Charcot's Genius

by M. C. Soutter

  How nice.

  With the last wisps of his amnesia phase evaporating like a fog in the morning sun, Kline allowed himself a small smile. He rose to his feet, and headed for the cinderblock building.

  The brothers were easy to catch unaware. He saw Jerald first, bent over something at a large work table. Kline approached him with the Hilti at the ready, and by the time the engineer looked up, there was a single-cartridge, .22 caliber nail gun pressed to the side of his head.

  “Don’t move,” Kline said. “Get your other half over here.”

  Jerald did as he was told. “Brian!”

  They were meek academic types, and it took Kline fewer than five minutes to convince them to take the sedatives he was offering. He didn’t want to kill them, he said. He only wanted to prove a point. He would leave as soon as they cooperated. The old “do as I say, and nobody gets hurt” routine. It was a tired strategy. Tired, and predictable. But it was also effective. “Your prototype malfunctioned,” Kline explained. He tried to sound reasonable. As if he were discussing a misunderstanding at the post office. “There has to be some retribution. Take one pill each, and this will all be over. I’m letting you off easy.”

  The smaller brother, Brian, looked at the pill suspiciously. “It won’t hurt us?”

  “You won’t like it,” Kline said. “But you owe me. And this is fair payment.”

  “What if we refuse?”

  Kline inclined his head at Jerald, who was still trembling. Jerald’s eyes moved restlessly, searching for a better view of the nail-gun pressed to the side of his head. “I’ll shoot your brother here with a two-inch roofing nail,” said Kline.

  Jerald winced at the thought, and he gave Brian a plaintive look.

  Kline waited patiently. He could see the mental calculus at work, and he knew that he had already won. Brian would go with the choice that seemed the safest.

  Even though it was the wrong choice.

  They took the pills.

  When they were both unconscious from the thorazine, Kline got to work. First he went looking for restraints. The building was well-stocked, and there were more than enough stainless steel lock-fasteners available. He tied the brothers to a couple of large office chairs, which he then secured to two of the steel support poles that ran from the floor to the ceiling. They would not be able to move. At all.

  He waited until they were awake. Then, with the two of them positioned so that they were facing each other, Kline took his place at Jerald’s side. There was a brief delay while Brian oriented himself. His eyes took a moment to focus, to understand. When Kline was sure he had the man’s full attention, he began firing nails into Jerald’s ears.

  Jerald responded more vigorously than Kline had expected. His screams were startlingly loud, welling from deep inside his diaphragm. For such a frail-looking man, he had terrific power in his lungs.

  Kline did not rush. He pulled the Hilti’s trigger with a studied regularity, being sure that each nail drove home before following it with the next blast. Throughout the process, he kept his eyes locked on Brian.

  To see the reaction.

  Jerald’s screams were music to Dr. Kline, but Brian’s horrified expression was the real reward. Besides, the screams began to dwindle after nail number eight or nine, whereas Brian’s face only grew more twisted with horror over time.

  Afterwards, Kline untied Jerald and let him stumble around for a while, like a boat on a rolling sea. The man was still alive – barely – but his vestibular system had been obliterated by the fifteen nails now embedded in each ear. He looked like a child learning to walk for the first time.

  That’s what it’s like to have no balance, Jerald.

  Kline pushed him to the floor, where his head made a distinct cracking noise as it collided with the smooth concrete.

  Kline grinned. Good fun.

  He turned to Brian, whose expression of fury had become a burning, beautiful thing. His eyes blazed.

  “I. Am. Going. To. KILL. You,” Brian said. His arms and legs strained against the steel ties as he spoke.

