- Chapter Nine -
I suffer through another night of murdering devolved humans in my dreams, and wake up feeling terrible again the next morning. Let me tell you, all that stuff about videogames desensitizing kids to violence and turning them into killers? I must’ve played the wrong videogames, because this is eating away at me. I’m feeling pretty motivated to talk to Officer Peterson and maybe get some idea of what’s going on, so I look up the police department’s desk officer number and call in. The man who answers asks me which Officer Peterson I want, and I realize that if he told me his first name, I’ve completely forgotten it.
“Um. Maybe it was…Eric?” I guess. The awkward silence tells me that it is not, in fact, Eric, so I hurry on. “This is in relation to the, um, incident at the museum two nights ago – I’m sorry, three nights ago. He should, um. That is, whichever Officer Peterson is working on it should know who I am. If he’s working on it. He, um, told my boss to call if he had any information or questions or anything. So. Um. Can I leave my number?”
Smooth. I sound like a high school dweeb trying to give his secret crush a valentine. I scrap my plan to try to hide things from Peterson while simultaneously trying to get information out of him, since clearly I can’t even manage to leave a message without sounding like I’m confessing to a crime. Honesty is probably going to be the best policy here. He’ll think I’m crazy, of course, but that’s not illegal.
Wait, is it? I spend an involved hour reading up on involuntary commitment, and eventually conclude that in this case, it probably isn’t. I’ve got to be considered an “imminent danger,” either to myself or others, and I don’t think that believing that I sometimes get superpowers qualifies for that.
On the other hand, I do have a body count. They were both mutated, though, which I think supports my claim that something very weird is going on around here. Being an imminent danger to rampaging mutants is probably allowable under the law. It’s got to be a grey area, at the very least.
Abruptly, the thought occurs to me: what if I am crazy? What if I’m hallucinating this? I mean, not the whole thing. If I’ve hallucinated several days’ worth of events, then I’m clearly in a coma or something and I’m not going to be able to logic my way out of it. But thinking back, I can’t remember anyone else commenting on the bizarre hairiness of the guys who attacked me.
When the cops first showed up, one of them said “Holy mother! Would you look at this guy?” in relation to Lovell, but that could have just been because of the amount of blood. They’d struggled with the stretcher, but maybe it was just a faulty piece of equipment. And Caraway, they’d just loaded up while I was giving the cops my statement back at the museum.
Okay, so maybe I’m crazy, and visualizing bestial features on the guys who’ve attacked me. So what? They both still attacked me for no reason. Even if I’m feeling a subconscious need to dehumanize them or something, and it’s caused a slight disconnect from reality, it doesn’t change the fact that these two guys, without apparent reason, decided they wanted to see me dead. So even if I’m crazy, I’m still in the right here.
I really don’t want to be crazy, though.
- - -
Officer Peterson – whose name turns out to be Sam; I was sort of close, it was a one-syllable name – calls me back in the early afternoon, and asks me if I’d like to talk over the phone, or come into the station. I figure I’d better have body language and facial expressions on my side if I’m going to tell Peterson anything resembling the truth and hope to have him believe me, or at least believe that I believe me. We make an appointment for 6 PM, and I spend the next several hours trying to pretend that I’m not stressing out over whether I’m insane and whether I’m about to get arrested.
Here’s a handy tip: repeatedly thinking to yourself “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy!” is less than helpful, and also difficult to stop once you’ve started. So basically, my afternoon sucks.
And so when Officer Peterson asks me, “So what did you want to tell me?”, there are probably better openers than “What was wrong with those guys? Were they poisoned, or what?” But I have to know my sanity status up front. Now that I’ve thought that this might all be in my head, I can’t get past that idea until I know for sure that it isn’t. Or that it is, I suppose, but I don’t want to consider that option right now.
Peterson, to his credit, just blinks and says mildly, “We’re waiting on the autopsies to tell us that. Why’dya suggest poison?”
