by David Hosp
Sydney didn’t return his smile. “If you could remember, though, would you testify against the people who did these things to you if you had the chance?” She asked the question pointedly.
His face turned inward, and then grew dark. “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t even know if I’d trust myself to figure out who it was if someone gave me the chance, an’ I don’t suppose it’d take the best lawyer in the world to make me look foolish—particularly after all these years of no memory. It wouldn’t serve no one— least of all me.” He relaxed again, or maybe it was just that his shoulders slumped even farther from the fatigue of talking about the past. “’Sides, I ’spect I lost any rights I had when I took the money a while back.”
“The money?” Sydney asked. “What money?”
“Settlement money, they called it,” he replied. “From one of them group lawsuits. What do they call them?”
“Class actions?” Sydney guessed.
“Yeah, that’s it. Class action. That’s what I was told. I was part of a class. I got some money ’cause I was part of a class.” He chuckled. “Makes it all sound civilized, don’t it?”
“And this was for the beatings you suffered?” Sydney asked.
Willie frowned. “No, not the beatings. It was for the testing.”
“The testing?” Sydney felt lost.
“Medical testing,” Willie explained. “They used us as guinea pigs for anything they felt like. Who’d care? Bunch of morons out in the woods, who’d complain? So when they wanted to figure something out, they’d get a group of us together and test things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Who knows?” He laughed sadly again. “An’ who really cares? It wasn’t nearly as bad as the beatings. Lots of times, being tested just meant we got better food—cereal mainly, but in our position we couldn’t complain. They say there was stuff in it, but you couldn’t tell from the taste of it. And when you were in a test, none of the guards touched you. Those were the most bearable times I had here.”
“Were you hurt as a result of the testing?” Sydney asked gently.
“Depends on what you mean by hurt,” Willie said. Then, in response to her confused look, he blushed. “They say I can’t have kids.” She looked away to avoid his embarrassment. “Not that it ever mattered much to me, though,” he went on. “I never learned how to love nobody, anyhow. You spend that much time bein’ beat, bein’ put down, and you’ll never really learn how to act like a real person again.” He looked off into space. “Everything normal in you just fades away, like the music. It clings to the air for a while—bounces off these stone walls and tries to keep itself goin’, but after a while, the air is too thin, and the walls are too cold, and it dies out.”
Sydney had no idea what to say. “Who gave you the money?” she asked after a moment.
“A lawyer,” Willie spat. “He said it was comin’ from the government an’ some of the companies the government was usin’ to carry out the tests. Said I was the ‘named plaintiff,’ whatever that means, and congratulated me for bein’ a beacon of justice.” He shook his head. “The people here—the people here before Dr. Golden an’ them others came—they took everything from me. They took my childhood. They took my manhood. They took any chance I could ever have. An’ the lawyers gave me twenty thousand dollars in return. Some beacon of justice, huh?” He looked away. “I don’t even know how long ago it was. Ten years, maybe more. A sharp-dressed lawyer from
D.C. walks down into this basement an’ tells me he’s made me a bunch of money. Even has a check cut already. Tells me all I have to do is sign a few papers, an’ the money’s mine. Twenty thousand dollars. For everything I’d lost. For everything I’d suffered through. Twenty thousand dollars.”
“What did you do?”
Willie’s eyes dropped. “I signed the papers and took the check,” he said. For a moment, Sydney thought the man was going to cry. “And then I shook the man’s hand, and I thanked him,” he said with disgust. “Twenty thousand dollars for everything they’d done to me, and I thanked the man!” His body shook violently, and for a moment Sydney thought he was crying. It was only when he picked his head up that she saw the bitter smile on his face and recognized the spasms as laughter. “Maybe they was right all along,” he said through gritted teeth. “Maybe I am a moron.”
She wanted to reach out and touch him, to provide some warmth and comfort, but from his posture he seemed incapable of receiving it. “You’re not a moron,” was the best comfort she could offer. “Did you tell my sister anything else?”
