“That’s nonsense.”
“Is it? I have your file, Scarborough. We know you better than you know yourself. We have your psychological profile, your history—a real study of Dr. Everett Scarborough, the man and the machine. Why do you think we were so successful in pulling your strings?”
“Why are you telling me all this? You know I’ll just use it against you if I can. And if you’re going to kill me, you’re just wasting your breath, don’t you think?”
“We don’t want to kill you. We want to know you ... better. And the knowledge you will gain now,” she smiled mockingly and imitated the flushing of a toilet, “into the sewers. And don’t think we can’t do it. So relax if you fear for your life. Cooperate. This will all work out ...”
“Why do you associate me personally with this alien abduction? And if you can erase my memory as you claim, why don’t you just go ahead and tell me why you’ve been encouraging it, if not perpetrating it.”
“I’m asking the questions now, Scarborough,” she said, all cold business again. “Maybe a little drugged hypnosis might drag it out of you.”
“If you’ll give me some evidence, maybe I can respond!”
“Have you had ... odd dreams?”
“Of course. Hasn’t everyone?”
“Not a good question. Let us phrase it this way. You’ve studied the abduction phenomenon. You’ve written about it. You must be aware that memories often pop up long after the supposed encounter with strange beings. Dreams, flashbacks, visions—whatever. In fact, I believe one of the principal writers on the subject ... what is his name? Ah, yes. Maximillian Schroeder. At the end of his first book, he lists these symptoms, and he got quite a response from the populace. Have you bad any of these symptoms, Scarborough?”
The word came unbidden to his mind:
Lately...
He dammed it up. He refused to acknowledge it.
“No, not at all.”
“Hmmm. What about this period of blackouts, back in your college days. We have close to no information on them except that they were apparently not caused by drugs or alcohol.”
Blackouts. The word triggered an instant response in Everett Scarborough. Tension. Denial. That was a period in his life he had thought he’d successfully forgotten. And yet, here was this CIA doctor with knowledge of the college blackouts, the lost days at MIT, regurgitating that time to him as dryly as she might discuss a bed-wetting period in his childhood.
“Your research is thorough,” he said, “Yes, there was that odd time. Back in my junior year, working on my bachelor’s. I consulted a doctor—yes, of course. That’s where you would have found out about it ... Doctor’s records. There’s nothing more or less than what’s included there. A few spasms of the brain. They’ve never been repeated.”
Cunningham bit her lip. “One was for three whole days, as I recall.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t missing. I attended classes, I socialized. I just couldn’t remember any of it later.”
“But there were times when you were missing.”
“I lived alone in an apartment. I could have been there.”
“However, you don’t remember—that’s just the point.”
“And so you’re saying that I could have been in a flying saucer?”
“No. I’m saying that this could have been part of the phenomenon. Dr. Scarborough, I have made a life’s study of the brain, and to say that it is a mystery wrapped in an enigma is simplifying matters. However, thanks to the facilities presented me by my position, I have learned things far beyond the normally accepted common knowledge. You are quite correct in your suppositions that everything can be explained logically—however, I believe that your so-called logic is much too finite.”
“So what does this have to do with me having an abduction experience?”
“That’s what I mean to find out.”
“You’re not going to find anything, I can promise you that,” Scarborough snapped.
“Well, we’ve plenty of time to find out, haven’t we? You know, Doctor—as you might have guessed, I also have your medical records.” A slightly puzzled expression passed over Cunningham’s face as she stepped over to an open folder on the table. She studied it for a moment, and then tapped it. “A normal medical doctor might not notice some of these things. The blood-type for example. Very unusual. Curious enzyme functions. A few other tests are curious ... oh, maybe not by themselves, but all taken together, they paint a picture of great interest to a specialist in body chemistry. Some of your brain readings, for example veer dangerously close to schizophrenia on a chemical level—and yet psychologically you betray absolutely no sign of that mental illness.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“I’m sure you are. But tell me a little more about your early life, Everett Scarborough. Have you ever felt...different? Like you didn’t belong?”
