. What's ECOR do­ing?" Wen­ton de­man­ded.

  It was ob­vi­o­us that Met­tin­co­urt was trying to slow his bre­at­hing. He res­ted he­avily aga­inst the cor­ner of his desk. His eyes mo­ved up to Wen­ton and back to his hands a few ti­mes. Fi­nal­ly he spo­ke.

  "We just put up a Web si­te. It was just an ex­pe­ri­ment. It wasn't any- thing. It wasn't even my idea. I just ma­de su­re the­re was mo­ney."

  "What Web si­te?" Wa bar­ked.

  "The cons­pi­racy stuff. The elect­ro­nic we­apons. It was just to see what wo­uld hap­pen. It was just a flu­ke. It's not il­le­gal. It wasn't even my idea." His qu­ave­ring vo­ice bet­ra­yed how sha­ken up he'd be­en.

  "A Web si­te?" Wa sa­id and lo­oked at Wen­ton for an exp­la­na­ti­on. Wen­ton shrug­ged.

  "We wan­ted to see who log­ged on to the si­te and why-who knows, they co­uld be pros­pec­ti­ve psychi­at­ric pa­ti­ents, our fu­tu­re cus­to­mers. I didn't even think it wo­uld le­ad to anyt­hing."

  "You we­ren't de­ve­lo­ping the we­apons?" Wen­ton as­ked.

  "We­apons?" he sa­id in surp­ri­se. "Re­al elect­ro­nic we­apons?"

  "Re­al fuc­kin' we­apons," Wa sa­id in dis­gust. "That's right."

  Met­tin­co­urt la­ug­hed. "That's why you're he­re?"

  Wen­ton mo­ved out from be­hind the desk.

  "We don't ne­ed re­al we­apons when we ha­ve the Web si­tes. We may ha­ve put up the first si­te, which we shut down, but the bo­gus re­se­arch we pos­ted has go­ne everyw­he­re. Every se­cond si­te qu­otes from so­me study we ma­de up. The mi­li­tary, the uni­ver­sity stu­di­es, everyt­hing." He pa­used and lo­oked stra­ight at Wen­ton. "Did you be­li­eve the stu­di­es? I co­uld un­ders­tand the Ne­an­dert­hal cop, but you!"

  "You're sa­ying that's it?" Wen­ton as­ked. "That's the only pro­j­ect?"

  "You've just be­en fun­ding Web si­tes on cons­pi­racy?" Wa as­ked, al­most rhe­to­ri­cal­ly.

  Met­tin­co­urt tap­ped his no­se in­di­ca­ting Wa was cor­rect.