  Kline nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Brian. The frustration that you’re feeling. The helplessness. You can see what’s happening, even understand it. But you can’t stop it. And that’s me every damned day.” He sighed. “You’re right here, but you can’t do anything. Look.” He pointed at Jerald, who’s body was now sprawled out on the concrete floor. Blood was pooling up near the crack at the side of his head. He wasn’t moving anymore. “If you weren’t tied up,” Kline said slowly, “you could have done something. Or if you were strong enough to break through those steel straps, you could wrestle this nail gun away from me and call the hospital. Or maybe if you hadn’t agreed to take that tranquilizer an hour ago, then the two of you could have stopped all of this before it had even started.” He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s all about the choices we make, and that’s the real irony. Just like the choice I made two years ago. When I hired you two to build my TMS Isolator prototype.”

  “I’m going to rip out your fucking heart,” said Brian.

  “No, you’re not,” Kline said mildly. “Not after I’m through with you.” He picked up the gardening shears. The new blades twinkled in the overhead lights. “Do you know what it’s like to feel as though your arms and legs are missing?” He paused, then wagged a finger at the engineer, as if he could hear what was going through the man’s head. “No, not paralyzed – that’s not the same thing – I mean missing, as if your limbs aren’t even there anymore.” Kline moved in closer. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  The shears’ cutting mechanism was based on a ratcheted lever pressure design, and Kline was able to remove Brian’s right arm with no more difficulty than if he had been pruning a tree branch. The blades had been designed for slicing through thick sections of wood; they made easy work of tendons and bone.

  Brian passed out from pain halfway through the removal of his left arm, which Kline found disappointing. But he did revive briefly, thanks to an aerosolized stimulant from Kline’s own personal stash. In the few seconds he was conscious, Brian Patton saw all four of his limbs laid out neatly before him.

  Kline smiled for the second time that afternoon. The brief look of horror on Brian’s face made everything worthwhile.

  It was dark by the time Kline finished his work in the prototyping center, so he decided to stay the night. He found a cot in one of the small warehouse offices.

  The morning light woke him, and now he was out on the highway, looking for a ride. Because it was all well and good to use threats – he was trying to induce paranoia, after all – but he still intended to pay Carlisle a visit. He wanted his old partner scared, but he also wanted him dead. And he had a very special disposal method in mind. Something oh-so-appropriate.

  There were plenty of cars on the interstate this morning. Kline wasn’t worried about picking up a ride. The large North Face backpack he still wore made his disheveled hair and dirty clothes look like the result of outdoor living, rather than sloppiness or penury.

  I look like an Appalachian Trail hiker, he thought.

  And who would be afraid of a friendly hiker? No one, Kline hoped.

  The sun was still low over the horizon when a car with Massachusetts plates stopped to pick him up. It was a big old Cadillac, looking as if it could use some maintenance. The driver leaned over as he rolled down the window.

  “Heading North?” he said.

  Kline crouched down to speak into the car. He saw that the man inside was old and weathered, but strong. His arms were thick with muscle, and he had angry eyes.

  “Going anywhere near Dartmouth?” Kline asked.

  The man nodded. “Miracles will happen. Throw your bag in the back.”

  Kline stepped into the car. He was coming into a Scarecrow phase, and sitting down was a relief. The driver glanced at him.

  “Outdoorsman?”

  Kline smiled. “Yup. Got a little winded, though.”

  “
Happens to everyone. Going to catch a rest in Hanover?”

  “That, and visiting an old friend. You?”

  The driver took a breath, as if reminding himself not to shout. “Just going up to say hello to my daughter,” he said. “She’s a freshman.”

  “Bet she’ll appreciate a visit.”

  The man grinned. “Well, maybe. Lots of excitement up there recently. I figured I could use the ‘comforting-father’ excuse.”

  Kline was confused. “Excitement?”

  “Well, the murder.”

  Kline froze.

  Wait a minute. “I didn’t hear,” he said slowly.

  The man shrugged. “I guess you wouldn’t. Not too many chances to watch the news when you’re hiking.” He pointed at the radio. “It was on the morning report. Some professor from the medical center. Killed last night, they said.”

  No. It’s not possible.

  Kline fought to control himself.

  “Did they give a name?”

  The driver paused. “I don’t… wait, yeah. Fred, I think. But different, like it was European.”