“I thought that was a normal phase that every adolescent went through.”
“Was that when you felt it?”
“I must say, these are very strange questions. I thought you were going to going to try to prove that I’ve stolen U.S. defense secrets.”
“Hardly. We’re perfectly aware of your exemplary record. And frankly, your reaction to the discovery of the deception that has been perpetrated upon you by our group is predictable to a certain extent. You anger, your paranoia ... It all generally falls within the boundary of your psychological profile. And you are not a coward, Dr. Scarborough.” She smiled slightly. “However, I must say, you have caused great chagrin to my superiors.”
“Your superiors have caused great chagrin for me.”
“And so they have.” She turned a page of the report, studied it for a moment, speaking even as she read. “So you say that as a teenager you felt alienated—not one of the crowd, so to speak? Have these feelings ever cropped up again?”
This line of questioning was irking him, but he had to keep the conversation going. He had to buy himself more time. “From time to time I have felt at odds with the universe. But I don’t understand where this direction of discussion is taking us?”
“Leave that to me, Dr. Scarborough. I’m not asking these questions for your benefit. Besides, I only have one more. Tell me, Scarborough. Have you ever felt as though you didn’t quite belong here?”
“Belong where?”
“On this planet?”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m a human being. Homo sapiens. Of course I belong here. Where else would I belong?”
“You tell me, Scarborough.” She went over to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer. From the drawer she lifted out a tray containing a number of vials and phials. These contained fluids of various colors, though the majority were neutral. “You tell me,” She pulled out another tray, and Scarborough recognized the glint and gleam of metallic instruments, the sparkle of graduated hypodermics.
“I don’t know where you’re headed,” he said desperately, trying to attenuate the conversation.
“Not consciously, perhaps. Let’s just say, I’m priming the pump.” She lifted a large hypo up and examined it against the light. “I strongly suspect that your subconscious understands, eh? Hidden memories? The dim, forgotten past? That, Scarborough, is what we’re going to probe next. A bit of dredging, some adjustments ... You’ll be a whole new person! That process is my specialty.”
“The Inquisition of Torquemada had its rack and its torture helmet and its burning rods. You have your chemicals.”
She put down the hypo. “But don’t you see, Scarborough. It’s all chemistry. It’s the secret of life, the secret of the mind, the secret of just about everything—on the human level, anyway. You drink a cup of coffee when you get up in the morning—you’re trying to adjust your chemistry. Imperfectly, mind you. You have one of your George Dickels—and by the way, Scarborough, you really should stop ... we’ve got some liver damage recorded here—you’re trying to alter your chemistry. Instinctively, we all know that it’s the secret—we just don�
��t know how to deal with it. That has been my study, Scarborough. And I have solved some of the riddles. Ruthlessly? Perhaps. Maybe I have my own reasons for that—my own demons. You know the saying, ‘Physician, heal thyself’? Well, perhaps this physician has.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
She shrugged. “Someone to talk to. A captive audience with the intelligence perhaps to understand. Maybe you fascinate me, Scarborough. Maybe I’m using you as some sort of father-confessor. What do you think about that?”
“I think that could be true. But you’re such an intelligent woman—don’t you ever have qualms about what you do? Don’t you have any respect for human rights, human dignity?”
She looked at him and suddenly her eyes were cold flint. “Maybe I used to, Scarborough. Maybe, as a young girl, I actually even had high-flown beliefs. Ideals. Maybe I even marched in a few protests, joined Greenpeace, what-have-you. But you know, as you grow up you start realizing the truth. And that truth is that human beings are horribly disfigured creatures inside. There was no respect for human rights and human dignity in the people I met, Scarborough. The people who hurt me, who formed me.” A curious half-crazed smile lit up her face. “Perhaps that’s what I’m after. To perfect the human race. Better living through chemistry! Compassion and love, through a needle.” She picked up a hypo and regarded it. Then she put it back. “You don’t look very comfortable, Scarborough. Maybe we’re going to need a little assistance from the men outside to make you so.”
