by Trisha Wolfe
The subject’s response to the initial treatment exceeded expectations:
No anesthesia was administered before 200 volts was delivered for approximately 40 seconds. Admittedly, again, requiring the subject to undergo the treatment without anesthesia was a callous oversight on my part, and most likely the result of the subject’s side effects which include:
Immediate confusion. Temporary memory loss of the event. Migraine-induced nausea.
Four days after the treatment, subject has resumed normal brain function and no longer suffers headaches or sickness, but remains lethargic.
During the 40 seconds of treatment, the subject’s seizure lit up all areas of the brain, denoting this subject is highly subjectable to the procedure. It gives me hope that, in time, the dormant pathways of the subject’s amygdala will function as a non-psychopathic brain.
Hope… Such a nonscientific word. But, nothing is ruined yet. Blakely is resilient. Now I must start again. Analyze the data and draw conclusions. Accept or reject my hypothesis. Modify the hypothesis if needed. Reproduce the experiment until there are no discrepancies between observations and theory.
Reproducibility.
That is the crux of the scientific method.
I find my feet wandering back toward the cabin, my steps quickening to match the eager beat of my heart. There’s so much that needs to be done… But first, I need to revive my subject.
The cabin appears just over the hill, and I remember the day Mary and I found the little weathered house. We’d been hiking the woods on one of our annual retreats. A way to get away from the city and the noise and her patients. To recharge.
We stumbled on the cottage and Mary instantly fell in love. She wondered why she’d never thought about owning a property outside of the city before, and she decided she had to have it.
I stop at the wrought iron gate and glance at my pewter watch, the memory so fresh my chest burns like I’ve swallowed acid. She willed me the cabin with the condition that I had to continue to visit our place once a year.
I push the gate open. I did more than just respect her memory by vacationing here to recharge—I built a whole damn experiment to make sure her tattered and denounced reputation would one day be restored.
On the day that I publish my results, with the data and proof to back my findings, the name of the treatment will be logged as Jenkins’ Trial.
After Mary’s murder, I studied Grayson Sullivan. As sadistic as he is, I admit, he’s a fascinating subject—sort of the basis inspiration for my experiment. The way he forced his victims to face their sins, used their own crimes against them. The psychology of it was appealing. I asked myself how I could utilize his method. How could I make the unfeeling thing feel?
Of course, he made a fatal mistake when he made my sister one of his victims. I can’t undo that, but what Sullivan stole by taking her life too soon from this world, I’ll restore. I’ll give her a strong legacy. I owe her that much.
As I reach the chamber, the silence is worrisome. Blakely has remained bound and chained to the wall, but allowed to move freely within the confines of the room behind the curtain. I provided clothes, food, water, and even her preference in coffee. No utensils or any sharp objects, of course, but there is a compost toilet behind another privacy curtain. A cot set up in the corner and blankets.
I’ve given her every comfort and yet, as I slide the canvas aside, I find her in the same position that she’s been in since I released her from the gurney. Seated on the cot, her back to the wall, legs tucked close to her chest.
I stand in her line of sight. “The evenings are becoming warmer,” I say.
“I wouldn’t know,” she rebounds, but at least she’s responsive.
“Would you like to?”
This intrigues her and she looks up to meet my eyes. “You mean, you’re willing to risk your feral animal escaping?”
I deserve her ire, but sarcasm has no place between us any longer. I remove the keyring from my jeans and walk toward her. “There’s no reason to mask your lack of emotions, Blakely. Cynicism worked well for you before, but I’d like to meet the real Blakely now.”
Her mouth tips into a defiant smirk. “You couldn’t handle her.”
“That may be so,” I admit. As I crouch to get near the cuff on her arm, I hold her gaze. “You could overpower me—” I insert the key into the lock “—and you might make it far enough where I couldn’t find you, but you’d most likely die of hyperthermia before you ever reached another living soul.”
