by Shanon Hunt
Malloy couldn’t get the pincushion metaphor out of his head. “What did this do to him before they killed him? Was he a vegetable? Did he suffer?”
“I don’t know.” Jordan must have seen the grief on his face, because he visibly softened. “I just don’t know. They hit him with so much over such a short period. No one’s done this kind of thing before. I can’t imagine what kind of adverse reactions he might have had.” He dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, then looked intently into his camera. “But I can tell you this. If he was what I think he was, a human subject for what should have been an animal toxicology study, he’d have to have been dosed at a clinic of some kind, or there’d be an obvious needle pattern that the medical examiner would have found. Whoever did this to him knew what they were doing. Probably injected him at points all over his body.”
“They didn’t even need the spinal port.” Malloy shook his head. Maybe that’s why it had been removed.
“Why did they kill him?” Garcia asked.
Jordan’s lips tightened and he shook his head. “When researchers run animal tox studies like this … Well, if I ever tried this type of experimentation on an animal, even a mouse, I’d humanely euthanize it right after obtaining the results.”
For the first time, Malloy hoped that what Jordan was suggesting was true. A heroin overdose was an awfully peaceful way to leave this life, especially for someone who’d been tortured like a lab rat.
“There’s one additional finding I think might be important. We found an allele variation of stathmin, which is related to amygdala function.”
Malloy rubbed his temples. It was already too much science to process in his heightened emotional state. “Jordan, please try to dumb this down to a level we can understand. Think fourth grade.” He really wanted the call to be over.
“I skipped fourth grade,” Jordan replied with a grin.
“The amygdala—it’s the fight-or-flight organ,” Garcia said.
Malloy gaped at him.
“Word.” Jordan’s enormous head bounced up and down in agreement. “I’ve heard it described as the alarm circuit of the body. A poorly functioning amygdala would turn that alarm off or at least quiet it, if that makes sense. This mutation was found in this victim, and guess what? We also found it in all the other victims.”
Malloy leaped up, now excited. “The original eight victims. They couldn’t feel pain—”
“—and they had no alarm system,” Garcia finished. “They had no survival instinct.”
The PCP behavior. That was it.
“Jesus. Garcia, we gotta find that clinic.”
Chapter 50
Layla wrapped the hospital gown around her tightly as she waited for Dr. Jeremy. Her feet dangled off the exam table, and she wished she had some booties. She passed the time by picking at her hangnails. It was a terrible habit, she knew. When she was pure, she was certain the impulse would be gone.
Dr. Jeremy entered the room, his eyes buried in a medical chart. “Layla, how are you today?”
He was always enthusiastic. He seemed to love his job. “Fine, Doctor.”
“Any incidents like the one you had a couple of weeks ago?”
“No.”
“And how have you been eating? And drinking?”
“Fine, I think.”
“You know, down here, we have to drink a lot more. You may not be used to drinking as much as you need to in this part of the world, and now that your conditioning has begun, you’ll need even more.”
“I know. Eight glasses a day.”
“Let’s see how you’re doing.” He pulled his stethoscope into his ears and began his exam.
Twenty minutes later, Layla was dressed and sitting opposite him across his luxurious office desk. He appeared pleased with her exam.
“Aside from that bite in your tongue, which should heal in a couple of weeks, you’re healthy as an ox.” He shook his head. “I can remember when you first started induction. You were so weak, so frail, I thought you might break during your cleanse. But now you’re a good, healthy weight. Your menstrual cycles are regular again, and assuming your Pap results are normal, you’re the perfect trainee.”
She beamed with pride as he turned to type his report. Now it was time for the question she’d been waiting to ask since the moment she’d walked into Dr. Jeremy’s office. She hoped it wouldn’t mar his positive opinion of her.
She gathered her courage. “Dr. Jeremy, am I part of the renewed cluster?”
He seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, you are.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, we have a number of members here at the Colony who’ve either lost their memories or chosen to have them erased.”
Dr. Jeannette had told her she lost her memories in a traumatic event, but she was sure she’d overheard her talking about the memory elixir. “Were my memories erased? Was I given the memory elixir like Isaac?”
His eyes were on his computer screen, and he seemed to not hear her question. “Those in the renewed cohort are particularly fortunate. You should feel very privileged and grateful.”
“But why? What does the memory elixir—”
He pivoted to face her with an admonishing look. “Layla, there are many aspects of our Colony that are beyond our understanding, and showing your readiness for purification means showing your unconditional devotion to the Father. You need to trust his plan for you. When you question your circumstances here at the Colony, that’s a sure sign that you’re not ready for purification.”
Although he spoke in a soft, measured tone, Layla heard the warning. She pressed her lips tightly together. He resumed typing his report, and she sat back in her chair and pouted. So many questions. If they’d purposely wiped out her memories, why was Dr. Jeannette trying to make her remember a past that wasn’t real? Why had Dr. Jeannette lied to her about her poisoned life? Why did Layla feel compelled to keep her memories a secret?
Dr. Jeremy must have sensed her frustration. He stood up and moved around to her side of the desk and half sat on it, facing her.