“The handcuffs aren’t enough?”
“Somehow, I don’t think so.” She strode to the door, opened it. “Gentlemen, would you come in here? I want you to hold the patient while I give him a tiny injection. It won’t take but a moment of your time.”
One of the men smiled. “Hey, Doc. It’s a hell of a lot more interesting than guarding the goddamned door.”
The other chuckled. “Yeah. If I’d wanted this kind of detail, I’d have filed for a duty at Leavenworth.” All very light and jokey, as though this were all part of some Company sitcom. Apparently, now that Richards was away and the prey was securely fastened to a solid object, they felt they could relax.
However, Dr. Julia Cunningham was not in the mood for either a comedy or jokiness. All it took was an icy glare, and the suits were abruptly quiet, all business again. They took their places beside Scarborough, each grabbing a shoulder.
“Williams, would you be so kind as to roll up Scarborough’s sleeve?”
“Look,” said Scarborough, desperately. “Is this really necessary? You’re an intelligent person. We can talk about this. We’ll work on this together.” Tersely. Not showing fear. “You’ve convinced me of the efficacy of your work, Dr. Cunningham. But couldn’t we try it this time without drugs?”
“Nonsense.”
“Doctor, the sleeve’s caught up in the handcuff,” said one of the men.
“No problem.” Metal clattering as the woman reached onto the tray. Stainless steel flashed as she brought up a scalpel. She stepped forward, motioning the man to step aside. “I suggest you stay very still, Scarborough.” She grabbed his sleeve and slashed his sleeve up to the shoulder. Scarborough could not help but wince as the sharp, cold metal kissed his skin.
“Very well,” she said, stepping back. “You may resume your position.”
Just then, however, another man entered the room.
Scarborough saw him first peripherally, and could not help but react: it was Myers. Edward Myers, walking into the room, quietly and determinedly. Scarborough struggled fruitlessly at his bonds, knocking against the agents. They were forced to grab him and hold him.
“Myers!” cried Scarborough. “Myers, you son of a bitch! How could you do this to me?” he screamed.
“Myers,” said Julia Cunningham, frowning. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a plane to catch.”
“I missed it, I’m afraid,” said Myers, moving over with an agile step. “So I thought I’d take care of an outstanding matter.”
He pulled the gun out with the practiced ease of a professional, stepped behind Dr. Julia Cunningham, grabbed her arm, and· placed a silenced muzzle against her forehead.
Chapter 36
“All right, gentlemen. I want you to take out your weapons and throw them to the floor.
“Jesus Christ, Myers!” said one. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Making amends, Gordon. Now do it, or I’ll fucking kill her!” Something akin to madness danced in his eyes. “I’m getting you out, Scarborough. I never should have taken you here. I’m sorry.”
The suits looked to Cunningham. She was stiff as a board, nothing but deadness in her eyes. No fear. Nonetheless, she nodded to the men for them to obey.
Automatic pistols hit the floor, sliding over against the cabinets.
“All right, Doctor. Now, where are the keys to those cuffs?”
“The pocket of my lab coat,” she said, monotoned.
“Great. You wanna get them out for me and free this much-abused man in that chair there?”
She nodded, and reached into her pocket. Even as he saw the glimmer of stainless steel, Scarborough remembered: Cunningham hadn’t put the scalpel away.
“Myers!” he cried. “Watch out. She’s got—”
Metal flashed as Cunningham pulled the scalpel she’d hidden in her pocket up and slashed viciously across Myers’s left arm and chest. With a gasp of alarm and pain, Myers released her and she leaped away from him.
“Kill him!” she shrieked. “Kill him immediately!”
