by Shanon Hunt
I try really hard. I swallow a couple of times and wipe my whole face with my sleeve. But I can’t stop my chin from quivering.
“I want you to do that every day for me. Do you understand? Every day, you push those tears away with your mind.”
“But I don’t want to,” I gurgle.
“You have to. Because I’ll be watching you. Whenever you think about me, I want you to be laughing. I want you to remember all the fun we had, okay? And I want you to laugh at the memories. I’ll be watching you from heaven, and I’ll be very disappointed if you’re crying and not laughing.”
My body shudders as I stifle a sob. I don’t know what to say. His eyes look sad, but his voice sounds harsh. It’s confusing.
His face softens. “Let’s practice, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Remember that time I put a rubber frog in your lunch box and you opened it at school and screamed?”
I smile. Yes, I remember that very well.
“And remember how I got a call from Principal Frowny-Face, and she scolded me for playing such a mean trick?”
I laugh, but still a tear drips from my eye. I wipe it away quickly before Daddy gets angry again. Daddy doesn’t say anything about the tear, and I take a deep breath.
“Now you try one,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“Um …” I try to think of something. “Um …” But my body erupts into sobs and I tremble, unable to control the shaking. I don’t want him to go.
“Come on, Butch. Don’t let me down. You’re so strong. You can do it.”
I turn from him and look at the wall. I concentrate on making the sobs stop. I think of a funny thing. I exhale and turn back to him. I inhale a shuddering breath. “Remember that time we were at the movies and you dumped the whole bucket of popcorn down Mom’s shirt?” I smile, but my breaths are still quivering.
“Yes! And then she just said, ‘Thanks, Mike! More for me!’” Daddy laughs at the memory.
“And you reached into her shirt and told the lady next to us that it was your popcorn, you paid for it.” I’m laughing a little bit now, snorting and wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“And she and her boring husband got up and moved somewhere else.” Daddy waves his hand. “Bye-bye, boring people.”
“And all three of us laughed while everyone was glaring at us.”
I smile at Dad, and he smiles back. But the emptiness inside doesn’t go away.
“Go out there in the world, Butch, and be special. Do something good and make me proud of you, okay?”
“I will, Daddy.”
***
Layla opened her eyes to see fifteen pairs of eyes looking back at her. Realizing her cheeks were wet and her nose was running, she dropped hands with Brother Leo and Sister Mia and covered her face, embarrassed.
“Sister Layla, I think you’re ready.” Brother James drew her to her feet and embraced her. He whispered in her ear. “Sister Layla, you will be pure. You will be special.”
Then she was in Sister Mia’s arms. “Sister Layla, you will be pure. You will be special.”
Tears started again and dripped down her cheeks.
Brother Sayid stepped forward with the warm embrace. “Sister Layla, you will be pure. You will be special.”
And so it went with long, heartfelt hugs and support from every member around her purification circle. Her tears kept falling.
I am Sister Layla. I will be pure. I will be special.
Chapter 75
Allison woke to the sound of a shave-and-a-haircut knuckle rap on her door. She was still in the hospital room where she’d been taken the night before, so that a doctor could attend to her broken foot and dehydration.
She’d been expecting Austin. It had felt so good to feel his arms around her last night. As he’d wheeled her into the hospital, he’d assured her he would explain everything. He’d show her his work, and she’d understand why he’d done what he did. He said he’d wait as long as it took for her to forgive him.
But when the door opened, a stranger stood in the doorway, tall and muscular enough to fill it completely.
“Allison Stevens,” he declared. “Boy, am I a huge fan of yours. I’ve been dying to meet you.”
She didn’t respond. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
“I’m guessing, by your confused look, that Austin didn’t tell you I’d be your escort for the day.”
She flinched at the word escort and waited for instructions.
He stepped inside the door carrying a white linen bag, which he handed to her. “I brought you some clothes. The center is like a great big pajama party”—he gestured to his own white linens—“so if you’d like to freshen up in the tiny bathroom over there, I’ll just wait for you outside the door.”
With a dramatic bow that would have made her laugh in her old life, he backed out through the door, pulling it shut.
She studied the door for a couple of minutes, unsure of how to proceed. Austin had said he’d see her in the morning. He didn’t tell her about this strange man. And what about her doctor? Could she just leave the hospital?
She inspected her arms and hands. Her IV had been removed and covered with a bandage. She threw the blanket off and inspected her newly bandaged foot. It was tightly encased in a white medical walking boot.
She desperately had to urinate. She scooped up the linen bag and shuffled to the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, she hobbled out of the hospital room with damp hair and a well-scoured body. The linen pants and tunic were spa quality and more comfortable than she expected. She felt refreshed.
She eyed the stranger warily as he lounged in a wheelchair, scrolling on his phone. He hopped out of the wheelchair, dropped his phone into his shirt pocket, and gestured for her to have a seat.
“Your chariot awaits, m’lady.”
She was loathe to sit down. Nothing made a person feel more vulnerable than being pushed around in a wheelchair. But she did as she was told, lifting her broken foot onto the foot rest.