I press on. “It would have to be some kind of a chemical that could do that to someone, right? To make them…all ‘roided out and hairy?”
There. I’ve said it; I’ve committed myself. And if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, I might be about to get committed in a different sense, too.
So it’s a great relief when Peterson says, “That’s the theory we’re working with, yeah. Could be a virus, too, but there’s no clear link between the two that’d suggest that right now. ‘Course, there’s no link for a chemical injection, either, but that one implies human motivation, and humans are a lot more capricious than viruses.”
I’m so busy congratulating myself on not being nuts that it takes me a minute to realize I have no idea what Peterson’s talking about. “Sorry, what?” I say cleverly.
“If it were a virus, we’d see a pattern of transmission. If it’s someone sticking these guys with something, it won’t be obvious who he’s going to choose until we figure out why he’s doing it.”
“Okay, gotcha. I thought for a minute you might be saying that I might be infected.”
“Well, we are curious why they both came after you. Did you know either of the deceased?”
Man, am I glad I’m not hooked up to a lie detector right now, because my pulse skyrockets when Peterson asks me that. I suddenly remember what I’ve managed to push aside – that Edgar isn’t the only one who thinks I might be responsible for whatever’s going on here, or at least know why it’s happening. Peterson’s asking me in a very casual tone, but I remember the way he managed to grill me during a friendly conversation the first night, and I know he has to be watching my reactions right now. Which obviously look less than innocent, despite the fact that I don’t know these guys, I don’t know what’s going on, and I came here to find out.
I’m panicking for no good reason, so I stuff it down and answer. “No, I’d never met them before.” Then, in an effort to provide an explanation for any weirdness Peterson may have noticed in my manner, I add, “I looked them up online yesterday, but it didn’t give me any clue why they’d come after me or what happened to them.”
Still casually, Peterson asks, “How’d you know their names to look them up?”
Shoot, I screwed up. I’m not selling Brian out. He was doing me a favor, and I don’t know if this could get him in trouble. “I, uh, went to the hospital and asked.” Technically true. “Were they not supposed to tell me?”
“You can calm down, Mr. Everton. This isn’t an interrogation.”
This is definitely an interrogation. I smile; it feels fake. “Ha ha, of course not. Hey, I was really hoping you could tell me something, if you’ve come up with any ideas in your investigation. I mean, I’m assuming you have one. An investigation. Two dead people, weird gorilla crossbreed chemical, right? I mean, I don’t know that there’s anything to look into, but I assume there has to be, so I figure you’re probably looking into it.” Shut up, Dan, shut up, shut up!
Peterson just lets me babble and waits for me to get to the point. I take a deep breath, let it halfway out and say, somewhat more plaintively than I mean to, “Why is this happening to me?” Then I finally, mercifully, shut up.
Before answering, Peterson studies me steadily for a moment. I don’t know what he sees. Maybe he sees a victim searching for answers. Maybe he sees a con man trying to construct an imaginary world to hide in. Either way, when he speaks, his voice is gentle, and I no longer feel like he’s trying to siphon information out of me.
&nb
sp; “We don’t know, Mr. Everton. But we’re working to find out. I understand that this is very concerning for you, and I appreciate you coming in to talk to me today. I’m sorry that I don’t have a better answer for you right now. I’ll have one, in time.
“We’d like to keep you under light surveillance. We don’t think you’re in any immediate danger, but it’s possible that your habits will shed some light on a connection between the two victims thus far. Strictly speaking, we don’t need your permission for this. However, I want to let you know, so as not to concern you.”
I think about the police cars I saw patrolling past the museum the other night, and say, “Yeah, I appreciate that. It could be a little paranoia-making otherwise.”
Peterson smiles. “It’s not just for your peace of mind; if you saw you were being followed and didn’t know why, you might change your habits, and then we wouldn’t get any leads.”
“Oh.”
