The Rasner Effect

by Mark Rosendorf

  Based on the guy’s stiff posture and the twitching finger on the trigger, Jake was pretty sure the guy had never fired a weapon before. Maybe Jake could keep the guy off-balance, give himself a chance to get away. “If you’re going to use the phone, it’s on the wall. Just please be quick about it, okay? I have a ton of work to do.”

  He took a breath and did the unheard of—he turned his back on the gunman and went back to filling the canned bean display.

  “Hey, I’m serious!” the crook shouted.

  Jake didn’t respond, just kept stacking the stupid-ass cans. The crook walked up to Jake—he saw the shabby sneakers approaching on the black and white checked floor. The gun stabbed into the back of his head. Maybe jerking the guy around wasn’t the best decision he’d made all day. Maybe this would be.

  Like lightning, Jake shot both hands over his right shoulder and snatched the man by the wrist. With a grunt of surprise, the gunman shot over Jake’s shoulder and into the stack of cartons. Boxes exploded. Cans burst into the air. The gun flew out of his hand and dropped at Jake’s feet. Keeping his eyes on the fool, Jake crouched to pick up the gun. He aimed it at the dazed would-be robber.

  “Get up,” Jake ordered.

  The man untangled himself from the broken cardboard. His expression was nothing if not sheepish. Seeing Jake wasn’t fooling around, he raised his hands high. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Your wallet!” Jake demanded.

  “My wha…”

  “Your wallet. Give it to me, now!” Jake held out his left hand while keeping the gun level with his right.

  The man snaked a hand to his back jeans’ pocket.

  “Don’t try anything.”

  He came slowly out with an old vinyl wallet. He tossed it toward Jake who caught it with his left hand. In a single movement, he flipped it open and examined the identification card set behind a foggy plastic cover. “Vincent Kuffrey, twenty eight years old,” Jake read. “Well, Vinny, I guess I have to decide what to do with you now.”

  “Are you going to turn me over to the police?”

  Jake laughed. His voice sounded alien to his ears. He was more nervous than the damned burglar. Could the man tell? He laughed again. “No. I’m not into that whole cop scene. I’d just as soon kill you.” Jake cocked the gun and touched it between the intruder’s eyes.

  “Y-you’re not g-going to kill me?” Vincent tried to step backward but stumbled on the broken boxes. “Come on, man,” he whined.

  “Want to earn your life and your wallet back?”

  Vincent’s head bobbed like one of those dogs in the back of a car window.

  “See all those cans? See those empty shelves?” Jake pointed just in case the guy missed it all. “Those cans need to be on the shelves by the morning, and since I need you out of here before my boss opens the store, I suggest you get started, and quickly.”

  Jake pulled up a carton of cigarettes and sat to watch the man who a moment ago threatened his life. That same man now rapidly stacked cans on the shelves. He kept knocking the pile over because he attempted to make the stack with one eye on Jake. “If you keep having to redo them, you’ll never be done by morning.”

  For the first time in years, Jake truly felt alive.

  ****

  Rick lay on the bed staring at a spot on the dull beige ceiling. Why hadn’t Obenchain called? He’d seemed so anxious for them to meet. Rick uncrossed his feet and crossed them the other way. He was fully dressed in his white shirt, tie, and dress pants, ready for the doctor’s call and a possible trip to his office. Any moment the phone would ring. He considered calling again, but one thing Obenchain had stressed many times over the years was patience.

  Instead, Rick remained still, arms behind his head, feet now crossing the other way. He tried hard to keep his legs straight so as not to wrinkle his slacks.

  He let the altercation with Miller replay in his head, right down to her harassment and unprovoked attack on Clara Blue. He had spent hours so far trying to access his feelings over the situation. She’d called him emotionally impaired. She’d looked him right in the eye when she said it. Was she right? He couldn’t believe it. She and her staff were the ones tormenting those kids. He wasn’t imagining it all. Was he?