  “Frederick?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Damn.

  The driver gave Kline a quick glance. “You know him?”

  Kline shook his head quickly. “Used to have a friend named Frederick, that’s all.” And I was hoping to slice him open like a trout. For starters, anyway. He tried to change the subject. “I’m Nathan.”

  The man nodded. “Good to meet you, Nathan. I’m Martin.”

  The big Cadillac pulled away from the shoulder, gravel shooting from beneath the tires. They were on their way.

  3

  Morning classes at Dartmouth were starting. Students filed into the Psychology 10A lecture hall, chatting in low voices. Professor Carlisle had not yet arrived. Jeff Gooding, the young teacher Carlisle had provoked in the first class, was there at the front. He shuffled papers around the desk, humming to himself. He didn’t seem worried by Carlisle’s lateness. “Okay, let’s get started,” Gooding said.

  The students ignored him.

  He tried again. “Excuse me, class is now in session.”

  No one was listening. There was a buzz going around the lecture hall. “Something’s going on,” whispered a boy near the front. “Carlisle’s never late. Never.”

  “I heard a rumor,” said a girl behind him.

  The boy twisted in his seat. “About Carlisle?”

  “Yeah. He’s not late.”

  “Then where is he?”

  The girl’s eyes sparkled with the excitement of inside information. “He’s gone,” she said breathlessly. “Gone, as in dead.”

  Far in the back, crouching in the last row of seats, Melissa and Lea and Jason and Garrett waited silently. They listened. And they watched.

  Melissa didn’t like what she was hearing. It couldn’t be true – there were no murders on college campuses. Not outside of television. Still, the professor’s lateness was worrisome. He was supposed to be back today. She wanted to speak with him. Badly.

  The other three were thinking the same thing.

  There was more whispering in the lecture hall. Something about a girl in the class who had gone to Carlisle’s office that morning for extra help. And talk of a body. Specifically: Carlisle’s dead, mutilated body. When ten minutes had gone by and the professor had still not appeared, people began leaving the lecture hall en masse. The four at the back glanced at each other, then got up quickly and headed for the rear exit.

  Most of the students went trotting off happily to the dining halls for some late breakfast. Some returned to the dorms to catch up on sleep. But not the four in the back. They went walking away from the main campus. Towards the medical center. On the way, Jason shot a curious glance at Garrett. None of them had seen Garrett since that afternoon in Carlisle’s office two days ago. “So,” Jason said. “What’s your problem?”

  Garrett looked at him quickly. “What?”

  Lea could see the defensiveness on Garrett’s face, and she spoke up. “It’s okay. We’re all going through really weird stuff because of Carlisle’s experiment.”

  Garrett shook his head. “No, Carlisle fixed me. He cured my headaches, put me back to normal. I’ve got no problems.” He glanced at them suspiciously. “Why? What’s happening with you guys?”

  They looked at each other for a minute. Then Melissa shrugged. “I’ve got the nose of a bloodhound, Lea can tell what people are thinking just by looking at them, and Jason remembers everything he’s ever heard or seen.”

  Garrett laughed. “Right.”

  Melissa fixed Garrett with a tired, withering stare. “Hanging out with some swim team girls, are we?”

  “What?”

  “Please.” She lowered her head and took a step closer to him. “Women swimmers have a distinctive odor, Garrett. The chlorine, for one thing. It takes days to wash out of their hair.”

  Garrett was momentarily speechless. He looked at Melissa as if she might be trying to trick him.

  “What are you… I don’t know anything about – ”

  “Yes, you do,” Lea said quietly. “You just don’t want to know. I can see it.”

  “You can see what?”

  “You,” said Lea. “I see your attitude. The specifics of what you say aren’t important. It’s how you say it.”

  Garrett smiled. The absurdity of the conversation was making him feel better, giving him back his confidence. “So you can read my mind? You’re a magician now?”

  “Not your mind. Your face. And your tone.”

