The Rasner Effect

by Mark Rosendorf

  Derrick rolled his chair toward the kitchen table, which looked like it had been the cheapest one at a flea market. Besides being small and green, it was plastic and wobbled on weak legs. Still no tablecloth but the surface had been scrubbed to a glossy sheen. Jen glared down at him, waiting for a response to her question.

  “I’m a genius. But more importantly, I was right!”

  Jen’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve been through this before, Derrick.”

  “He’s not dead.”

  “I’m not anxious for another wild goose chase.”

  “No wild gooses here, Jennie. He’s alive. And this time, I have proof.”

  Jen’s interest was finally piqued. She dropped her arms and leaned forward, placing her palms on the table. The top hem of her tank top bowed out, exposing those round breasts. She was braless. No surprise.

  Derrick sat up straighter in his chair. His eyes took on a mind of their own. If she bent a little further forward, he might get a glimpse of…

  “Show me what you have,” she barked.

  Derrick slapped his hands together like a dealer ready to hand out the cards. “Take a seat.”

  Jen remained standing.

  “Or don’t, that’s okay, too.” Derrick cleared his throat and waved a hand at his computer. “Now, just to point out, I shouldn’t have been doubted in the first place, especially considering how often my psychic abilities helped our group over the years.”

  “As I recall, your psychic abilities,” she stressed the last two words as though they left a bad taste in her mouth, “were always reported after the fact!” Jen smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You know this is a very sore subject for me. It brings back a lot of pain. So I want you to offer me something—other than your smugness—that I barely tolerated and could never stand, even back when we were kids.”

  Derrick swallowed. How did she always suck the confidence out of him? He drew in a breath. “Okay, remember that chat room I set up online in case one of our own needed to find us? With all the abrupt relocating we always had to do, it kept us accessible to everyone as long as they knew how to get in.”

  “As I remember, I told you a number of years back to kill it off.”

  “Yes you did, and luckily, I didn’t follow your order.” Derrick felt a resurgence of his haughtiness. “I still keep close track of our chat room. I know if anyone signs in—day or night.”

  Jen remained unimpressed.

  “Now,” Derrick continued, “knowing your boyfriend’s lack of computer knowledge, I made sure this IP address and password would lure him into the chat room. He was always so impatient, so quick to jump into situations. It was expected he would get separated from us whenever we needed to retreat. That’s what your father always said about him, by the way. Before we, well you and he…you know.”

  Derrick rolled his right thumb across his neck.

  “And your point is?”

  He stifled a burst of irritation. “It was because of this I made him type in that IP address and password so many times over the years, again and again, until it became instinctive. Were he ever to sit in front of a computer, his fingers would type in that information before his brain could even register what he was doing.”

  Jen, with an annoyed smirk, tapped the knuckles of her right hand against the edge of the table, a signal for Derrick to hurry up with his explanation. He placed both his elbows on the table and slapped his hands together. “Okay, do you remember about four months ago when I told you we had a visitor in our chat room?”

  “I do remember.” Her tone made him glance at her feet—leather-thong sandals, pink nail polish—he expected her to be tapping a toe in irritation. “It was just one of the dozens of times over the last seven years that someone stumbled into that chat room of yours, even without your valid password. It wasn’t the first time you thought it was him.”

  “True, I may have jumped the gun a few times, no pun intended.” Derrick’s eyes rested on the revolver tucked into Jen’s belt. “But keep in mind, every single time someone stumbled into the chat room, I was able to track the user and figure out their identity.”

  Derrick folded his hands and leaned forward, unable to keep a huge goofy grin from spreading across his face. “Every single time, that is, except this one.” He pointed a finger in the air. “There was no username, there was no identity attached to the login.”

  “I remember. And I believe I told you to come to me only if your investigation led somewhere.” Now the toe did start tapping on his linoleum floor. “Has it?”

  “Thanks for asking. As I said, I couldn’t track the user. I believe it’s because I tried the next day and the account was removed from the Internet. Didn’t leave a trace. Naturally, that made it suspect for me. I did, however, manage to track the computer where the login originated.” The toe stopped tapping. He grinned—she was interested. “It came from a computer in a junior high school in Queens, New York.”

  “This is what you called me here for? It could have been anyone…even a child. It proves your system wasn’t exactly foolproof.”

  “This is true, but I checked out the school.” He saw, happily, that this information both pleased and surprised her. “The place seemed normal enough, except for one interesting little fact.” He stopped for a three-count, to build Jen’s interest. “The school had five employees on the clinician line, one of which was hired mid-year. He was suddenly laid off six weeks later due to budget cuts. Hired and then suddenly fired. It’s very rare for that to happen in the school system, mid-year, right?”

  “You found this all out from that little television set of yours?” Jen jabbed a thumb at the computer.

  “Ha, ha. No! I found out when I visited the school. The tour guide showed me the counseling offices. One of them was empty and, you know me, I always ask the right questions.”

  “You took a tour of the school?”

  He nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I said I was looking at the school in order to have my kid attend.”

  Jen gave a snort of laughter. “You having a kid. There’s a joke in its own right.”