  Rick placed his left palm against his forehead. The bump underneath the scar must be permanent. He’d felt it every day for seven years waiting for the swelling to go down. He guessed if it hadn’t by now, it probably wouldn’t. It was strange having only seven years of memories. Strange and depressing, leaving him with a non-stop feeling of inadequacy. No matter what went on in his life, he just never felt like he belonged. Until he started working with Clara. Something about her reminded him of his past life, about someone he knew, or an experience he had; if only he could figure it out. Brookhill Psychiatric Residence, however, wasn’t the type of place where he could figure anything out. That was the one thing Rick was sure of.

  Miller insulted him. Belittled him. And what had he done? Had he stuck up for himself? For Clara? No, he’d done nothing. He knew how he wanted to feel. Should feel. He wanted to be angry, upset, pissed off. He wanted to be uncontrollably pissed off, just like the children Miller insisted he had more in common with than he should. If only those emotions didn’t bring him such pain, a neural side-effect of his tragic injury that still lingered even after so long. He still had a headache from the rage he felt earlier in the day. The intense pain had gone away. He did not want it coming back.

  Rick continued rubbing his forehead. It was a bad habit he started when he first realized he had a scar on his head and no recollection of his own identity.

  “Why did all this have to happen to me?” he shouted, even though he was the only one there. “Why did I have to be on that particular bridge at that particular moment? Where was I even going?”

  Rick lifted his head off his pillow as he realized that, amazingly enough, he had never thought to ask himself that question before. It all felt wrong, but what was the surprise? Nothing ever felt right. It was like he’d been dropped on earth from another planet that fateful day seven years ago.

  Rick looked at the phone yet again then back to the ceiling. What was going on at that particular moment in the Brookhill Children’s Psychiatric Residence? Was Clara out of seclusion? Or had Miller fabricated another reason to stick her favorite target in there?

  Something fishy was going on there. Whatever it was, he knew his own problems probably paled in comparison. At least he was free. At least his prison didn’t have walls with bars over the windows and a padded room, or hypodermic syringes full of sedative.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Clara came to, seated on the cold, hard floor—the only ‘furniture’—of the seclusion room. She half-leaned against the wall, half-tilted on the floor. Her back ached. It always did after her visits to seclusion. Who wouldn’t be sore after hours spent with their arms pinned around them? It’s a horrible feeling to be that way. Unable to move, defend yourself, or even balance. Clara shook the foggies out of her head. The movement sent her over on her left elbow. The doctor’s injection had mostly worn off. She was still groggy, but not too dazed to hear a key inserted in the lock.

  The door opened and the evening residence safety officer stuck her curly brunette head inside. Seeing Clara awake, she smiled. “Are you ready to go upstairs without giving me any trouble?” She was a large lady with a sharp Spanish accent. She’d walked Clara to her quarters too many times over the past couple of years.

  The guard pushed the door the rest of the way open. She wore a navy-blue officer’s uniform with shiny brass buttons that hurt Clara’s eyes. She blinked against the buttons’ eye-like stares.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine p.m., the exact time Miss Miller instructed me to get you.”

  “I won’t give you no more trouble. I’m not going to give anyone a hard time ever again.”

  “I’ve heard this from you many times before.” The officer helped Clara to her feet. “
And yet, I’m constantly walking you out of here, almost nightly, around this time.” She got a grip on the strap at the back of Clara’s straitjacket and led her out of the padded room. She waited until Clara got a step in front, then followed her through the hallway and up the stairs to the sleeping quarters on the third floor.

  “My arms hurt. Take this thing off me. Please?”

  “You know the procedure. I can’t remove your restraints until you’ve been safely returned to your room.”

  The two exited the stairway leading to the top floor. They walked through the hallway and stopped at the fourth of eight doors on the left wall. The safety officer unlocked the door and opened it, allowing Clara to walk in ahead of her. The room was dark. The officer didn’t turn on a light.

  “Hold still.” She untied a multitude of straps then unzipped the back of the straitjacket.

  “I don’t want to go into seclusion no more.” Clara realized her voice was full of panic but she couldn’t help it. And she couldn’t stop baring her soul to this woman. Was that what solitary did to you? Made you blurt out stuff otherwise kept buried inside? “I’m going to control myself from now on, I swear.”

