Aftermath

by LeVar Burton

  “I’ve been going through your reports about the Neuro-Enhancer,” he said, setting the notebook and paperwork on the desk in front of him. “Fascinating reading. Between the reports and that little demonstration you gave, I’d almost believe it to be true.”

  “It is true!” she blurted before she could stop herself.

  He raised his eyebrows. “Come now, I’m not a stupid man. Do you really expect me to believe that you have invented a device that can cure the body of so many ailments?”

  He was goading her, trying to get her to blurt out something else. She remained silent.

  Randall Sinclair stared at her a minute, then flipped through the stack of paperwork. “It’s all so interesting. What a shame your device has to be destroyed.”

  She was horrified. “Destroyed! Why?”

  “You’re a research scientist, Dr. Reynolds. You get paid to search for the cures to human misery.”

  “I’ve found the cure!” she yelled, her emotions over-coming her.

  Randall Sinclair slammed the top of his desk with one huge fist. “What you’ve found is the fucking unemployment line. The end of everything. Think, woman. Think. We are paid to look for cures; we are not paid to find them. That little device of yours, if it works as well as you and your patients claim, will mean the end of medical science as we know it. There will be no need for scientists and doctors if the human body is able to cure itself—no need for us. All funding will be cut off, without so much as a ‘thank you’ or a pat on the back. You will have saved mankind, but in doing so you will have cost us our jobs, our livelihoods and virtually destroy medical science.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing,” she said, finding her voice.

  “What’s that?”

  “Too many people already know about the Neuro-Enhancer. You can’t keep it a secret.”

  Dr. Sinclair smiled. “Only a handful of scientists and a dozen or so patients know about the device. With the disappearance of the Neuro-Enhancer, those scientists will be convinced that your little show was nothing more than an elaborate hoax—an attempt by the Hawkins Neural Institute to obtain money illegally. I imagine such a thing can be very damaging professionally.

  “As for your patients: they will continue to praise your miracle machine, but few will listen. They will become like the lunatics who run around claiming to see UFOs or the image of Elvis in a bowl of corn flakes. To those that do listen, the Neuro-Enhancer will become the next Holy Grail—a thing of dreams and nothing more.”

  Convinced that Dr. Sinclair did in fact have the Neuro-Enhancer, and fearful of his intentions for it, Rene tried a new strategy. “But there’s more than one Enhancer.”

  He shook his head. “Nice try. In your situation, I probably would have claimed the same thing. But no, there is only one Enhancer. You said so yourself at the presentation.”

  “I lied to create a bidding war and up the sale cost,” Rene said. “We’ve got several Enhancers ready for market.”

  “Dr. Reynolds, that’s not true. We’ve gone through your personal records and that of your company. There is only one Neuro-Enhancer and I have it.”

  He stood up and came around from behind his desk. “No. The Neuro-Enhancer can never be mass-produced, that would be much too dangerous. We would become expendable, tossed out on the streets to starve with the masses. I don’t like starving, Miss Reynolds. Do you?”

  Rene stood rigid as he stepped behind her, laying his massive hands upon her shoulders. “If the Neuro-Enhancer was kept a secret, used only by certain individuals for their own personal needs, I might be willing to go along with the project. In fact, I might be very willing.” He slid his hands beneath her hair and slowly upward, caressing her neck and the base of her jaw. She shuddered at his touch.

  “There are certain men in this country, very powerful, very rich, who would be willing to pay a lot of money to cure what ails them. You could become a very wealthy woman. Very wealthy indeed. Where are the codes, Dr. Reynolds?”

  “Someplace where you’ll never find them,” Rene answered.

  The hands that caressed her neck tightened like a vise. Dr. Sinclair grabbed her by the throat and bent her backward, stretching her spine dangerously close to snapping. She tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her jaw.

  “Who was the man in the alley, Dr. Reynolds?” He whispered, his face only inches from her ear. His hot breath was sour. “Who did you give the computer codes to?”

  She tried to talk, but he held her jaw too tight. She could barely shake her head.