His smile fades. “I’ll be honest, Mr. Everton. This is not a big priority within the department. Everyone’s extremely curious, but with absolutely no leads, there’s not a lot of willingness to commit resources. I’ve only been able to arrange what I have because you’re the primary suspect, and they think it’s worth keeping an eye on you for a while.”
My pulse spikes again. Talking to Peterson is a great cardio workout. “I didn’t – I never met those guys! I don’t know what they want –”
Peterson waves me down. “I believe you. I wouldn’t have told you that you were a suspect otherwise.”
I make an effort to calm down, but my heart is still hammering. “Yeah, you believe me, but who else does? My boss had me do a drug test and all but told me that he’d fire me as soon as he could prove anything, and that’s at least partly because you came in to talk to him about me. He wouldn’t be thinking of me as a suspect otherwise.”
“Actually, Mr. Everton, Mr. Dobson called us and requested that an officer come out to review the case with him. He stated that it was for the insurance paperwork, which I’m certain is technically true, but his line of questioning indicated a desire to find that this could be laid in your lap.”
That’s a bit of a blow. I knew that Edgar didn’t like me much, but I didn’t think he thought that badly of me. Maybe he was just hoping it was my fault, so that he’d have a reason to be rid of me. That’s a pretty cowardly way out of a problem. The man could try taking a more direct approach. I’m not that hard to talk to. Even with my recently acquired understanding of Edgar’s motivations, this sort of behavior makes it hard to think kindly of him. I mean, I’m not blameless in this – irritating Edgar, that is; in this particular instance, where mutants are attacking me for no reason, I really am blameless – but still.
Peterson takes a deep breath, and that plus his careful, stilted language makes me realize that I’ve offended him pretty badly. I suppose that I did just call his professional competence into question, and that probably this is not the best way to way to make friends. As I could really use Peterson as a friend right now, I do something out of character: I apologize.
“Hey, that was unfair. I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful week.”
I realize my apology is tapering off into justification and cut it short. Peterson just waves his hand at me again, dismissing it.
“I’m familiar with the feeling. It’s okay.”
“Okay, so…what’s the plan from here?”
“You go on about your daily life, Mr. Everton, and hope for the best. We watch you occasionally, and hope for the best, too.”
Of course, “the best” for me is for all of this to be done and never affect me again, while for him it’s if I get attacked again while his guys are watching me. So our goals aren’t quite as closely aligned as he’s just made them sound. Still, it’s reassuring to know that I might not be totally alone if this happens again.
Peterson doesn’t look like he has anything to add, and it seems like this is a pretty reasonable time to make my exit. I haven’t gotten a whole lot out of Peterson, but I’ve learned what he doesn’t know, and managed to keep my secret to boot. It’s a better result than I might have expected, and I know I should leave while I’m still ahead. Somehow, though, I feel like there’s something else to say here, but I don’t know what it is.
Seeing that I haven’t gotten up to go, Peterson says, “Anything else, Mr. Everton?”
I still have no idea what I need to say, so I just open my mouth and talk. “These guys – I think they were dying anyway. The one I fought in the museum, his breath smelled like a slaughterhouse. He was torn up inside from whatever changed him.”
Peterson nods. “That’s what the preliminary information from the autopsies said, too. Neither one of them could have lived much longer. Whatever the drug they took was supposed to do for them, it wasn’t working.”
I think he’s probably wrong on that point. Assuming I’m right about this whole thing being a test, then it’s being run by someone. And I can’t imagine that an experimenter who would turn people into homicidal monsters would worry much about their long-term survival. They were created to die.
I repeat this to myself a few times, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about killing them. Aaron Lovell. Jonathan Caraway. Real people, with real lives.
At this moment, I resolve to find whoever is doing this, and to make them see the error of their ways. I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to do this, but that can come later. Having the goal is enough for now.