  “Touché. The two facts: a school therapist being dismissed mid-year, and an e-mail account suddenly getting wiped normally wouldn’t raise any red flags. That is, no red flags unless you’re looking for it, which I was. I decided to find out who this employee was.”

  “And?”

  “No record at all, at least nothing electronic. But one thing about the New York City school system is that most of their schools are horribly archaic, so even when they do computerize their information, you can bet there’ll be a paper trail somewhere. So, last week, I broke in.” Seeing the gentle rise of her eyebrows, Derrick’s pride surged again. Here was one place he excelled over Jen. “And I found it, an address. The guy lived in a four-family home just a block from the school.” Derrick reached across the table for a stack of index cards. Jen reached out and placed her hand over his, stopping him mid-move.

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  “I visited the apartment house, inquiring about the suddenly vacated apartment.”

  “What did you find,” Jen’s impatience was growing, “besides the fact it was vacated?”

  Derrick stood up and reached for the cards once again. This time, she didn’t stop him. He moved the cards aside, revealing a photograph underneath. He held the picture up and looked at the much-memorized face.

  “I found this very old and lonely landlady. She likes to hold socials with her tenants.”

  “That’s very sweet. So what?”

  “So…she also likes to take pictures at these socials.” He placed the picture in front of Jen, snapping the corner of it on the table for emphasis. He flopped back into his chair, digging in his heels to keep it from rolling backward toward the computer.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “I snatched it from her stack.”

  “You stole it, you mean.”

  He shrugged. “Take a look at th
e third guy on the right at the bottom.”

  Jen picked up the picture and held it close to her face. She turned it one way and then the other. The four-inch by six-inch photograph had eight people. All were smiling for the camera. Derrick watched her eyes widen.

  “Take away that weird outdated haircut where it all hangs in his face, not to mention the unusually hunched posture and who do you have?” Derrick leaned back in his seat, folding his hands behind his head.

  “It’s him,” she said, with both shock and amazement. She remained quiet for over a minute.

  “I don’t believe it,” she finally admitted. “Why hasn’t he contacted us and where has he been?”

  “I can’t answer the former,” Derrick replied. “But I have a theory on the latter. Four of the people in that picture live in the old lady’s building. Two of them I tracked down as being relatives of others in that picture. The older guy with his arm around our boy there, he’s another story altogether.”

  Jen’s eyes rose from the photograph to Derrick.

  “I could not find an identity on him, and that made my brain itch.” Excitement made him speak faster. “Among hours of other sites, I hacked into a few military databases. Sure enough, there he was, Lieutenant Colonel Doctor Harold T. Obenchain. He specializes in medical psychiatry and neural experimentation.”

  Jen’s eyes narrowed in anger. They peered back and forth from Derrick to the photograph she’d placed in the center of the table. Slowly, she sank into a plastic bucket chair that matched the table.

  “Obenchain recently rented a studio villa in Brookhill, Pennsylvania. It’s in the same area where Obenchain’s current address is located.”

  “And you think it’s...”

  “I’d bet my life on it!” Derrick anxiously shouted.

  A hopeful determination, and a devious grin, filled the face of the young lady sitting across from him. “That is interesting. I have to admit, you may have stumbled onto something. If you have your facts correct.”

  “There’s one more little piece of information that should drive it home. Guess which of our favorite generals this Obenchain guy worked under?”

  Jen did not have to guess; she knew exactly who Derrick referred to. “Straker.”

  “Exactly. The pieces of the puzzle fit together, Jennie. There are still some questions, but right now, I can say for certainty, he didn’t die on that bridge after all. Rick Rasner is alive! He’s out there and we can go get him.”

  Jen stood up from her seat, and walked around the table. Derrick turned his chair to face her. “You’ve done good work here. I commend you. We are going to go get him! We are going to find out what the hell happened to him.” Jen patted Derrick on the top of his head, a move that brought a cocky grin to his face. “You’ve been an asset to our organization and the only one of us besides me who Rick truly trusted.”

  Derrick nodded, feeling clever indeed. Suddenly, Jen swung a right hand and whacked him across the cheek. The impact knocked him to the floor. The chair half flew, half rolled toward the computer desk and slammed into it with a crash. The monitor shook, the screensaver blinked twice. He crouched on all fours, afraid to look at her—but afraid not to. She did, after all, tote a gun in her waistband.

  “But in the future,” she said, peering down at him. “When you give me information…” She clenched both fists. “Make sure you are looking at my face and not my breasts, and if you’re wrong about this, Derrick, I WILL be taking you up on that bet.”

  As Jen’s serious eyes stared down at Derrick, her lips formed a confident smirk. “Now, get on the phone and get some of our people here right away. We’re putting The Duke Organization back together!”

  Chapter Nine

  It was mid-day at the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence and business took place, as usual. Students sat in their classes waiting for the lunch bell to ring. Rick finally started to get his bearings in the facility, although with only three floors and his job primarily keeping him on one, it hadn’t taken long.