“Ah, I see you met Dr. Jeremy.” He nodded at her newly wrapped and booted foot. “He’s the best.”
She barely remembered the doctor or Austin’s abrupt departure after he dropped her off. She’d been so drained that she’d fallen asleep minutes after being helped into the hospital bed.
“Are you taking me to Austin?” She had a million questions, and she didn’t want them answered by this guy.
“Austin is unfortunately stuck this morning giving a tour to the investors, so he’s asked me to step in for him. I know, I’m not nearly as charming, but I hope you’ll be okay with me as your tour guide.” He smiled. “I’m Brad Elliott.”
She swung around. “You?! You’re Brad?”
He stopped pushing and took a step back. “Oh, uh, well. Maybe not. I mean, who wants to know?”
She rose from the chair with an explosive rage that made her feel more alive than she had in days. “You!”
He didn’t move.
“You’re the reason I’m here.” He was a full foot taller than her, but it didn’t stop her from shoving a finger into his chest. “You framed me. Because of you, I was threatened by the FBI and drugged and kidnapped.” She punctuated each accusation with a stab of her finger. “And you’re the reason I have a broken foot.”
She shoved her leg forward and waited for a sensible explanation for all her suffering—or at the very least, a heartfelt apology for what she’d been through over the last month.
She got neither. He looked at her impassively before the corners of his mouth turned upward into a smile. “Aha. There you are, Allison. I was sure hoping you’d be back.”
She recoiled. What was he talking about? She drew him back to her point. “And the patients. You’re responsible for their deaths.”
His smile disappeared. “That wasn’t my project. There are many aspects of our work that Austin and I don’t agree on.”
The sudden change in his demeanor had a sobering
effect. “What work have you been doing with Austin all this time? And why the hell did you have to drag me into it?”
He held his hand out to her. “Please, sit down. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry. The trip across country … well, it was the only way to get you here safely under the circumstances. The FBI was moving in to arrest you, and we didn’t have much time. But just let me show you what we’ve built. Once you see it, you’ll forgive me. You’ll forgive Austin. I swear.”
But she wasn’t ready to trust him. She wasn’t even ready to trust Austin. She surveyed the hospital lobby. Three patients, all elderly, eyed her suspiciously. She was out of place here, and she despised hospitals. Reluctantly, she slumped back into the chair.
“Thank you.”
He pushed her through the hospital lobby door and into the morning sun. The air was already hot even at this early hour, but without the humidity she was accustomed to, it felt comfortingly therapeutic.
“Is it okay if we take a quick detour for some coffee?” he asked. “I had a very early start today, and I need a caffeine hit. And Luca makes the best cappuccino you ever tasted.”
He leaned over her to look her directly in the face, pleading as if he were a little boy asking for a candy bar in the check-out line.
Thank God. Coffee. “Fine.”
The coffee turned out to be a perfectly brewed café latte, better than her usual Starbucks, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of being right about it.
After a long silence, he finally spoke. “I’m so excited you’re here. For years, I’ve wanted you to see your ideas in action.”
She sat back, looking at him reproachfully. “What do you mean? I’ve had nothing to do with any of this, and you know it.” She was in enough trouble already thanks to Austin, and she had no intention of allowing Bradley Elliott to pull her in too, especially if this place was built on stolen money, which she was certain was the case.
“Oh, on the contrary. You were the inspiration.” He smiled.
He was clearly trying to rouse her curiosity, but she wasn’t going to take the bait. She turned her head, disinterested.
“Your thesis! Your pain research. It’s all working here. All your conclusions and implications. I studied everything you did and put it all into practice. And you were right! It’s the best social experiment I’ve ever done, and it wasn’t even my theory. It was yours.”
He wrapped one arm around her shoulder and she yanked away, trying to understand what he was saying.
“My thesis?”
“Yes! That’s what I’m about to show you. Our primary work out here was built on your groundbreaking research on the psychological impact of pain.”
Fragments of her thesis and research flew through her mind as she grasped for some aspect of her study that could be applied in a real-world setting.
“Here, hang on.” He pulled out his phone and began scrolling through pictures. He stopped and handed the phone to her.
Nostalgia washed over her. It was her, seated at a large table at Friday Night Fireside in the University of Wisconsin student center. It was an open-mic event where students working on their theses could come discuss the significance of their work. The organizers liked the edgier stuff, and Allison had such a huge turnout that they had to bring in extra chairs from the conference center.
She looked up at Brad. “You were there?”
“I’ve seen nearly every presentation you’ve ever given.” He seemed embarrassed by the admission.
The small arrow in the middle of the screen told her it was a video, and she tapped it to make it play. There she was, young and aspirational, animated as she spoke to the crowd: “Imagine the implications of turning pain from a negative experience to a positive one. For example, think about the millions of people who love to sunbathe at the beach, slathered in sunscreen. Is it because they enjoy being overheated with burning-hot skin and sand in their swimsuits? No. It’s because they’ve created a psychologically positive association with this activity: relaxing on the beach.”