I turn the key, and the lock springs open.
Her eyes narrow on me. “We’re not in the city,” she reasons.
I unlock the other shackle and slip my keys into my pocket before removing the cuffs. I notice the red rings marring her skin from the restrains, and I cup my hand around her delicate wrist.
“We are not in the city,” I confirm, as I rub my thumb over the tender welts lining her skin. “I have some ointment to treat this.”
She slips out of my grasp. “Where are we, Alex?”
I rise to my feet and offer her my hand. “We’re in a safe place.”
She ignores my offer and instead climbs to her feet on her own. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that I was successful in selecting her size and one of my long-sleeved T-shirts. Seeing her in my shirt does something to me…it’s so intimate, like something a girlfriend would do after spending a night together.
I rub the back of my neck and look away. “I’ll show you.”
I lead her through the lab toward the metal door, where I unlock the bolt chaining the slider bar. This is the only access to the outside. Blakely won’t be given a tour of the cabin. Too many personal effects. Too many questions.
I push the door open and walk ahead of her up the concrete staircase. As I reach the hatch door, I shove it open and it slams against the ground with a bang that disturbs the silence. Slowly, the sounds of night greet our ears. Crickets, cicadas, the distant movement of the river.
Blakely inhales deeply. “I could smell the water.”
“Hyperosmia,” I say, turning to watch as she glances around the dark woods. We’re buried in the heart of the forest, shrouded by ancient pines and towering mountain peaks. “You have an extremely heightened sense of smell. That’s located here”—I point to the middle of my head—“in the parietal lobe.”
“Noted,” she says, but she’s distracted by her surroundings. No doubt her busy brain is trying to figure out what part of the state she’s in and how to hatch an escape.
There are no tire treads to denote a vehicle anywhere nearby. I make sure to park the truck half a mile away in a remote location. Well, it’s all remote around here. The nearest town is over fifty miles away, and it’s small. If you flew over it in a plane, you’d never know it existed. My cabin is sunk at the basin of Devil’s Peak.
It was pure chance that Mary and I stumbled across it. The peak isn’t a popular hiking location. The place was abandoned and, when Mary inquired about the purchase, she discovered it was owned by a small bank branch and had been foreclosed on generations ago.
Unease crawls beneath my skin as I patiently wait for Blakely to either run or accept the situation. When she looks at me and says, “Show me the water,” I exhale the tension from my chest.
She’s smarter than the others, more cunning. I would never have chanced letting another subject outside the basement, and I shouldn’t dare this with her, but then they weren’t as crucial to the experiment as Blakely. It’s detrimental to her mental health that she’s allowed some independence, otherwise she’ll wither like a flower cut from its stem.
Thinking of Blakely as a soft, delicate flower makes me smile. She’s neither soft nor delicate. As if to mock me, a sharp and tangible memory of the feel of her skin as I held her wrist assaults me, and my jaw tightens.
“This way.” I trek up the ravine, my thoughts back on the task.
This moment is vital for Blakely and the experiment. She must learn to trus
t me, and I know that may never happen. I took a huge risk when selecting her, so it has to work. There is no option for failure with her.
But, just in case, I carry a syringe in my boot. Blakely has no history of violence, but her psychopathy will allow her to kill without remorse, especially if she feels threatened. This is what I must never forget, no matter how charming or docile she makes herself appear.
The nighttime forest obscures the worn, moonlit path, but I have the way memorized, and soon the glimmering view of the narrow river opens up around us. Nestled between trees and rolling rock crags, a small body of water with a thin, rocky beach juts ahead of us.
Blakely takes in the sight, her arms crossed over her chest for warmth.
“How long since you’ve been outside of the city?” I ask her.
Her shoulders tense at the interruption of her thoughts. “We’re not having a conversation,” she says, her voice monotone. Silence settles between us for a long beat. Then: “Years. I can’t remember.”