Willie shook his head. “No ma’am. Nothin’ else I can remember. I’m real sorry.” “Nothing at all?” she pressed.
He looked long and hard at her. “Nothin’ at all,” he said.
She could tell that their conversation was over, and she rose out of her seat. “Thank you very much for your time, Willie,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Miss Sydney,” Willie replied.
She walked to the door and opened it. Just as she stepped through the doorway, Willie spoke again. “I meant what I said, Miss Sydney.”
She turned and looked at him. He seemed even smaller than he had when she first walked in the room. “What’s that, Willie?”
“Some things are better left buried in the past.”
Chapter Thirty-two
IT WAS PAST SIX O’CLOCK in the evening by the time Sydney was on the road again, heading back toward Washington. She wouldn’t make dinner at her mother’s house—not with a five-hour drive ahead of her. She pulled out her cell phone to call and let her mother and Amanda know that she would be late, and not to worry; she flipped open the phone and had started dialing before she noticed that the service indicator was flashing. Not surprising, really, she thought. Most cellular coverage tended to center on populated areas around cities and suburbs, and it didn’t take a sociologist to recognize that this mountainous region in southwestern Virginia clearly didn’t qualify. She put her cell phone away and reminded herself to call from a pay phone once she was closer to civilization.
She was disappointed at how little her investigation had yielded. The Institute itself was eerie in its isolation, and its shadowy past seemed the stuff of horror movies, but she’d come across nothing that would suggest any connection to her sister’s death. Even Willie Murphy’s tale led nowhere in the end. He couldn’t remember who was responsible for his horrific treatment all those years ago, and if he could, what would it matter? He was right; any decent attorney would be able to shred him on cross-examination, even if he were ever willing and able to identify any of the people responsible for his suffering. Moreover, the statute of limitations had most likely run out on anything other than a murder charge—and proving up a murder charge three or four decades old was a virtual impossibility. Nothing she or her sister had learned seemed to suggest a motive for murder on anyone’s part.
And, of course, that made sense. Even Jack Cassian and his partner still thought Elizabeth had probably been killed during a random burglary. They were only looking for additional information to rule out any other possibility—prudent, she knew—to make sure that they had the right man. Perhaps Dr. Golden had been right, and Sydney’s excursion had more to do with coming to grips with her sister’s death, and with her own feelings of guilt and anger, than with any rationally held belief that Liz had been torn from her as a result of some larger conspiracy. She cursed her foolishness as she drove along the deserted rural highway back toward the real world.
She hadn’t passed another car since she’d left the Institute, she realized, and the quiet of the road was disconcerting. The narrow dirt shoulder slipped precipitously into dense forest, and there were no houses, stores, or gas stations within sight. The feeling of isolation did nothing to brighten her spirits. She should have stayed back in D.C., she thought. Amanda needed her, and instead of being there for her niece when she could provide the most comfort, she’d wasted an entire day in a backwater state mental hospital. Perhaps s
he was the one who needed to be committed.
She had the radio turned up, and the crooned refrains of rednecks bemoaning their lost loves, lost dogs, and lost trucks (not necessarily in that order) helped to block out the heavy slapping noise from the rear of the car. It wasn’t until the steady percussion started to throw off the handling of the Accord that she turned down the music and heard the steadily increasing grind of metal on asphalt.
She pulled off the road and onto the dirt shoulder, stopping the car and slamming her fist on the steering wheel in frustration. This was the last thing she needed.
She got out of the car and stood at the edge of the road. She was in the middle of nowhere, and there were no cars or structures in sight; the forest through which the lonely road had been carved looked nearly impenetrable. At times like this, she was amazed at the vast amount of land in America that remained untouched. The afternoon sun tossed shadows off the cloud of dust that her car had kicked up when she pulled off the road. She brushed the hair out of her eyes and groaned in frustration.