- Chapter Ten -
The next week passes comparatively uneventfully. Of course, this would be true of pretty much anything as compared to my previous week, but it’s hard to call it completely uneventful when I spend the entire time trying to be the perfect employee for Edgar, the perfect bait for the police, and the perfect detective for myself as I try to figure out what’s going on. I don’t make any headway on that, but I do start to get pretty good at walking around my apartment without touching the floor. If they ever have The Floor is Lava olympics, I’m set, even without balance-related superpowers.
I’m also getting decent at the crutches. The step-swing technique is starting to feel fairly natural, and my underarms have toughened up and stopped bruising. I’ve been timing myself on my rounds, and I’m nearly back to the pace I had when both of my legs were working. And with my car down for the count, I’m getting a decent handle on the schedule of the buses near my house, too. Neither of these things qualify as superpowers, but they are adult powers, which is also a category I’ve been somewhat deficient in. So all told, it’s not a bad week.
That said, when Saturday rolls around, I find myself making excuses about how I’ve had a hard week and I should stay home, avoid stress, and generally not go to the funeral for Jonathan Caraway. It’s far away; it’s starting to rain; my suit is wrinkled; I don’t have a good excuse to be there.
That last complaint is actually fairly valid, but I think that despite my attempts to talk myself out of it, I’m going to feel better if I go to the service. Funerals are about closure, and I definitely need some of that. Besides, there’s always a chance that I’ll find something to link Caraway and Lovell together, and that could be invaluable. So I decide that if I’m asked, I’ll just introduce myself as Mr. Everton the guidance counselor, and count on the fact that absolutely no parents know who their kid’s school counselors are.
I get my suit on and swing my way down to the bus stop in the light rain, which naturally picks up the pace as soon as I leave my house. It’s still not too bad, but it’s definitely raining hard enough to make me wish that I could handle an umbrella along with the crutches. It’s theoretically possible, of course, but I know exactly how that goes when I’m involved: at some point, I fumble my grip on the umbrella, drop it, grab for it, drop my crutch while I’m trying to get it, hit the handle so that the umbrella spins back and whacks me in the face, drop my other crutch as I flail the umbrella out of my face, then fall over and land on my umbrella, breaking it. Everyone r
ushes over while I lie there looking like an idiot. Since my plan is to keep a low profile at the back of the service, I decide that slightly damp is the way to go.
It’s a relief to get on the bus and get out of the rain, though, even if the bus does give me a solid static shock when I touch the doorframe to step up into it. The bus driver chuckles as I shake my hand to clear the tingling in my fingers.
“Yeah, the metal there’ll give people a decent shock if they haven’t been grounded. In winter, sometimes you’ll get a nice blue spark jumping an inch or so just to say hi to someone in a wool hat. You managed a pretty impressive one for such a wet day, though!”
I half-smile at his patter as I pay my fare and settle into a seat, brushing the rain off of myself before it can soak in too far. I spend the rest of the trip practicing my lines in my head. Hi, I’m Mr. Everton, Jonathan’s counselor. Yes, very promising, such a bright future. A terrible shame.
Soon enough, the bus drops me off at the stop nearest the church where the service is being held, and I make my way down the sidewalk. The rain, which had eased up while I was on the bus, starts to strengthen again, as if to hurry me along. The rain clearly has an excellent sense of timing, because I get to the church at the perfect moment: everyone’s in the process of taking their seats, so I don’t have to introduce myself, but nothing’s actually started yet, so I don’t look conspicuous coming in late. I slide into a pew in the back, brushing ineffectually at the water on my shoulders, and listen to people express love for the kid I killed.
It hurts to hear. It hurts a lot. But it’s a hurt like pulling out a diseased tooth; somehow, even in the pain, you can feel that this is how the healing starts. As I learn about Jonathan, he becomes a real person in my head, not just some anonymous mutated attacker. I hear about his hobbies, his dreams, his loves and aspirations, and even though it’s terrible that he’s never going to do any of them again, it’s nevertheless great that he once did.
The Experiment (Book 1): The Reluctant Superhero Page 5