“Listen, Dr. Jeannette may disagree with me on this, but if you want my opinion, I think you should spend less time thinking about your past and more time planning for your future. The next weeks and months are crucial. You need to give one hundred percent to your conditioning. Don’t worry so much about what you can’t remember.”
She took the opportunity to press further. “But what if I can remember some things? What if my memory isn’t a hundred percent gone?”
“Well, no one’s memory is ever a hundred percent gone. That’s why you can walk and talk. And some memories are deeply ingrained. Emotions, for example. You might remember something that made you extremely sad or angry or happy.”
She seemed to have plenty of memories that made her sad.
“Music, art, creative moments … These are also difficult to lose.” He pointed to a painting hanging on the wall opposite his desk. “Take a look at that. Any idea who painted it?”
Brilliant colors splattered and dripped across the canvas. The piece filled her with both wild exuberance and deep loss.
The name sprang to her lips. “Jackson Pollock.” She gasped, awestruck by her own memory.
“There you have it.” He smiled briefly. “But keep in mind, the brain is a complex organ. It’s capable of repressing memories deep into your unconscious, but it’s also capable of creating false memories of events that never actually occurred.”
He regarded her carefully while she processed his words. Was he suggesting the memories she’d had of her real dad might not be real?
He returned to his chair. “Okay, we need to schedule your next appointment. Please track the exact days of your menstruation for next time. And I’ll be taking blood then so we can check your labs. That means I expect to see the positive impact of your new diet. And keep up the good work with Dimitri. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.” She saluted him. It
was a peculiar thing for her to do. Where had she learned that?
“I’ll put you in for next Wednesday. How’s that sound?”
“Okay. Is that when I’ll get my purification port?” Layla knew she sounded too anxious, but she couldn’t help it.
Dr. Jeremy tilted his head. “Purification port? Where’d you hear about that?”
“Nicole. She told me about a friend who had gotten a port in his back. You know, for the injections.”
“Ah, well, the ports are a thing of the past. The injections now are intravenous.”
“Oh.” She was disappointed. She’d been looking forward to the port. It was like a trophy.
“If you have any questions, give me a call or stop by. And good luck with your conditioning.”
He closed the door as soon as Layla stepped through.
***
Layla climbed into her new bed. Sofia was jabbering away about something related to her physical exam, but she wasn’t listening. She felt around under her bed and pulled out the book she’d hidden there. Even at ten o’clock, the sky hadn’t completely darkened, and she could still make out Westley’s and Buttercup’s features. She closed her eyes and tried to envision herself as Buttercup, with her flowing dress and long, silky hair.
“Are you even listening?” Sofia demanded.
“Yes, well … Sorry, what was the last part?”
“I don’t understand why he thinks I’m too skinny. Thin people are healthy people. He’s making me drink an extra protein shake every day. They’re so gross.”
“He’s just trying to make you healthy as an ox. Purification is tough on the body.” Layla smiled with satisfaction. For once, she wasn’t the underweight one of the group.
“I don’t know why I have to be an ox. Why can’t I be a beautiful and slender cheetah? Or maybe a sly, fast-as-lightning fox?” Sofia yawned.
Layla opened the front cover, feeling the overwhelming whoosh of butterflies fill her insides. Then holding back as long as she could, she read Brother James’s words: “As you wish.” Her stomach fluttered again. She turned to the earmarked page and read to herself, mouthing the words of the hero, Westley: You thought I was answering ‘As you wish’ but that’s because you were hearing wrong. ‘I love you’ was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.
She smiled, as she did every night when she read the passage. Brother James had sent her a secret message in his inscription. He loved her. He loved her! Despite the fluttering in her stomach, she could barely keep her eyes open, so she tucked the book under her covers and closed her eyes.
***
“Hey, Butch!” Daddy calls from the bottom of the stairs.
“Busy!” I call back.
Vanessa and I are having a contest for who can make the best spin-art to give as a gift to Mr. Marokesh. I personally think mine is better, but she insists that purple and yellow are better colors for man teachers than red and pink. I decide to try a green and purple. I pour in the colors.
“Why does he call you that?” Vanessa asks.
I roll my eyes dramatically and sigh. “There’s some dumb cowboy called Butch who has my middle name.” I hate having a cowboy’s name. And I really hate being called Butch.
I hit the spin button and wait.
“Butch Cassidy!” I hear again from downstairs.
“Hang on, be right back.” I jump off the bed.
“I got you something,” he taunts in a singsong voice.
“What is it, Daddy?”
I bounce down half the stairs, then hop with one butt-cheek onto the banister, slide to the bottom, and land on his lap. He catches me before I crush him with my sixty-four pounds. It’s our amazing daddy-daughter stunt, which we’ve perfected over two years. He says I only have six more pounds, max, before I’ll squash him through the floor.
“Check it out.” He rolls me over to the table and opens a bag. He pulls out a slightly battered VHS tape. “This is only the greatest movie of all time. It’s the film that made your mother fall in love with me. I highly resemble the hero in the movie.”
