A Cure for Madness

by Jodi McIsaac

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. “It’s going to be a long walk.”

  “I’m good,” he said. He slung an arm around my shoulders and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Some adventure, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sure is.”

  We walked in silence for several minutes, with only the chirping of the crickets to keep us company. I averted my eyes as we passed the cemetery. Wes nudged me. “Sure you don’t want to take a shortcut?” he said, and the moonlight reflected off his teeth when he grinned.

  “Ha-ha, very funny. No.”

  “You gonna come back when they bury Mom and Dad?” he asked. It was strange that he still believed life would return to normal after all of this—that someday I would go back to Seattle and he would stay here, and we’d have a proper funeral and burial for our parents.

  “Um . . . if I can, yeah.”

  “It’s going to be weird with them gone,” he said.

  It’s already weird. We continued in silence for at least another mile.

  Then he said, “I’m sorry, you know.”

  “What for?”

  He laughed, the wild laugh that always made me feel slightly uncomfortable. “For this!” he said, spinning around, his arms held out wide. “For being a fuck-up! For being sick in the head! For making you and Mom and Dad suffer. You think I don’t have compassion, but I do. For the people who count.”

  “Shhh. It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “I know. But I’m glad I’m the way I am, y’know? God made me this way for a reason. He has a purpose for me.” I opened my mouth, but he cut me off. “And it’s not to be a guinea pig in some government lab. I know that’s what you were thinking.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I said.

  “Not with me. He tells me his plans.”

  “Oh yeah? Can you fill me in on them?”

  “I’ve told you this before. My calling is to rid the world of demons. It’s why I was created. If I were to let them have a go at my brain, it would be like saying, ‘Fuck you, God!’ I would be turning my back on his purpose for my life.”

  The sight of headlights far down the road interrupted his sermon.

  “Quick!” I said, pulling him into the cemetery. We each crouched behind a tombstone as we waited for the car to pass. It seemed to slow down as it got closer, but maybe that was just my paranoia at work. There was no danger of me moving; I was paralyzed with fright, both from the risk of being caught and from the fact that I was in the middle of a graveyard after dark. Some childhood fears never died.

  “Did I ever tell you about the hooker who was stoned out of her mind and screwed herself on the pointy bits of the fence around the old cemetery downtown?” Wes whispered as we watched the taillights grow dimmer. “She died of internal bleeding.”

  I made a face. “Eww, that’s horrible. And probably not even true.”

  “Need some help?” He held out a hand to me, and I stiffly got to my feet.

  I didn’t look back as we continued down the road. We kept our eyes peeled for headlights and took back lanes whenever possible.

  A couple of hours later, we were on the road leading to the Indian reservation. The sky was full dark now, and both Wes and I were more shambling than walking.

  I froze and grabbed Wes’s arm. Someone stood ahead of us on the path. But it was too late to run. The man pointed a flashlight at us and shouted, “Stop right there!” A click of cold metal punctuated his command. The moonlight glinted off the barrel of his gun just before his light shone full in my face and I could see nothing at all.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Get behind me,” I said to Wes, releasing the safety on my handgun. With my free hand I blocked the light from my eyes. “What do you want?” I said loudly.

  “Put the gun down,” the voice said. “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.”

  I hesitated. Could we make a run for it? My hand tightened on the grip. “Just let us through.”

  “I said, put the fucking gun down!”

  Wes shifted behind me. “Rick?” he said. He took a step forward, his arms in the air.

  The man whipped the beam of light away from me and onto Wes’s face.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. What in God’s name are you doing here, Wes?” Then he pointed the beam at me again. “Tell her she still needs to drop her gun.”

  “Do it, Clare,” Wes said.

  “That’s Clare?” Rick said. “Your sister? What the fuck?”

  “We need your help, man,” Wes said. “That’s why we came.”

  I put the safety back on and slipped the gun into my bag, watching this exchange warily.