  Using his newly acquired key, Rick entered the classroom for the sixth and seventh graders. Mister Royal sat behind his desk in the front of the room while his students, three boys and two girls, copied work from the blackboard into their notebooks. Rick entered with another boy whom he returned to class from his therapy session. The boy slid into his seat at the back.

  “Copy what’s on the board, Sheldon,” Royal instructed the student.

  Without a response or acknowledgment, Sheldon flipped pages in his notebook. This brought about a nasty glare.

  “I will repeat myself, Sheldon,” Royal shouted. “Copy what is on the…”

  “I heard you!”

  Mister Royal marched to the back of the classroom. He towered over Sheldon who gazed at the notebook with ingenuous, but insolent eyes. Royal slammed his fist on the wood desk. The books jumped, the boy’s head lifted.

  “Don’t you dare give me attitude, boy, I am not feeling you today.”

  Fear etched a path across Sheldon’s face. If Royal was trying to intimidate the child, it worked. He then turned his attention to Rick.

  “Are you picking someone else up, Mr. Rasner?”

  “I am.”

  Before he named anyone, some of the children waved their hands in the air. One boy pointed to himself while another shouted, “take me.” Rick stifled a grin at their obvious attempts to get out of class.

  Royal spun toward the children and screamed, “Hey!” shooting them all a threatening look. “Mister Rasner, if you are here to take someone, please do so immediately!”

  Rick signaled to Clara, sitting by herself in the corner by the window. She was the only child not beckoning frantically. She dropped her pen across her notebook and stood up. She strode to the door on silent sneakers, not looking Royal’s way as she passed his desk.

  “You’re still responsible for this work, Clara.”

  “I know,” she said and then swooshed from the room, mumbling, “It’s the same damn work from last year.”

  Once in the therapy suite, Clara leaped onto the chair in front of Rick’s desk. He entered, nodding to Janet behind her desk, reading her Bible as he’d seen her do many times. While settling himself in his chair, Rick wondered if she ever saw the students from her caseload.

  He smiled at Clara. “How’s everything?”

  “I’m okay.” She sounded a little more chipper than the last time they met. Her eyes, however, still had the same beat-up expression. She wore the exact same red shirt from a few days ago. It now looked even more worn and unwashed.

  “Didn’t I see you in those same clothes the other day?”

  “Yeah. It’s one of the rules here.”

  “What do you mean?” Rick didn’t know which rule she meant. Then again, he had never been briefed on any of the rules or policies of the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence. He learned them as he went along.

  “From the other day when I was put in seclusion,” Clara explained. “When you go in there, Miss Miller has your clothes closet locked for a week—we can only wear the ones on our backs.”

  “She locks your clothes closet as a consequence for bad behavior?” Rick found the idea more than a little over the top.

  “Yeah, we even have to sleep in them. It sucks.”

  “How long have you been wearing that same shirt?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”

  Rick changed the subject. “What do you do when you’re not in class?”

  “Pretty much nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.” Her eyes rolled with disgust. “After school, I eat dinner if I like what they’re having. I usually don’t. Then I go to my room where I’m locked in until morning.”

  Rick made a mental note of her comment about not liking the food served in the residence. Perhaps that was why she was so thin. He wondered if she’d always been this skinny, or if it happened while she’d been here? Rick decided to investigate furthe
r, but at a later time.

  “So, you’re in your room every single evening. What about the weekends?”

  Clara thought for a moment. “On Sundays, I go to church service downstairs.”

  “Are you religious?”

  “Nah, but I go because the room is cool in the summers and warm in the winters. I’m also out of my room. It gets lonely in there sometimes.”

  “You don’t have a roommate?” Rick understood that most students were paired off for room assignments.

  “I used to have one but she left a long time ago. I’ve been alone since.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Clara shrugged. “They don’t tell me nothing around here.”

  “What about the activities offered in the evenings during the week?” Rick remembered other children telling him during their sessions about various activities, like arts and crafts and such.

  “Miss Miller says I don’t earn the right to do evening activities.” The venom in Clara’s voice was clear. “I think she’s mad because I won’t work on her stupid-ass farm.”

  “How come you won’t work on her stupid-ass farm?” Rick mimicked her words with a hint of levity.

  Clara looked up wearing an annoyed expression and raised shoulders as if the answer was too obvious for a response. “I’m from Brooklyn, I’m no goddamn farm girl. Screw that.”

  “It is a chance to be outside, and not be stuck within these walls all the time.”

  “I tried the farm once back when I first got here. I hated it. My hands were dirty for a month.” Clara raised her hands and examined them. Her fingernails were bitten down to the bone.

  “Clara, what does your grandmother think of you being in this place?” Rick thought getting her to discuss her family would improve her mood. A mistake, as her mood turned sour.

  “I don’t know,” she said as she slumped into her chair and started her heavy breathing. “She doesn’t really know about it, I don’t think. I haven’t said nothing to her in a long time since I’ve been stuck here.”

  “When was the last time you two spoke?”

  Clara’s eyes suddenly glazed; her expression turned hateful. “I don’t remember. I haven’t had phone privileges in a long while. It was like months and months ago, maybe longer.”