“Funny,” Mom calls from the kitchen.
“I thought it’s about time you watch it. That way, you’ll have an idea of what true love is supposed to look like.”
“Ew.” I make a face. I’m not at all interested in a boring love movie, and I need to get back to my spin-art before Vanessa uses the rest of the blue. “Okay, thanks!”
I grab the movie and hop off his lap.
But Vanessa wants to watch it because it has the word princess in the title. So we put away the spinner, but only after we decide that my green and purple design is the best. I eject A Bug’s Life and push the new tape into the VCR. We hop up onto the bed, lie on our bellies with our chins cradled in our palms, and watch the movie.
It’s the best movie of all time. I dream of being Buttercup, living happily ever after with my Westley.
***
Layla’s eyes popped open, and she felt immediately disoriented. She turned toward the only light in the room and saw it was 4:47. From the other side of the room, she could hear Sofia softly breathing.
She closed her eyes, trying to fall back into the dream. She wanted one more slide down the banister into her dad’s lap. She could feel the slick wood under her right cheek. It was so familiar. She must have done it a million times.
“I have to kick off with my foot before I hit the knob at the bottom,” she whispers, “or I’ll get one doozy of a bruise on my hip.”
Whoa, Butch, that’s one doozy of a bruise.
Doozy. She liked the word.
She drifted back to sleep.
Chapter 51
You killed my brother with your stupid drug.
Allison woke up to the sound of her phone vibrating. She pulled the covers over her head and rolled over.
I have friends who will fuck you up.
The vibrating stopped for a minute and then started again. Annoyed, she felt around for her phone and, opening only one eye a crack, read the display. Ryan Garner. The call disconnected and her display read, “Ryan Garner, 14 Missed Calls.”
Grunting, she dropped her phone and staggered to the bathroom. What day was it? How many days of work had she missed? Three? Four?
She shuffled to the window and shifted the blackout blinds an inch to scan the parking lot. Agent Gadorski’s car was still parked next to hers, though she couldn’t tell if he was sitting inside. She dropped the blinds and looked around the room. Maybe he’d bugged her apartment. Maybe he’d installed hidden cameras. He could be watching her right now.
Her legs started to wobble, and she moved back to the edge of the bed, bracing herself through a wave of dizziness. Once it passed, she reached for the emergency bottle of oxycodone that sat open on her bedside table. She shook the remaining pills into her hand. Two. A rush of panic swept through her, and her head throbbed. She fisted them tightly, afraid they’d disappear, then picked up the closest vodka bottle and filled a glass three fingers high to wash the pills down.
The smell of the vodka sent another wave of dizziness through her, and she lay back until it passed. Her fist clenched tighter around the pills. She took a deep breath and exhaled with a groan. The vibration from the groan eased her stomach for a second, but she still couldn’t sit back up. She closed her eyes and felt the room spin. It kept spinning, and spinning, until she finally slid back into blessed sleep.
***
Someone was trying to drive a nail through her skull. Or at least that’s what it sounded like, but as she stirred awake, she realized the hammering was coming from her apartment door. She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut and waited for it to stop, but the pounding continued. Thirty seconds, one minute. God, they were relentless.
Furious, she stood up and wrapped herself in her blanket, wiping stringy, dried saliva from her mouth as she shuffled to the door and opened it a crack. The sunlight was so blinding she stepped back, tripped on the blanket, and landed on her backside with a wh
ump.
“Cruella, where the fuck have you—”
Ryan caught his breath as he stepped in the door and looked down at her.
“Allison?”
She didn’t answer.
“Jesus.” He closed the door behind him and looked around the apartment. “Jesus.”
In her head, she answered him with It’s nothing, I’m fine. What came out was “Nossin. Fahn.”
“Jesus, god.” He pulled her off the ground. He held her steady with a firm grip around each arm, but her neck felt like rubber and her head wobbled. He looked deep into her eyes. “Allison. The board meeting. I’ve been trying to call you for days. Today’s the board meeting. It starts in an hour.”
She thought she might collapse.
“Do you hear me, Allison? Are you in there? You need to go take a shower now and get dressed. Jesus.” In a whisper, he asked, “What did you take?”
She looked away. The fog was starting to clear, and she felt ashamed. “I’m fine.”
“Oh my god.”
He spun her around and half dragged her through the bedroom to the bathroom. He dropped her onto the toilet and turned on the shower.
“No, stop.”
But she was no match for him, and he forcibly shoved her into the shower, fully clothed.
“You need to sober up right now, Allison Stevens. You’re about to flush your entire career down the toilet.”
The water was frigid and she gasped and sputtered, clawing at him and struggling to get out. He held her there, his dress shirt and tie completely soaked. Her stomach contracted, and she turned and vomited. She fell to her knees and vomited again. And again. Ryan pulled her wet hair away from her face and waited. But the heaving continued for what felt like forever.
***
Allison closed the office door behind her. She really needed some time alone, but Carol hadn’t seemed to get the message and knocked twice before opening the door and poking her head inside.
“What happened?” Carol asked. “Is the board meeting over?”