  “Well, shit. I’m not supposed to let anyone other than our own onto our land,” Rick said. “We’ve got our own perimeter set up to keep out all those crazy people.”

  “C’mon, man. For old times’ sake?”

  Rick hesitated, but finally lowered his rifle and nodded. “I can’t leave my post unguarded, but I’ll get someone to replace me.” He spoke into a black radio, then turned back toward us.

  “So what the hell’s going on? You’re not in trouble again, are you?”

  Wes grinned sheepishly. “Hell yeah. But it’s not my fault.”

  “It never is,” Rick said. Then he nodded to me. “Hey. I’m Rick. I’d shake your hand, but . . .”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Sorry for almost shooting you.”

  “Um . . . likewise, I guess?”

  “I’m assuming you’ve got a story to tell—everyone does these days—but it should wait. The fewer people who know you’re here, the better—for my ass and yours. Go wait in the truck until my buddy arrives.” He shone his flashlight at a dark pickup parked on the side of the road.

  I glanced at Wes. “You sure it’s okay?”

  He scowled at me. “Of course it’s okay. These are my people.”

  We climbed into the back of the four-seater and waited. A minute later another truck drove up, and Rick exchanged words with the driver. Once the other man had taken up his post in the middle of the road, Rick climbed into the front seat.

  “You guys okay?” he asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror.

  “Yeah, man, we’re cool,” Wes answered. I stayed silent.

  The houses on the reservation were simple one-story structures, with gravel driveways leading from the paved main road. Weeds grew in some yards; flowers in others. The pickup truck seemed to be the vehicle of choice. The reservation area itself was huge, but there were only a couple dozen houses here close to town, plus a gas station and convenience store. The kids all went to the local public school and more or less blended in with the rest of us. Every year on Christmas Eve, our parents would take Wes and me for a drive through the reservation to look at the Christmas lights, which covered nearly every single house around the holidays. The chief’s house was always the most spectacular, with a blinking Santa and all eight reindeer on his roof, plus an army of snowmen on the lawn. My mother loved it. Had loved it.

  Rick pulled into the driveway of a blue clapboard house. We got out and silently followed him inside. Once he’d closed the door behind us, he turned to face Wes, a grin spreading across his face.

  “Good to see you again, man!” he said, and the two of them hugged and pounded each other’s backs.

  “I didn’t know this was your place. Nice digs,” Wes said.

  “Thanks,” Rick answered, as he stripped off the mask he’d been wearing. “Your sister nearly gave me a heart attack out there. Good thing I was on patrol and not one of the other guys. They would have blown your heads off.”

  Now that we were inside, I had my first good look at Rick. He had a lean, athletic build and a long white scar against the brown skin of his shoulder. “You guys clean?” he asked, still holding the mask.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’ve both been tested.”

  “Want a beer or something?”

  “Nah, man, my stomach don’t feel so good,”
Wes answered, and I shook my head.

  “Coffee?” he offered.

  “Hell yeah,” Wes said, and I added, “Please.” Rick led us into the living room, which opened up into the kitchen.

  “Have a seat. You both look like shit, by the way.”

  “We’ve been livin’ rough, man. Crazy shit goin’ on in town.”

  He handed us each a mug of hot coffee, and I clutched mine as though he had given me the Holy Grail. After savoring the first sip, I gave Wes a meaningful glance. “So, do we need to talk to Tony, or . . . ?”

  “Nah, Ricky’s all right,” he said. “Didn’t know you were still here. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Still kickin’, man. Still kickin’. Want me to call Tony over?”

  “For sure,” Wes said.

  Rick pulled out his cell. “Tony? It’s Rick. Yeah, I know. But guess who’s in my house? Guess. Okay, fine. It’s Wes. Yeah, that Wes. No, not yet. Wanna come over? Yeah, okay.” He put the phone back in his pocket and said, “He’s coming over.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I asked.