  Randall released her jaw and stroked her face with the back of his hand, running his fingertips over her lips in an obscene manner. Rene thought about biting him, but he still held her by the back of her neck. With his strength, it would take only a small squeeze to pinch a nerve or sever her spine, paralyzing her. “Who?” he again asked.

  “I don’t know,” she answered.

  “You’re lying.”

  Her eyes watered, tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. “It’s the truth, I swear it. I gave the disks to a homeless man. I’d never seen him before.”

  He caught one of the tears on the tip of his index finger and rubbed it with his thumb. “Why would you give the codes to a complete stranger?”

  “I was scared,” Rene whispered.

  Dr. Sinclair wiped the tear off on her shirt, then slowly ran his fingers across her breast and down her stomach. Slipping his hand beneath her shirt, he traced around her navel and along the belt line of her pants. Rene shuddered with revulsion at his touch, feeling violated, like she had just been raped. She felt bile burning its way up her throat and swallowed to keep from gagging.

  “Scared enough to give away your life’s work?” he asked.

  She tried to nod, but couldn’t. “Yes, rather than have it stolen.”

  His grip suddenly tightened. “I don’t believe you. There must be a set of backup disks somewhere … your home, perhaps?”

  “The backup was with the original,” Rene cried, pain exploding down her back and through her legs. “I don’t have any other copies.”

  “Liar!”

  “It’s the truth. The disks were kept in a safe; they never left the building. I hadn’t made any duplicates yet.”

  Dr. Sinclair’s grip loosened. “What about re-creating the disks?”

  Rene coughed. “Even with all my notes it would take months. Maybe years.”

  Dr. Sinclair held her for a moment longer in that back-breaking position and then straightened her up. He let go of her and walked back behind his desk. “In that case, Dr. Reynolds, you’d better pray that we find the man you gave those disks to.” He pressed a button on his desk. A few seconds later the door opened and the guards stepped in.

  “Take Dr. Reynolds back to her room,” he instructed them. “And make sure she gets a fresh change of clothes. She seems to have had an accident.”

  Rene looked down and saw the stain in her white pants, feeling the warm wetness for the first time. She had been so scared, in so much pain, that she had wet herself. A flush of embarrassment passed through her, replaced by white-hot anger. She glared at Dr. Randall Sinclair, swearing to herself, swearing to God, that she would one day remove the smug smile from his face—even if she had to rip it off.

  Chapter 15

  A golden eagle circled high in the cloudless South Dakota sky. Wings outstretched like feathery brown sails, the eagle soared over rolling hills, stands of pine forests and a deserted blacktop highway. Well, almost deserted. Jacob Fire Cloud slowly pedaled down the center of the empty road, his rusty old bicycle creaking loudly and threatening to fall apart at any moment.

  His back wet with sweat, the muscles in his legs knotted and cramping, he plodded on, one painful pedal push after another. Oblivious to his surroundings, he set his gaze on the shimmering eastern horizon, answering the summons of a voice only he could hear. But with each passing mile his determination began to wane a little and Jacob knew that his mission was doomed
to fail. He was not a young man anymore. Even if he was, it would be foolish to try to ride a bicycle all the way to Chicago. The distance was just too far. His son, Michael, was right. He should have stayed home.

  Jacob took a deep breath, coughed and shook his head to clear the doubt from his mind. The voice was there, strong as ever, the voice of the White Buffalo Woman, calling him, giving him strength to continue. He would not give up. No matter what, he would not quit. He whispered a silent prayer, asking the Great Spirit to aid him in his mission. Grandfather would provide; He always did. Somehow, He would help Jacob get to Chicago.

  As if in answer to his prayer, Jacob heard the piercing cry of an eagle from high above. He looked up, his heart filling with happiness at the sight of a golden eagle gliding overhead.

  “Aho, little brother. I see you.”

