The Rasner Effect

by Mark Rosendorf

  “All right, cool.” Glen ran to the couch and grabbed one of the controllers to the game system. “Charlie says he’ll vacuum again, so it’s all good,” he told the others.

  Jake immersed himself in his own memories, drowning out the noise from the fraternity brothers playing their video game and screaming.

  Charlie Wright. The name had taken Jake a long time to become comfortable with, almost seven years to be exact. He detailed in his mind the timeline of his life that resulted in his occupational change from high-priced mercenary to cleaning off-campus fraternity houses in sunny Tampa Beach, Florida.

  It felt like a lifetime ago, when he was part of the Special Forces unit in the United States Army. Jake and a select, talented few were part of the Black Ops squad—the crew that took on “special missions.” These were the missions nobody recorded, acknowledged, or even discussed afterward. The missions were necessary; the soldiers chosen because they were skilled and crazy enough to succeed.

  When the unit finally disbanded, some of the members remained in service while others chose to conform back into society. A few others chose to continue the thrill of working outside society doing jobs no one else wanted. Jake was one of those few; he became a gun-for-hire, working for various employers. In time, he became a high-priced merc, and a successful one at that—always business and never personal, whether it was a transport or a clean kill.

  Jake prided himself on his style, which was opposite of Colonel Richard Duke, his former CEO. Duke became a mercenary as well, also working within the United States. A different type, Duke enjoyed the “game” as he called it. He got as much of a thrill out of the assassinations as when he led their unit. Where Jake preferred to work alone, Richard Duke loved to train, lead, and be followed. If only he was in a business that allowed for loyalty. With this in mind, who could the Colonel trust? He did have his young daughter, Jennifer. In fact, he had raised her to follow in his footsteps. He taught her to become comfortable with murder, even at a young age, and have an impassive outlook toward human life. The problem, however, was she was still just a child. Even if she were older, a good organization cannot consist of only two members.

  One of Richard Duke’s greatest assets was his patience and his ability to think outside the box. Duke wanted an army he could train himself, and soon he formed one. He took in children as recruits for his organization. Duke enlisted these children from orphanages, psychiatric institutions, and sometimes off the streets.

  Colonel Duke took in those young unwanteds and invested many years teaching these angry, yet impressionable, young children. He focused their concentration on the arts of hand-to-hand combat, firearms, and strategy. Duke took them forward into young adulthood. He made them ruthless, so ruthless, in fact, The Colonel was later assassinated by his most aggressive student who would take over as leader, along with Duke’s own daughter. Rumors suggested she had set up her own father for the hit.

  The Duke Organization proved to be everything Colonel Duke had hoped it would become, and worse. What they lacked in intelligence and experience, they made up for in pure psychopathic tendencies. They left dozens of bodies in their wake as they showed very little discretion, caution or care toward innocent civilians in the way of their intended targets. It wasn’t long before their actions caught the government’s attention and need for indirect involvement. That involvement was to hire a mercenary who would be responsible for putting an end to the Duke Organization.

  Should he have taken the job? It was a question Jake asked himself every single day throughout that long chase. Not that he really had a choice either way. They made him an offer he dared not refuse.

  The chase began on the day the FBI picked up Jake for his illegal occupation and brought him before General Straker. Instead of arresting him, Straker offered a deal. Jake would get a fresh start and a clean record in return for accepting a job for the United States government. His task—to put an end to the reign of the organization created and formerly ran by his past Commanding Officer—and do it with stealth.

  An entire year, that’s how long the chase lasted, always coming close but missing his intended targets. Jake suffered his own personal losses, which included the assassination of his younger brother, the FBI agent that set up his deal with the General. Suddenly, Jake no longer had an ally among his new employers. Even worse, he found himself in a war that had turned personal.

  The day came when all the information he had gathered—including his own hunches based on a year of studying the group—finally paid off. Jake intercepted information on the Duke organization’s next target. It was just a matter of where and when they would strike. It turned out to be on a New York City bridge the intended target traveled over daily.

  It was late afternoon when the members of the Duke organization set up their homemade bomb. Jake made his sneak attack on the co-leader—the man who took out the Colonel. The man, however, detonated the bomb earlier than planned. He then stayed behind to fight what turned into a hand-to-hand battle while everything burned around them. It was the ultimate sacrifice, giving the rest of the group enough time to flee.

  Although Jake’s memories of the day’s conclusion remained foggy, he knew it was not his actions that brought an end to the battle. His opponent’s defeat came at the hands of the government soldiers who’d intervened, despite the promise he received from General Straker there would be no interference until the job was done, or Jake was dead.

  Feeling used, betrayed, and dissatisfied, all Jake had left to show for those twelve-months was payment—his criminal record wiped clean.

  Jake received what he was promised, a clean record, but it cost him his identity as well as his life. He was placed into the witness protection program, and the high priced mercenary known as Jake Scarberry was no more.

  After seven years, Jake had finally accepted his new identity as Charles Wright. He now worked as a custodian in various locations throughout the town of Alligator Pond, Florida.