I assumed as much. Her dedication to work and her need for a routine doesn’t allow for exploration. Though she may feel at times an urgency for change, she’d simply switch occupations or lovers, or move to a new location, resuming the same habits that she’s learned are safe.
That’s why the psychopath makes for an exceptional serial killer. It’s not just the lack of empathy or need for adrenaline to mimic a surge of feelings; it’s the ease at which they adapt and replicate routine.
They need it to survive.
Blakely eases out onto the gray beach, her booted feet moving over loose rocks dexterously, as she maneuvers toward the tranquil water. She’s quiet for a long stretch, and I simply watch her.
A light breeze travels through the ravine and touches the strands of her hair, feathering blond layers along one shoulder. I recall when I first saw her at the bar, my breath stolen from my lungs, my chest tight and desperate for oxygen as she stole all vital essence from the room. She was an ethereal creature then, and she’s the most ethereal goddess now. Bathed by the moonlight, she so painfully beautiful my bones ache.
“You weren’t on vacation, were you?” she asks suddenly.
Awakened from my trance, I clear my throat. “Is it important?”
“I’d like the truth. So, yes.”
“No,” I confess, keeping myself honest. “I wasn’t on vacation. There was no days off. I’d been terminated from my position in the lab a year ago.”
Blakely nods sagely, as if making some connection.
“How many times have you done your procedure?” she asks suddenly, awakening me from my trance. “On how many people?”
The sacred moment interrupted, I remove my glasses and use my shirt to wipe the lenses clean. “There have been five subjects before you.” I decide honesty is the best way to begin to establish trust.
Drawing her arms tighter around her chest, she shelters herself from the cool night. She doesn’t look at me. “How many times have you failed, Alex?”
“Every subject before you has met with unsuccessful results.”
She whirls around to face me. “Unsuccessful results,” she repeats. “Where are they? Where are these failed experiments…your subjects?”
I release a leaden breath from my lungs, then take a step closer to her. “They’re expired.”
My meaning is clear, and yet she doesn’t react. Blakely holds my gaze with a severity that would make a weaker man cower.
Finally, she says, “And when you fail with me—?”
“I won’t,” I say, stopping her.
She turns her back to me and gazes out over the black water. “I don’t fear death. There are worse things than death. I fear you’re that worse thing, Alex.”
Her words spear me, and I once again loathe that I can feel pain she delivers so effortlessly, where she feels none. “I have failed, I admit that.” I sidle up to her, getting as close as I can without touching. “But I won’t fail with you.”
“You’re delusional.” She uncrosses her arms and spins my way. “What happens if you do cure me? You just let me go? Give me a Band-Aid and a lollipop and send me off on my way?”
My mouth parts, but I stop myself from delivering a canned response. The truth is, I know what I desire to happen. I’ve thought about it obsessively since I first glimpsed her promising data. Yet, I know this uncaring woman before me is not ready to hear my indulgent and, admittedly, selfish reasons.
She shakes her head. “Right. You haven’t thought that far ahead. So fixated on the solution, the afterward never crossed your scientist brain. Well, I’ll tell you one thing that will happen, Dr. Chambers—” she pushes closer “—I will despise you. If I develop even one ounce of compassion, it won’t be for you. I will hate you with every breath in my body.”
I lift my chin, resolute. “Hate is a strong emotion, so visceral in its intent. If I succeed in bringing you to life, your hating me is a risk I’m willing to take. Having your hate is more desired than having you feel nothing for me at all.”
Her expression shifts, a flash of confusion in her drawn eyebrows, before she puts space between us. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You’ll fail.”
“I had a colleague once,” I say, my voice weary. “He played it safe. Earned praise from superiors, impressed investors. I used to envy him. He always succeeded, never seemed to fail. At least, that’s how it appeared at first. The truth was, he never took any risks.”
When she says nothing, I force my glasses on and move before her. “To do something only for the praise, to not dare to do the dangerous and frightening thing that goes against expectations, that is a weak and cowardly way to go through life.”