The CIA men dived for their fallen guns.
However, the wound, though painful and startling, and now quite bloody, was far from fatal, and as Myers still had use of his gun hand, he lifted the silenced weapon toward his colleagues. The gun coughed. Swung. Coughed again. A grunt, a groan, and the CIA men toppled, bloody holes tom in their neat grey suits. Cunningham squealed with frustration and made for the guns herself.
Myers turned, aimed, and squeezed off another round.
The bullet struck Julia Cunningham in the shoulder. She toppled, striking her head against the metal cabinet, and oozed down onto the floor, unconscious.
“Glad I thought to put a muffler on this thing,” said Myers. “MPs and my compatriots would be swarming all over the place by now if I hadn’t. My God, that bitch has claws, doesn’t she?” He looked down his arm, wincing. Scarborough could see the wound was bleeding, but apparently the scalpel hadn’t cut anything major. Myers stuffed a towel under his shirt.
“Ed,” said Scarborough, still stunned. “Why?”
“I fucked up, pal. I let them intimidate me. They threatened my family and I guess the old protector bullshit kicked in, cause it was fucking Richards and I knew that Richards meant what he said.” He sighed and walked over to the fallen doctor. He patted her pockets. They jingled. He pulled out the keys. “But you know, in the end, a man’s alone. There’s nobody else in the coffin when they bury you, and you’ve got a long time to stew in what you’ve done. And I couldn’t live—or die—with what I’d done to you, Scarborough. I’m just going to have to take the rest as it comes.”
He walked over and unlocked the cuffs on Scarborough’s legs.
“I’ve got a friend over at the Officers’ Club at the main part of Kirtland,” Scarborough said. “She’s waiting for me. We’ll get protection. We’ll expose this whole mess. And Myers—my friend, I shot these guys, okay?”
“Thanks, but that probably won’t wash.” He unlocked the wrist cuffs. “That sounds good, though. This whole thing’s the most ungodly pile of stuff I ever heard of. When it gets exposed, I think it’s going to make Watergate look like a bubble bath. We’ll see where things fall then.”
“You’ll testify?”
“You bet, Ev. I’m not done redeeming myself. I’ve got some serious stains on my soul. I’ve—”
The sound was like the crack of a whip. Myers arched his back, his face going totally white. He s
taggered and fell onto Scarborough.
Over his shoulder, Scarborough could see Julia Cunningham getting up. She held one of the men’s guns in her hand. Blood runnelled down her white lab coat from the wound in her shoulder. Her blonde hair had come undone and it hung around her head now like a mangled halo.
“Don’t do a thing, Scarborough. Just stay there. I’m calling for help.”
“The hell you are,” said Myers suddenly, rolling around and bringing up his gun.
He shot her in the chest and the impact of the bullet turned her around and flung her onto the trays of drugs and instruments she had laid out upon the top of the cabinet.
Julia Cunningham screamed.
She groped for purchase, but found none. She slid down the face of the drawers, and the trays tumbled with her, spilling broken glass, clamps, forceps, scalpels, hypodermics, and the sparkle of released fluids directly on her face and her wounds.
Julia Cunningham screamed again and began to spasm.
Myers had taken himself off of Scarborough, but now he collapsed onto the floor.
Julia Cunningham still spasmed.
Scarborough could see now that not only had she pierced herself with several instruments and broken vials and phials, but a large quantity of the psychoactive drugs had clearly entered her system and were kicking in with a vengeance.
Not only was Dr. Julia Cunningham dying; she was dying on the worst drug trip imaginable.
She gasped and spasmed. Her body warped into a distorted pretzel’s parody of a human being and her face contorted into an animate rictus. Her eyes bulged almost to bursting from her sockets and a purpled tongue wiggled from her mouth like some fat worm trapped between her teeth trying to free itself.
Blood gurgled from between her lips.
The UFO Conspiracy Trilogy Page 72