  “Just down the hall on the left,” he said, pointing.

  I escaped into the sanctuary of the bathroom with my pack, happy to have a door to close behind me. I didn’t look as bad as I’d imagined—Kenneth had managed to clean off most of the blood back in the hen pen, and my hair looked lank but not too wild. At least the bird bones had fallen out. Not that any of it mattered. I ran hot water and washed my hands and face, avoiding the bandage. I dug a brush out of my backpack and tugged it through my hair, then added another layer of deodorant. Feeling slightly refreshed, I returned to the living room.

  Tony had just arrived. He was as lean as Rick but shorter, with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms and a gold stud in one ear. He and Wes were laughing and punching each other on the shoulder. Wes introduced us, and we shook hands. Tony accepted a beer from Rick, and we all sat down.

  “Together again,” Tony said. “I never thought I’d see it.”

  “You still with Crystal?” Wes asked.

  “Yeah, man, she’s awesome. And we’re having a baby!”

  “No way. Congratulations, brother!” Wes said.

  “Thanks. We’re pumped.”

  “So what’s the story, Wes?” Rick asked. “Why do they want you this time?”

  Wes glanced at me, and I took over. It was his story, and these were his friends, but I didn’t know these guys. I didn’t want to risk that they’d take the wrong side. So I told them about how the government had come for him in the night, while we were at our parents’ house, and how they’d come for him again—twice, at Kenneth’s house and the hen pen—after Kenneth and I managed to bust him out. Wes looked like he wanted to interrupt, but I kept talking, giving him little choice but to sit and listen like the rest of them.

  “They told us they wanted to experiment on him, to see how the symptoms of Gaspereau compare to schizophrenia. But Wes has the right to say no—a right they’ve violated over and over again. Now they’re hunting us like criminals, even though all we want to do is mourn our parents and move on with our lives.”

  “Fucking government,” Tony snorted. “Trust them to ignore the real problem and go chasing some innocents.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Rick said. “Why would they go after you, especially when you’re making it so hard for them? Why not pick on someone else?”

  Wes puffed up his chest and opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “There’s more,” I said, wanting to keep the focus on the big bad government and not on the inconsistencies in our story. “I have a friend who works for the NSA. She’s sent us proof that the government was testing biological weapons at a secret lab a few miles from here—and we know there was a leak. We think that’s what caused Gaspereau.”

  “I met this scientist who used to work at the lab,” Wes broke in eagerly. “He was in the psych hospital with me. Kept taking about a program called Project Amherst. But something went wrong, he said. And then he killed himself. Or was killed.”

  “Shit,” said Tony.

  “We think the scientist Wes met was Patient Zero. The government made Gaspereau,” I said. “And now they’re doing whatever it takes to cover it up. My friend at the NSA was careful, but she’s gone silent. I can’t get in touch with her, and I don’t know why. There’s a chance her bosses found out she sent me this info, and that’s why they’re after us. To keep us quiet.” For all I knew, it could be true. Wes wasn’t the only one of value to them now.

  “Did you say Project Amherst?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah,” Wes said.

  “Does that mean something to you?” I asked.

  Rick and Tony exchanged dark looks. “You don’t know your Indian history very well if it doesn’t,” Rick said. “It’s a story every American Indian child learns at some point or another: the first use of biological warfare.”

  Tony nodded. “Dark times, man. When the white man came over, he brought more than guns. He brought diseases that our people had no resistance to. Then one of the generals had what he thought was a great idea. He took blankets that had been used by people with smallpox and gave them to our people. Called it a gift. Wiped out entire nations.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, stunned. They hadn’t taught that in my history classes.

  “I can’t remember the exact numbers,” Rick said. “But something like ninety percent of the native population was killed by smallpox and other diseases from Europe. No natural resistance, like I said. So we got sick and died by the millions, and then the white man just walked in and took over our lands.”