She tilts her head, scrutinizing me. “That still makes you a failure in the end.”
I nod once, hard. “To achieve true greatness, one must fail again and again. Only through our failure do we strive to recognize that which is truly remarkable. Mediocrity is a death sentence to our genius.”
“And your unwilling subjects suffer a death sentence due to your pride.” She closes the distance between us, her body so close my desire to touch her is agony. “That doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you a murderer.”
Her invasive scent and vitriol lash at me, assaulting my senses and mind all at once, and I either have to touch her or get far away to end the torment.
“You’re wrong. This has nothing to do with my pride,” I say, choosing to move to the water’s edge, to take a breath not laced with her scent. Her ignorant assessment resurrects the memory of Mary I’ve tried to keep buried. The press releases crucifying her as a monster. Psycho Doctor, was what they dubbed my sister. “I’m none of those things.”
“Then prove it,” she says. “Let me go.”
But I’m not talking to her. It’s the voices of the past whispering cruelties now. “She wasn’t like that… I’m not like that.”
“Alex, what the hell are you talking about? Who?”
“Let’s go,” I say, latching on to her wrist. “We need to leave.”
Blakely refuses, however. She digs her heels into the rocky earth and pulls me to a stop. “Why are you doing any of this then?”
My grip tightens, my fingers acutely aware of her pulse, of the feel of her warm skin.
“I want the truth, Alex. Now.”
I meet her eyes—the pure green vibrant even at night. Then I glance at where my hand grips her arm. I release her. Uttering a curse, I spear my fingers into my hair. “You can’t persuade me,” I tell her honestly. “No debate, no argument made will change the outcome, Blakely. I’ve come too far, sacrificed too much, to just simply stop.”
The second I made the choice to abduct the first subject, my fate was sealed. Everything that followed throughout the course of the experiment is a result of that first decision. I made it knowing I was ending my career, my life.
“All great discoveries take sacrifice,” I mutter beneath my breath.
I expect Blakely to question m
e, to try to unearth the cracks and find my weakness. That’s what she’s searching for as she analyzes me, her watchful eyes following too closely. I’ve given her enough pieces of the puzzle to form a crude picture—all she has to do is connect that last piece.
My defenses flare as she approaches. “Your sister hurt her patients,” she says. “I remember the news about that serial killer, how he chose his victims. He exposed her crimes when he killed her, and you hope to not only cure psychopaths, you want to restore her reputation.”
My whole body tenses. “Psychosurgery was my sister’s specialty.”
Blakely shakes her head, as if trying to understand, then the horror of realization washes over her soft features. “She lobotomized her patients.”
“Mary was a pioneer,” I say, my stance becoming as defensive as my tone. “Sullivan divulged her procedures before she was ready to reveal her findings. The media labeled her a fiend, and she was ruined as a doctor. But her procedures were…” I trail off, trying to find the right way to describe my sister’s work. “Radical, yes, but groundbreaking. She just needed more time—”
“To torture her patients? The same way you’re torturing your victims. I don’t know who you were before this, but you’re so far away from greatness. You’re delusional if you believe otherwise, Alex.”
“You couldn’t possibly understand.” I start toward her and, this time, refuse to let her stop me. I grasp her hand and force her to walk. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with such torturous emotions. You’re dead already.”
Blakely is silent as we hike the trail toward the cabin, allowing my head to be abuzz with her words and judgements. The night all around is infused with her fragrance. I can smell her in the blooming night jasmine, the fresh river water. The image of her stone-green eyes peering through me clouds my reasoning, and I rush ahead, as if I can escape her.
There’s a moment where clarity breaks through, and I realize I’ve made a mistake, but my reflexes are dulled.
Blakely breaks free of my grasp. The forest shadows obscure her from my vision as I turn to search, then I see the rock in her hand as she bounds toward me. She lands a strike to the side of my head.