She walked to the rear of the car to evaluate the situation. It was the rear left tire that was flat, and from the looks of it, it was completely shot. The metal rim looked to have sunk into the dirt shoulder. She kicked at a rock and headed back to the front seat to pop the trunk release to get at the spare.
She was just opening the door when a flash of light on the highway caught her eye, and she squinted into the sun to the west to see a car coming toward her at a distance from the direction of the Institute. She straightened up and shaded her brow to get a better look at the vehicle. It looked like a dark blue American-made sedan: nondescript, probably a Buick or a Chevrolet.
Sydney walked back to the rear of her car, considering whether to flag down the approaching car and ask the driver for help. It seemed silly; after all, she was perfectly capable of changing her own tire. At the same time, she was exhausted from a long and emotionally draining day, and there was a part of her that was willing to play the damsel in distress. After a moment’s thought, she decided against it. The feminist within her, passive though it most often was, couldn’t justify such a blatant stereotype. Besides, she figured, any person whose help she would welcome would stop to lend assistance of his own volition. So she simply stood by the side of the highway, watching the car approach.
The sedan slid along the narrow sliver of road, down a long incline toward her. At first she was convinced that it would speed on by, leaving her to change her own tire. A hundred yards or so before it reached her, though, it decelerated rapidly and pulled to the shoulder behind Sydney’s Accord.
Sydney felt a wave of relief sweep over her as the fresh cloud of dust stirred by the sedan began to settle. She would have help changing her tire, and she hadn’t needed to compromise her principles. She waved the dust out of her face, straining to get a better look at her savior through the tinted windshield.
He emerged a moment later, stepping out of his car with a slow, tired air about him. He had wispy blond hair and ruddy, sagging features. He might have been attractive earlier in his life, but something about him seemed defeated, and even a little hostile. Sydney shivered, but she shrugged off her intuition, dismissing it as a by-product of the stressful day, and of the unsettling feeling of being stranded on a lonely country highway.
“Car trouble, ma’am?” the man asked as he approached the rear of the car. He was smiling, and his drawl made him seem friendlier than Sydney had first pegged him.
“Yeah,” Sydney replied. “Looks like I’ve got a flat.” She pointed ineffectually at the rear wheel.
The man bent down and took a look. “I’d say so. Did you hit something?”
“I don’t think so. The car just started shimmying gradually and it took me a few minutes to figure out what was wrong.”
“That makes sense. It looks like the rim is bent from running on asphalt.”
Sydney frowned. “Is that a big problem?”
The man smiled. “Not really. It’ll cost you a little more when you get it fixed, but as long as you’ve got a spare, I should be able to have you out of here in a jiffy.” He stood up, still smiling, and extended his hand. “I’m Mike,” he said.
Sydney hesitated. She was unaccustomed to giving out her name to complete strangers. “Sydney,” she said at last, knowing it would be rude to say nothing. “Thanks for stopping, Mike. Not everyone would be so nice.”
He laughed. “Yeah, well we’re a friendly bunch out here. Nothing like the folks in D.C. People there’d let you rot by the side of the road.”
“That’s probably the truth.” Sydney laughed as well.
“If you pop the trunk up there, I’ll get the spare out and we can see how quickly we can have you on your way.”
“Sure thing. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” Sydney walked back up to the driver’s side door, opening it and stepping inside so she could reach the trunk release. She was truly grateful to this stranger for stopping to help her. She had no doubt that she would have been able to change the tire herself, but only after consulting the manual and taking the time to figure out what she was doing. Mike seemed competent, and would surely have her back on the road in a matter of minutes. That was good; the visit to the Institute had taken far more time than she had anticipated, and the sky was already fading to orange. Darkness would fall soon, and the last thing she needed was to be changing a tire on a dark, deserted, one-lane highway.