  Few eagles still existed in America. Most had been killed off during the Native American craze, which swept the country in the 1990s. With the release of movies such as Dances with Wolves and Thunderheart, it became popular among the white society to either claim to be Native American or to collect Indian artifacts. Eagles had been slaughtered by the hundreds, their feathers and claws sold to rich collectors and Indian wanna-bes. The birds had been almost completely wiped out before the fad finally faded. To see an eagle in the wild now was rare, so Jacob knew that this particular bird had been sent to him as a messenger from the Great Spirit. His prayer had been heard.

  Unfortunately, the old medicine man’s happiness was short-lived. Instead of watching the eagle, he should have been paying attention to where he was going. But Jacob wasn’t watching the road, so it came as a complete surprise when the front wheel of his bicycle struck a large pothole. He wasn’t going fast, but he hit the hole with enough force to be thrown over the handlebars. He landed on the side of the road and tumbled head over heels, ending up on his back at the bottom of the ditch.

  Stunned, the breath knocked from him, he lay there looking up at the sky, wondering if he had broken any bones and where the eagle had gone. A few minutes passed. Jacob wiggled his toes and slowly straightened his legs. A flash of pain shot up his right side, but quickly faded. Nothing seemed to be broken. Except for a few new bruises and a scrape or two, he appeared to be none the worse for wear. He had gotten off lucky and he knew it.

  “Stupid old fool.” He slowly sat up and brushed himself off. “You could have broken your neck. Then where would you be?”

  Jacob started to climb out of the ditch, but stopped when he heard the sound of voices. The voices were deep, masculine; the voices of men. They approached from the direction of the road, stopping where his bicycle probably now lay. He counted three voices, three men, but there might have been more.

  Slowly, cautiously, staying low to keep from being seen, Jacob Fire Cloud crawled on his belly up the ditch until he could just see the road beyond. Three men stood around his bicycle: two Hispanics and a white man. All three were young, probably in their early to mid-twenties, with the rugged, hard-edged look that comes from life on the road. Each of them wore a collection of crude, bluish green tattoos adorning their arms and the back of their hands. Prison tattoos.

  The men were probably convicted criminals: thieves, maybe even murderers. Because of the economic collapse of the country, many state and federal prisons had been forced to close. The prisoners they once housed had been turned loose to fend for themselves. With jobs unavailable, most had gone back to their former occupation of preying on the innocent as a means of survival.

  The three men Jacob now watched had probably come out of the stand of pine trees bordering the opposite side of the road. Maybe they had a camp there. Since none of them appeared to be aware of his presence they had probably not witnessed his fall, coming upon the bicycle after he was already in the ditch.

  Even so, he knew it would be only a matter of time before they started looking for the bicycle’s owner. Few people would go off and leave a perfectly good bike, especially one with a backpack tied to the handlebars. They would find him, rob him, maybe even beat him and leave him for dead. Not knowing what else to do, and wanting to buy as much time as possible to think of a plan, Jacob decided to do the unexpected. He decided to be charming.

  “Greetings, my brothers. You are just in time for lunch.” Jacob smiled his friendliest smile as he climbed out of the ditch. His sudden appearance startled the three men. Two of them reached behind their backs to pull weapons, but hesitated when they saw it was just an old man. To keep from getting shot, Jacob kept his hands in front of him and made no sudden movements. “Please, join me. My food is in the orange backpack”

  Suspicious, the men stared at him for a moment and then turned their attention to the backpack. They seemed to relax a little, obviously feeling he posed no threat. The two men who had reached behind their backs let their empty hands fall back to their sides. Jacob breathed a sigh of relief.

  One of the Hispanic men opened the backpack and removed Jacob’s supply of dried venison and his thermos of black coffee. They divided up the meat and began eating, pausing only to pass the thermos around. None of them offered Jacob any food, but he didn’t mind. He was so nervous he could barely swallow spit, let alone meat

  Jacob studied the three men as they ate, trying to decide on a course of action. The two Hispanics looked like they might be brothers. Both were thin and muscular, with short curly brown hair and mustaches. They were dressed alike, wearing dirty blue jeans, collared shirts and white tennis shoes. Their companion, the white man, was a foot taller, with greasy blond hair and a scraggly beard. His face was a collection of pockmarks and broken veins, and when he opened his mouth to take a bite of venison Jacob could see that his front teeth were missing.