  Of course, the biggest mission of his underground career, taking down the Duke Organization, was never again acknowledged or discussed. The main core of the group had not been heard from since that day. For the most part, they all remained inactive and impossible to find. The government covered up the Duke Organization’s actions, referring to the deaths as accidents or random murders and the blown up buildings as gas leaks or electrical fires.

  The afternoon bombing of a crowded New York City bridge, to kill one target, was blamed on an international terrorist who committed suicide just before he could be caught. The accused terrorist, who took the blame as well as the credit, was a radical from the Middle East. His claims of terrorist ties were never fully founded. For that matter, he was probably never even near a bridge before his showdown with the authorities. With the right spin in the media, he became the perfect international scapegoat.

  “You can’t have the American people worrying about serious domestic threats,” General Straker explained to him after the press reported the story. Jake understood. How would the American public react if they knew the bombing had nothing to do with terrorism, but because an unscrupulous American businessman paid for the assassination of another unscrupulous American businessman? Understanding, however, didn’t make him feel any better about the situation.

  He was just Charlie Wright now, cleaning a fucking Frat house. Jake shook his head and went back to work. How the mighty had fallen.

  Chapter Three

  From the doorway of the therapy suite, Rick Rasner watched the teachers, safety officers, and various staff aides lead the patients to their classrooms. They rushed some of the children to the rooms while others were escorted to the end of the hallway where a short Asian man with thick-framed eyeglasses stood behind a table giving out small cups with medication. Rick assumed he was the facility’s psychiatrist.

  Four patients appeared. They walked in a trance-like state, with little movement in their knees, their arms stiff against their sides. A chubby Latino b
oy around sixteen years of age shuffled beside an aide pushing a tall, wheeled pole. From its top hung a clear IV bag. A long vinyl tube attached the bag to a needle stuck in the boy’s arm. The kids walked just like the zombies he had seen in old late-night horror movies.

  Sharon Hefner appeared in the hallway and immediately shouted orders. She seemed to be in her glory as the center of all the action. “Let’s move it people! School is about to start!” She clapped her hands to accentuate her words.

  Behind her, a young child, approximately eleven years old, stood on his head, palms pressed to the floor, his head touching the wall. His ripped jeans had dropped toward his knees due to his inverted position. Hefner walked up to him and stared down with her fists pressed against her hips. “What do you think you’re playing at, Pedro?”

  “I don’t want to go to class,” he whined.

  “Do I have to get Officer James over here to escort you?” Hefner pointed down the hallway where James was motioning other children into their rooms. “Or do I just report you to Miss Miller? You know where she’ll want you to go if I do…”

  Pedro gazed up at Hefner with wide and nervous eyes. “I don’t like that room.”

  “Then get off your brain, boy, and go use it in class. Decide right now which room you want to spend the day in.”

  After a few moments, Pedro’s legs dropped forward and he rolled himself into an upright position. He moved into his classroom as Hefner pointed the way. “You see?” she said to no one, “they think I’m here to take their crap, but I’m not.”

  Rick continued to observe the procedures of each class receiving its full roster of students, averaging between six and eight each. The doors slammed shut behind the students.

  An older woman, about five-foot-six, walked up to Rick. She had bags under her eyes and wrinkles underneath an abnormally large amount of red blush across her cheeks. She wore a long, red skirt that matched her noticeably dyed hair. “Mr. Rasner?”

  “Uhm, yes.”

  “I’m Janet Murphy, social worker. Please, call me Janet.”

  Rick shook her right hand, which was as sweaty as it was dainty. Her left hand clutched a Bible against her stomach. Janet placed her right hand over the book as well. There was an awkward silence as Rick remained in the doorway.

  Janet finally broke the silence. “So, we’re officemates now, are we?”

  “Oh, I’m standing in your way.” Rick moved aside. “Sorry about that.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Janet laughed and entered the office, holding the door for Rick, who stepped in as well. Janet closed the door, locking it with one of the large keys that hung from a string around her neck.

  “Did you get your key yet?” she asked, dropping hers inside her pale-blue shirt.

  “Not yet. I’m supposed to meet with Miss Miller later today. I figure I’ll just ask her for one.”

  “I wouldn’t.” Janet burst loose with another laugh. “Good luck with your meeting, though.”

  “How long have you worked here?” Rick wondered what she meant by both the laugh and the concern.

  Janet crossed to her desk, opened the top drawer, placed the Bible inside, and closed the drawer. “About 15 years. I worked with Lisa Marshburn, whom you’re replacing. I figure you’ll just absorb her caseload of patients. It is truly a shame what happened to her.”

  He eyed her for a moment waiting for more explanation. When it didn’t come, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “It was my understanding she retired.”

  “You could say that.” Janet shook her head with disappointment. “It’s not like she had much choice. It was more of a forced situation.”

  “Forced? You mean by Miss Miller? How did she force her out?”

  “One thing about Katherine Miller…” Janet whispered, even though they were the only ones in the room. “If she doesn’t like someone, she’ll let them know. She doesn’t terminate, but she will get them to leave.”