She reached over toward the center console and flipped the switch releasing the trunk latch. She looked into the rearview mirror and saw the trunk door rise, obscuring Mike, who was still standing behind the car, from her view. “There you go,” she called. “Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“No thanks,” came the reply. “If you just stay up there, I’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Exhausted, Sydney leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes for a moment. This was pretty good service, she thought; he wasn’t even asking her to help. So why was it, she wondered, that she was bothered by such a nice man? He’d been a perfect gentleman, and had kept his distance. And yet something about him seemed off. It was something he’d said that she couldn’t put her finger on. She replayed their brief exchange in her head, but could identify nothing specific.
She sighed. It had been such a long day that her mind was probably just playing tricks on her. She’d feel better when she got back to D.C.
As she sat in the driver’s seat of her car, for some reason that phrase stuck in her mind. Back to D.C. She repeated it over and over again without understanding why. Then suddenly it hit her, and she knew what was bothering her about Mike.
She sifted through their exchange again, and focused on what he’d said. We’re a friendly bunch out here. Nothing like the folks in D.C. ...
How had he known she was from Washington? The license plates on her car were still from California, and this far out into the mountains there were several other cities she could be from—Richmond, Fredericksburg, Raleigh—and that was assuming she had to be from a city at all. So how had he assumed she was from D.C. with such certainty? Something felt dreadfully wrong, and her heart started pounding as she sat up quickly, her head spinning around toward the back of the car.
It was at that moment that the man’s arm came through her window, grabbing her around the neck and squeezing her throat closed.
Chapter Thirty-three
THE THIN SMILE HUNG ON Lee Salvage’s face like an icicle. It had been so easy, he reflected, that if he’d had a conscience, it might have bothered him. She was trusting and weak, and there was really no challenge. After she’d popped the trunk open, he’d wasted no time; as quickly and quietly as he could, he’d moved up along the side of the car and grabbed her before she perceived any danger.
Now, holding on to her throat with his left hand, he reached his right hand into the car to gain some leverage and apply greater force to her neck. As he worked, he hesitated for a moment, looking closely at her fac
e as it turned red and her eyes wheeled in terror. She was attractive. It was unprofessional, he knew, to take note of such a thing at a moment like this, and to allow himself to become distracted. In this case there was little risk, though; a girl as pampered and unsuspecting as Sydney Chapin would hardly present any significant resistance. He wondered whether, had his life been different, he would have ever had a chance with a woman such as this. He liked to think so. He knew that some women had found him attractive once, but he’d never been able to form any emotional bonds with anyone. Silly to even think of it—this girl would be dead in a matter of seconds.
Even now she was leaning into his hand, cutting off her own oxygen more quickly, rather than pulling away. It was odd, he mused, how people so often reacted to an attack in the manner least likely to save their lives. He might not even need his right hand to apply additional pressure, though he knew it was best to be sure.
He leaned his head through the door to get better leverage, and all at once he knew something was wrong. Suddenly and without warning he was blind, and it felt as though his face was on fire. His eyes seemed as though they were melting, and his throat swelled and burned, preventing any air from reaching his lungs. He ripped himself back instinctively from the car door, and his hands flew to his face as he dropped to his knees. He coughed and choked and sputtered, writhing on the ground.
After a moment, he was able to catch his breath, and he realized he would survive. He felt fortunate, but just for a moment. It took only that long for him to realize he had greater problems than he’d realized, and the epiphany lasted for little more than a flash. As he struggled to open his eyes and assess his situation, he felt the sharp crack on the back of his skull and he pitched forward, the burning world around him dissolving into darkness.
z
Sydney saw the hand a split second before it closed around her throat, and her mind spun into action instantly. She’d spent enough time on her own that she’d made a point of being prepared for an attack at any time. It was an unfortunate reality that being vigilant against assaults had become a necessity for young women who lived alone. Living in San Francisco for years before law school and working in a bar in a questionable neighborhood in Oakland for a time had made her particularly aware of the dangers of carjacking, and she’d played out disaster scenarios—and her reactions to them—thousands of times before when she’d been alone in her car. Now, without hesitation or thought, she reacted as she’d rehearsed so many times before.