  The guard finished removing the straitjacket, draped it over a beefy arm, and stepped back through the doorway. Her expression made Clara antsy. Then the reason for it came out. “From what I was told by Miss Hefner today. We won’t have to worry about your behavior much longer. The inevitable decision has been made.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Get some sleep, Clara.” The safety officer closed the door, saying, “Have a good night,” just as it clicked shut.

  Clara only pretended not to know what ‘the inevitable decision’ was. She shuffled to her bed and sat, toeing off each shoe and kicking them across the room. She had an upcoming appointment with Doctor Barnes. This was the biggest fear of every patient in the residence. His evaluations usually lasted a week, sometimes ten days. Those she’d seen returned to class afterward—Clara shivered—they were so drugged up they never spoke, never reacted, not even to shouting and yelling. And worst of all, they needed aides to lead them around, like dogs being taken for walks.

  In two years, a bunch of kids, of all ages, came back like that. She didn’t know what happened while they were gone, but she knew it wasn’t something she wanted in on.

  She lay down, tucking one hand under her cheek. She’d always known she’d end up being evaluated by Doctor Barnes. She just hadn’t known when. She finally had her answer—soon.

  Why wouldn’t things go right for her here? She tried to keep her act clean, her temper under control—like earlier—she’d done nothing to that stupid Miller bitch. What made the old cow come down on her like that? Was she still mad over Clara’s insulting comments from over two years ago? She was only thirteen at the time! And how had the director known what Clara said in the therapy session? At first she thought Mr. Rasner had told, but Miller seemed just as mad at him. What the hell was going on?

  Across the narrow room she noted the chain and padlock on her closet. Already her BO was out of control. No shower tonight. Couldn’t even change her shirt. Nothing she could do.

  ****

  Jen paced the expensive carpet in front of a stiff Doctor Obenchain, still seated in the dining room chair. Jorge stood behind him. Derrick sat on the table facing them all.

  As she paced, Jen fingered the revolver in her hands, rubbing the barrel with her thumb, feeling a small nick in the metal. She didn’t think she’d have to use the gun, but it couldn’t hurt to keep it on Obenchain’s mind.

  “Okay, let me get this straight. There is a computer chip in Rick’s head. And it controls his thoughts?”

  “As I’ve explained already. The microchip is against the outer region of the skull. It sends pulses and laser light to the parietal lobes in the brain. The signal suppresses aggression while reacting to negative emotions and violent tendencies. This serves to control the anti-social behaviors he was once prone to.”

  “And the reason he can’t remember who he is?”

  “Through the chip, we are able to cloud long-term memory. This makes him susceptible to hypnotic suggestions, which were used to implant new memories.” Even under the stressful situation, Doctor Obenchain couldn’t hide the pride he took in his work.

  Under other circumstances, Jen might’ve been inclined to admire his handiwork. Right now, however, she was not amused. She threw a glance at Derrick, looking for his input.

  “I’m sure the doctor is simplifying the details for us big-time. Even so, it’s beyond anything I’ve ever heard of, Jennie.”

  “I want to know if it’s possible to do,” she snapped.

  “With military science the way it is, sure. He’s got unlimited money, resources, and technology beyond what the public even knows about. Why couldn’t they invent a chip that could directly affect the brain?”

  With each of Derrick’s words, her ire grew. “And now Rick is forced to live his life as someone else.” Jen gave Obenchain a damning look. “Aren’t there laws against this?”

  “It’s still Rick Rasner!” Obenchain yelled. “It’s a better Rick Rasner. One who’s not influenced by his previous lifestyle. He’s now a productive member of society.”

  “These people don’t follow laws, Jennie,” Derrick stated. “They don’t have a sense of ethics, it’s truly a shame.”

  Obenchain shook his head, not trying to hide his disgust. “You people are heartless murdering thugs,” he shouted, despite the end of Jorge’s rifle poking him in the back of his head. “How dare you speak to me about ethics?”