  Garrett rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Sounds like something I saw on Copperfield once. And I don’t believe in magic anymore.”

  “Then why are you scared?”

  That made Garrett pull up short. “I’m not – ”

  “Save it,” said Jason, shaking his head. “Lying to Lea is like trying to fool a CT-Scan. It’s a waste of time. She sees right through you.”

  Garrett turned to him. “You’re buying into this crap?”

  “It’s happening,” Jason said with a shrug. “Why argue?”

  “Because you people are talking nonsense. I’m supposed to believe that you’re suddenly Mr. Super Memory? If that were true, why would you be complaining? Why would any of you complain?”

  Jason scowled. “Have you ever gotten a really bad song stuck in your head, Garrett? One that sticks there for hours and hours?” He put a finger to his ear and made a circling motion. “Imagine having every song stuck in here. Every movie, every conversation, every phone call. They’re all on a permanent loop, and I can’t turn it off.” He blew out a long breath. “I’m starting to go a little crazy.”

  Lea nodded in agreement. “I can’t interact normally with people anymore. Everyone looks like a bad actor in a terrible theatre production. Practically everyone is lying all the time. It’s exhausting.”

  “I throw up every five minutes from the smells,” Melissa added. “You wouldn’t believe how many things are nauseating when you can smell them well enough.”

  Garrett tried to laugh, but it didn’t come out sounding right. “You’re all a bunch of nut jobs. But that’s beside the point. I’m not going through anything like that.”

  Lea stared at him. There was a little smile on her face.

  “What?” Garret said.

  “You’re not a very good actor, that’s all.”

  He frowned at her. “I’m not acting.”

  Melissa broke it up. “Suit yourself, Garrett. Either way, we all need to get our hands on that antenna device again. And we’re going to need Carlisle’s help to use it.”

  The medical center was just over the next hill. They picked up the pace.

  The Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center was a mob scene when they arrived. There were police everywhere, and blue barriers had been put in place to keep curiosity seekers at bay. Reporters crowded the area, jockeying for position around the building as if they were waiting for a Hollywood starlet to emerg
e. Photographers passed the time by snapping off pictures of the crowd itself.

  Jason put his hands on his ears, as if the noise from all the onlookers was too much for him. “What is all this?”

  “He’s dead,” Lea said suddenly.

  Garrett turned to her. “What? You can’t know that. Maybe someone just got hurt.”

  “Their faces.” Lea pointed at the policemen. “This is no accident scene. It’s a murder.”

  Melissa nodded “Listen to her. I doubt all this press would be here for an accident. Someone is dead, that’s for sure. But there’s no guarantee it’s Carlisle.”

  Jason looked determined. “I’ll go find out.”

  He walked over to a policeman standing near one of the blue crowd-barriers, then smiled and pointed at the medical building. But the cop shook his head and put his hands up. Jason persisted. The cop frowned and looked angry. Then he shouted something and gestured away from the barriers.

  Jason retreated. He came back to them looking disappointed. “Mind your own business,” he said, imitating the cop’s voice. “Police activity here, can’t you see the barriers? Now back away or I’ll have you thrown in the drunk tank.”

  Garrett stared at him. “Jesus. You sound like a tape recorder.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s my thing now. Want me to recite some poetry? I took a class in seventh grade once.” He turned to the others. “Anyway, that cop was having none of it. Wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  Lea had stopped listening. She was lost in thought, staring at the lines of policemen at the barricades. “Try him,” she said, pointing.

  They looked at the man Lea had chosen.

  Garrett laughed. “The old guy? He’s definitely a hard-ass. Just look at that scowl.”

  “I am looking,” Lea said. “That cop likes to talk. He’s friendly.”

  “What? There’s no way you could – ”

  “Garrett,” Melissa said gently.

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you been listening? You just said yourself that Jason seems like a tape recorder. And that’s because he is a tape recorder.” She nodded at Lea. “This girl can see things. If she says that cop is friendly, then he’s friendly.”