  Halfway through his meal, the white man noticed Jacob watching him. His eyes narrowed. “What are you staring at, old man?”

  Jacob felt his chest tighten. The young man was like a rattlesnake ready to strike. “Nothing,” he answered.

  The young man nodded. “That’s what I thought” He ate the last of his meat, washing it down with some of the coffee. When he finished, he turned his attention back to Jacob. “Gee, where are our manners? We forgot to share. That’s terribly rude of us, especially since it was your food.” The others laughed, sharing the joke.

  “What else have you got, old man?” he asked, the warmth gone from his voice.

  “Nothing you would want” Jacob replied.

  “Oh?” He nodded toward the leather medicine bundle tied to the handlebars of the bicycle. “What’s in there? Money? Drugs?” He stepped toward the bike and squatted down to untie the bundle.

  Anger surged through Jacob Fire Cloud. Outrage. The items in his medicine bundle were sacred, not to seen or touched by anyone but him. He could not stand by and allow the thieves to steal or damage his most precious possessions. If that happened, then his mission to help the White Buffalo Woman would certainly fail. All would be lost. He had to do something to stop them, had to do it now.

  “Wait,” Jacob said. “I do have this. Maybe you can sell it.”

  The young man stopped and looked at him. Jacob tried to keep his voice steady, not wanting to show how scared he really was.

  “It’s not worth much, I know,” he said, continuing the dialogue. “Maybe only a couple of dollars. What do you think?”

  Slipping his right hand beneath his shirt, Jacob drew and cocked his revolver. The young man’s eyes went wide. He reached behind his back to draw his own gun, but he never got the chance.

  The antique Magnum sounded like a cannon going off. Jacob fired twice. The bullets slammed into the young man’s chest like a giant fist, knocking him straight back through the air.

  The old medicine man turned and saw the other two men also drawing guns. He fired twice more. The first bullet hit the closer of the two Hispanic men in the shoulder and spun him like a top. The second round punched a hole in the back of his head, killing him instantly.

  Jacob heard a sound like an angry
bee and knew that a bullet had just missed his head. He pivoted and fired his revolver, emptying it. The bullets struck the last of the three men in the stomach. The impact of the slugs doubled the man over, knocking him to his knees. He tried to stand back up, tried to raise his gun to fire, but he toppled over on his side instead. A few seconds later, he breathed a heavy sigh and died.

  The old medicine man stood in the center of the road, arms outstretched before him, the revolver gripped tightly in both hands. He aimed the pistol’s smoking barrel from one young man to the next. No one moved. All three men were dead.

  Jacob Fire Cloud slowly lowered the gun. He felt the blood pounding in his temples, felt the bile rising in his throat. He had never killed anyone before. He was a man of medicine, a man of peace; to kill a person went against everything he believed in. But he had had no choice. The thieves had already taken his food and would probably steal his medicine bundle and bicycle as well. He could not allow that. The voice of the White Buffalo Woman called for his help. He would not fail her.

  If anything, Jacob could take comfort in the fact that he had acted the way a warrior should act. He had stood up to danger. He had not run. His ancestors would be proud.

  He was so shaken over what had happened, so transfixed by the sight of the blood puddled around the bodies, bright red in the afternoon sunlight, that he didn’t hear the approaching truck, never knew it was there until the blast of a horn caused him to jump.

  Jacob turned quickly, bringing the empty revolver back into firing position. It was a black pickup, dusty from untold miles on the open road. The driver, a young Asian man, sat behind the wheel, staring in wide-eyed horror at the bodies lying in the road and the pistol in Jacob’s hand. Before Jacob could even think to lower the gun, the driver jumped out of the truck.

  “Don’t shoot.” He raised his hands in the air. “The truck’s yours. Take it. Just don’t shoot.”

  Somewhat embarrassed, Jacob lowered the gun. “I don’t want your truck.”