  “How dare we?” Jen coldly repeated.

  With slow, methodical steps, she stalked up to the doctor and placed her left hand against his chest. Her right hand, holding the pistol, leveled the barrel against Obenchain’s temple. She had to give the old fool credit, he didn’t twitch.

  “How do we fix him?”

  “People will be looking for me,” Obenchain said.

  “Nice try, but you’re talking to a human lie detector.” She put pressure on the gun barrel. Now, the doctor flinched away from it. “Answer the question, Doctor, how do we fix him?”

  Sweat beaded on Obenchain’s forehead. Two drops ran down, met in the corner of his eye and then dropped to his shirt collar. His hands clenched in his lap, the knuckles white. His next words could only heard be by the people closest to him. “The process cannot be reversed.” He took a breath. “And frankly, I would find it hard to believe Rick would want to go back to what he was.”

  Jen cocked the hammer. Obenchain gulped and braced his hands on the sides of the fancy wood dining room chair. His tongue traced a path around his parched lips.

  “Then we really don’t need you anymore, now do we? I guess we’ll fix Rick without you.”

  “Jennie, wait,” Derrick said, but Jen wasn’t listening. She did flick a glance at him. There was sweat on his face too. God! She almost laughed out loud. He really thought she planned to kill this jerk.

  “You ruined his brain,” Jen said, soft and low. “Now I’m going to ruin yours by blowing it out the back of your head.”

  She moved the gun down and put it against Obenchain’s cracked lips. He pulled his head back. Jen kept inching the gun ahead, ’til he could back up no more. Now he sat with his head tipped back against the top edge of the chair. She had to hold the gun almost upright to keep it in his mouth.

  “Jen!” Derrick slid off the table and strode toward her.

  She ignored him. “First you, then your kid.” She began to slowly squeeze…

  “JEN!” Derrick’s hand shot between the barrel and Obenchain’s face, pushing the gun away. “Stop, we need him!”

  She pointed the gun at him in a halfhearted manner. “What for?”

  “If we get Rick back, I can’t reverse this by myself. This stuff is way beyond my capabilities!”

  “You were trained as our computer guy, Derrick. This is what you do.”

&nbs
p; “The chip is in his goddamn head, Jennie. There’s got to be a way to turn it off, but I’m not touching the thing. We’re gonna have to count on this asshole. He will know how to do it. Guaranteed.”

  Jen faced Obenchain, staring into his eyes. “It doesn’t look like he’s going to help us. If he does, we won’t know if he’s playing square.”

  “We have his kid. He’ll help us.” Derrick placed a hand on Obenchain’s shoulder. “Help me give you a chance here, Doctor. Can we shut that thing off or not?”

  Jen turned the gun back on the doctor, whose entire face had gone white. No, not white, more like opaque. Jen liked it better when it was an angry red. This opaque color was just freaky.

  “It is…possible,” the doctor finally replied.

  “Then let’s talk.” Derrick offered Jen a self-satisfied grin.

  “Fine. You two nerds talk.” Jen moved the gun. “But Derrick, if you don’t get an answer, I’m shooting him, then his brat.” She turned away and shuffled past Obenchain, adding, “And then you.”

  Derrick paled visibly. Must be white is the newest rage, she thought. She needed a drink. There had to be a bar somewhere in this place. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Derrick slide his rear end onto Obenchain’s lap and decided the drink could wait a few minutes.

  “She’s quite serious,” Derrick said, “But if this all works out, she may actually let the Obenchain family live. So talk to me, Doc, what can we do?”

  “I want to see my son first.”

  “You will, I promise. But you have to give me something first—you know, to earn the right. Tell me what I need to know. How do we remove that chip of yours?”

  “I already answered that. You can’t. It’s implanted in his head. It cannot be removed without intense and dangerous surgery.”

  “You’ve never had to remove one of these things before?”

  “There is no ‘before’,” Obenchain snapped. “It is a prototype, an experimental project. We never even named it, we weren’t allowed to.”