  “That’s horrible,” I said. “But what does this have to do—”

  “The general who had the idea for the blankets . . . his name was Amherst.”

  I sat back in my chair, stunned. “Jesus.”

  “That sucks, man,” Wes said. “But me and Clare aren’t like that, you know.”

  Tony slapped him on the back. “Aw, hell, man, I know that! You’re one of the good guys. But you come from a shitty lineage.”

  “It could be a coincidence, I suppose,” I said slowly. “It might be named after some other guy or place called Amherst. But if you’re right . . . then that’s pretty much confirmation that they were testing biological weapons, don’t you think?”

  “Sounds like it to me,” Rick said darkly.

  There was a long silence, and I met each pair of eyes in turn. We had convinced them.

  “So . . . you guys gonna help us or what?” Wes asked.

  “Fuck yeah,” Tony said, jumping to his feet. “What do you need?”

  “We need to get to Canada,” I said. “Just to hide out until this all blows over. If we stay here too long, they’re bound to find us. But if we get caught over there, we can claim refugee status. Your lands straddle the border, and you guys are allowed to cross it, right?”

  “Yeah, we’re allowed to cross it,” Tony said. “But not you guys. They check for status cards.”

  “Don’t you know someone at the border who might be willing to look the other way?” I said. “I have money.” If they’ll take gold coins and Wayne Gretzky rookie cards.

  “It might have been possible . . . before,” Rick said slowly. “But with Gaspereau, they’ve sealed the border tight. Canada’s not letting in anyone from these parts, not even us. Money’s not the issue. It’s just . . . closed. Even if you claimed asylum, they’d send you back, tell you to go through another crossing. And good luck leaving the quarantine area. I’ve never seen so much goddamn security.”

  My shoulders sagged and my chest ached as though he had punched me in the sternum. Not trusting myself to speak, I pressed my fist to my mouth. Wes was sprawled out on the sofa. How much more of this could he take? He’d only just been released from the psych hospital; he needed stability and rest, two things that didn’t appear to be in our immediate future.

  I took his hand. “Hey. Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

  He grunted. />
  “Sorry we can’t help with the border thing,” Rick said. “But you can hide out here for as long as you need.”

  I stood up and paced, hands on my hips. “Thanks, Rick, but we can’t stay here. They’d find us sooner or later, or someone would see us and call the cops. We can’t give up. There’s got to be a way out of this mess.”

  I stopped suddenly, struck by an idea. “Ohhhh.” I spun around to face the men on the sofa, the ache in my chest easing. “What do you think the government would do to cover up the fact that they’re responsible for Gaspereau?”

  That’s why Latasha had risked so much to send me that confidential document. It wasn’t just interesting information. It was leverage.

  “Anything, I imagine,” Rick said.

  “Including leaving us alone?” I asked, getting out my phone.

  “Maybe,” Tony said. “Or they might just kill you.”

  “This whole ordeal is going to kill us soon. I don’t know about you, Wes, but I’m tired of running. We’ve got the ammunition. I say it’s time to start fighting back.”

  “Yeah!” Wes said, sitting up straighter. “Let’s show those bastards.”

  “I don’t suppose you know much about covering up your tracks online?” I asked Tony and Rick, wishing once again that Latasha was around. I pulled Kenneth’s flash drive out of my pocket. I knew Latasha had to have an encrypted copy of this document somewhere safe; it wouldn’t be like her not to take precautions. But I had to operate as though she were out of the picture—as much as that thought destroyed me.

  Rick and Tony grinned at each other. “I know a thing or two,” Tony said.

  “If anything happens to Wes—or to me, for that matter—send this to one of the big papers. The Washington Post, maybe, or the New York Times. Or Slate or something. The papers will protect your identity as a source. Tell them everything I’ve told you. But make sure you give them the document on here.” I handed Tony the flash drive. “If I don’t check in with you every five days, that will mean they’ve caught up to us, and you should go ahead. Does that make sense?”