  Janet gave Rick a look of caution which caused him to widen his eyes. “I look forward to joining the team.” He smiled. “Just give me a chance to catch my bearings and learn how things are handled here. I’m sure she will find I am a very good team player.”

  “You’re a determined young man. That’s nice.” Janet smiled back.

  Rick walked to his desk, rubbing underneath the layer of brown hair he kept combed over his forehead. He spun around, realizing his new colleague had followed him to his desk. Her green eyes studied his every movement. Rick offered an uncomfortable smile.

  “I think you’ll find they use us less and less around here as time goes by.” Janet once again ended her comment in a chuckle that sounded more nervous than humorous.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When the patients go into crisis, we’re supposed to have the opportunity to calm them down.” She gave an elaborate shrug of her shoulders. “We don’t normally get the chance to do our jobs. Usually, at the first sign of a red flag, Miller orders one of the guards or resident on-site psychiatrists to stick the poor child with an injection. One straightjacket later and they shove the adolescent into one of those awful seclusion rooms.”

  “What exactly do they drug the kids with?”

  “Haldol. Meloril. A bunch of others as well. They tend to like the old-fashioned stuff in here. It shuts the kids down much quicker.”

  Rick tried to come up with the best words to pose his question. “Is it always…necessary?”

  Janet laughed. “Welcome to the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence, where the unnecessary takes precedence over the necessary.” She took a breath. “So, speaking of psychiatrists, what’s your relationship with Dr. Obenchain? Business or personal?”

  “How do you…”

  “Well, since you’ve moved to Brookhill, you go to his home twice a week. He also arranged for your job here. There is talk you’re one of his patients.”

  Rick stood in stunned silence.

  “Unlike most people who work here, I do live in Brookhill. In fact, I have all my life,” Janet explained. “It’s a small town and everyone pretty much knows what everyone else is up to, it’s just the way it is here. Dr. Obenchain is well liked in Brookhill. He could run for Mayor if he chose.”

  “I can understand. Dr. Obenchain has been a huge help to me.”

  “I don’t know much about his practice, but I do know he works with very special cases.” Janet stared at the ceiling, as if pulling information from above. “So that would make you very special.”

  “I guess that’s one way to look at it.” Rick smiled, finding this lady very strange, even a little patronizing, but warm and friendly nonetheless.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. I’m not looking to push. I was just curious.”

  Rick leaned against his desk, considering whether to tell his story or not. He found Janet easy to speak with and trust even though they just met. Besides Doctor Obenchain, she was the first person in the town he had spoken with for an extended amount of time. He also wanted someone, anyone, to know his story other than just the doctor.

  He made the decision. With his hands, Rick pulled back the hair from his forehead, revealing a three-inch scar across the left side of his temple. She bent forward to examine it, motioning as if to touch it, but choosing not to.

  “Remember the bombing of that bridge seven years ago in New York?” Rick asked.

  “I remember it well. There was a lot of coverage over that tragic event. They still haven’t re-opened the bridge.”

  “I was on the bridge when it all happened. I was one of the few survivors.”

  “Oh.” Janet took a step back, but then refocused her attention on the scar. “I can only imagine what the experience must have been like for you.”

  “I couldn’t tell you.” Rick clenched his fists. He thought he’d feel better, revealing the information, but for some reason he didn’t. “I don’t remember it happening. The injury to my head caused total amnesia. I was able to remember m
y name and that was it.”

  It was now her turn to cause an awkward silence. She stared intensely at his face with her mouth slightly open. With her left thumb, Janet massaged Rick’s forehead. “How horribly traumatic. No family? No friends from before all of…”

  “My family died in the explosion. Dr. Obenchain has been working with me through hypnosis to try to bring my memories back. He also helps me deal with the trauma.”

  “How has that worked out for you? Have any of your memories returned?”

  “Bits and pieces of events. Nothing concrete. The memories always feel like I’m watching a movie. I can see what happened, but I have no emotional attachment toward it. Usually, I can’t even make out the faces of people in those memories. It’s as if they weren’t even real.”

  “You poor thing.”

  Rick’s cheeks began to burn. “I owe Dr. Obenchain a lot, though. In fact, it was his work that influenced me to obtain my license in psychotherapy.”

  “Really?” Janet seemed legitimately impressed. “So you’re a recent graduate.”

  “Yes, it took quite a while, but I finished my classes a little over six months ago. Doctor Obenchain arranged for my placement in the program where I earned my license. He also arranged my first job as a school therapist in New York. For that matter, he recommended me here as well.”

  “He truly is a great man.”

  “I agree.” Rick truly meant it. “In fact…”

  The ringing of the telephone on the wall by the door interrupted their discussion. He strode to the phone and answered it. “Therapy suite.”

  “Miss Miller is ready for you now,” the secretary said.

  “Okay, I’ll be right there,” Rick acknowledged and then hung up. “I have to go,” he said to Janet.

  “Miss Miller?”

  He nodded. “Wish me luck.”

  “Relax, you’ll be fine.” Janet offered a laugh. “Straighten your back. Walk tall and with confidence. I’m sure you will do well.”