Her younger self strode about the room, something she did only when she was feeling extremely confident. She remembered this talk well. It was a greatest hit.
“Or what about those famous polar bear swims? Jumping into ice-cold water in the middle of winter—pain as a positive experience. Eating peppers so hot they make you cry. Body-slamming at a concert. You guys sitting here listening to my talk when you could be out partying.”
The room erupted in laughter, and somebody yelled, “Truth!”
“There are examples everywhere. Of course, there are negative examples of pain as a psychological reinforcer. Nonsuicidal self-injury, for example. People who cut or burn themselves to cope with emotional stress or trauma. But whatever the reason for creating pain, one thing is common in all these examples. It works.”
Brad sat back with that goofy smile on his face. She still had no idea why he was showing her this video. But as soon as she heard her next words, her pulse quickened.
“Now, don’t lynch me. Just open your minds and think about this concept as an alternative to opioid addiction and overdose.” Video Allison offered a coy smile. “What if we established a pain management center in the middle of nowhere and collected a large group of people who experience chronic pain on a daily basis? And then through psychological training, peer pressure, and—dare I say it?—groupthink, we converted their perception of pain to pleasure? We could turn their unhappy existence living as outcasts surrounded by normal, pain-free people into a happy existence with a new definition of normal. A place where they could embrace their pain and share it with others, where it could drive them to some higher achievement. If I may quote a fictitious character from my favorite movie, ‘Life is pain, Highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.’ If what he says is true, if life is pain, then why try to cure it with addictive chemicals that only make money for the pharmaceutical giants? How is mental or physical numbness a better way to live?”
Video Allison finished with the Fireside Forum’s slogan: “It’s just something to think about.”
The audience howled and applauded, most of them drunk on discreetly flasked rum and cokes.
Allison handed the phone back to Brad. “So that’s it? This is what you’ve built? A giant pain management center in the middle of nowhere? It’s not an original concept.” Her eyes darted to Luca’s fancy chalkboard menu of flavored lattes. She wasn’t impressed. The Vitapura Wellness Center was just another overpriced spa.
He stood up. “Huh-uh. This is the wellness center. What I’m going to show you is so much better.”
He waggled his eyebrows but said nothing more as he backed her out from the table and pushed her out of the building.
Chapter 76
“Agent Malloy, Agent Garcia, I’m Madeline Barnett, general manager here at the wellness center.” Malloy was surprised by her firm handshake. “Welcome.”
She smiled, revealing a mouthful of perfectly straight white teeth and dimpled cheeks. At her faint nod, a young woman approached them with two glasses of ice water.
Barnett motioned for them to take a glass. “All our water at the center is drawn from the ground and specially processed to a TDS of thirty parts per million. In other words, it’s about the purest water you’ll ever drink.”
Malloy thanked her and took a glass to be courteous. Garcia took one look at the cucumber slices in the water and shook his head.
Barnett’s office was like no office Malloy had ever seen. It reminded him of what might be God’s office in some ridiculous Morgan Freeman comedy. Two white leather sofas and recliners surrounded a white coffee table in the center of the room. A large white desk and white desk chair sat catty-corner against the full-length windows. The white walls were bare, and the floor was covered in very plush white shag carpeting.
Garcia hesitated at the door, looking down at his dusty sneakers.
“Please don’t worry about your shoes at all,” she
said. “Come right in. I know what you’re thinking: ‘How about a little color,’ right?” She chuckled. “You’ll find white to be thematic here at Vitapura. The color of purity and perfection, light and goodness—it sets a mood we believe is conducive to successful treatment.”
She invited them to have a seat, then perched on the edge of one of the recliners. She moved gracefully and sat upright with her knees touching and her ankles gently crossed, like a charm school graduate. “Now then, what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the death of a young man we believe might have been a guest here with you.”
Golden bangles clanked as her manicured fingers flew to cover her mouth. “Oh my god.”
“His body was found in Flagstaff two weeks ago, and the last time he was heard from was when he was checking in to your facility. We were wondering if you could help us with any information that might lead to a better understanding of what happened between then and when he was found.”
“This is very distressing news—and of course, I’m happy to help any way I can. Can you share his name?”
“Tyler Steele.”
She looked thoughtful. “One moment, please.”
She stepped out of her office and returned a few minutes later with a folder that looked eerily like Malloy’s victim folder.
“Tyler Tobin Steele.” She covered her mouth again. “God, just a boy.”
“So he was here,” Garcia said.
“He checked in with us on May 9, but it appears he only stayed three weeks.”
“Why did he leave?”
She read from the chart. “Patient was dissatisfied with the services provided.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t have any more details, but if you’d like to take a short walk with me, I can introduce you to our staff physician. I’m sure he can explain the specifics of Mr. Steele’s departure.”
They followed Barnett out of the office and through the impeccable grounds.
“Hi, Maddy!” called an elderly woman dressed all in white, from across a pond.
