“Yes, and Ben—or Ethan—sure fucked that life up. He would’ve been better off if we had killed him back then. Look what’s become of him!”
Michael looked at Ben on the ground. He might as well have been a corpse.
“What do you think Mr. Kalispell will do to us if we let Ben live a second time? Hmm? If we fail and jeopardize the program again?”
“So what if we fail him again? Who gives a shit what he orders us to do? He’s a corporate bigwig, not our commanding officer—and we’re not at war. None of this is important, Iain. Who the fuck is Mr. Fucking Kalispell to give us a kill order?”
“You want to know who he is, Michael? You want to know who Mr. Kalispell is? He’s a person with a lot of power, a lot of resources, and a lot of money. So many resources, so much money, and so much power, that he knew all about you and Dr. Wulfric saving Ethan this entire time, and did nothing but sit back and watch.
“You tried to make it look like an accident, like Ethan somehow made it to his car and drove to the lab, but you failed. You wanted us to have no other choice but to proceed the way Dr. Wulfric wanted and use that crazy program that Dr. Wright had just finished. I think all along you’ve known that Mr. Kalispell’s been onto you. You can feel it when you’re in the room together, you can see it in his eyes.”
The blood in Michael’s veins pumped hard, and his cheeks felt hot.
Iain continued, “Mr. Kalispell was suspicious of you from the beginning, and his suspicions turned out to be correct. Your phone’s been tapped, and still is. So is mine. So is everybody's. We know you and the doctor were in it together. Fuck, Mr. Kalispell was so upset that he ordered me to dispose of Dr. Wulfric following the wipe on Ethan’s mind. He’s lucky to be alive. The only reason that he is still alive is because Lucy can’t exist without him. It’s a good thing for him that he accepted my offer to come back; otherwise, I was instructed to eliminate him at his house when I spoke to him by the pond.”
“And me?”
“What about you?”
“Were you ordered to dispose of me as well?”
“Michael.” Iain sighed. “This is your last chance. You can make things right. Get the syringe from the bag, and stick it in Ben’s—or Ethan’s—arm. Whatever you want to call him. That’s an order.”
“The syringe isn’t in the bag; I threw it in the woods. I don’t have to take orders from you, Iain. This isn’t the army. At some point you went astray. You think murder is acceptable. What we did in the army—what we had to do—was different. Maybe some of the things weren’t right, I don’t know. The things I’ve done—the things I’ve seen—have tortured me over the years, given me countless nights of anguish, and I know deep down that what we’re doing here is far worse. Murdering an innocent man is not acceptable. The fact that you think it is acceptable makes me believe that you’re no longer fit to be leading this operation. I’m taking over as team leader, and my first order is for you to stand down and help me get Benjamin Walker out of here. Alive. This is your last chance, Iain.”
Iain laughed.
Michael’s hands formed into fists as the gap of silence between the two men thickened. He knew Iain wasn’t going to stand down, and he also knew that there was no way out of this. Even if he did kill Ethan, Mr. Kalispell would still dispose of him as well. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon, he would be a dead man. He was a loose end that had to be cleaned up.
Michael’s eye twitched, and Iain raised his silenced pistol, but Michael was quick and grabbed Iain’s arm, twisting it to the side. Iain moved his body in the direction of his twisting arm to avoid getting pinned. Michael grasped Iain’s wrist. They struggled on their feet, their bodies close together.
With his free arm, Iain tried pressing his elbow into Michael’s throat, but Michael kept twisting Iain’s right arm back, causing too much pain for Iain to get any leverage. They went around and around in a circle, their arms locked, until Iain’s back hit the wall. Michael used the extra weight he had on Iain to pull him back, and then smash their bodies back up against the wall, repeatedly. Iain’s grasp on the pistol weakened and the gun fell, clattering over the floor. Iain was able to twist his arm free and the men jumped apart, the gun between them. They froze, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Here, Iain. You forgot this in the car.” Michael dug in his pocket and tossed Iain’s cell phone on the ground.
“So what?”
“I saw your phone light up when I was reading the text Dr. Wulfric sent me. You left it attached to the charger. It lit up with the same text message I just received, only you didn’t get the message from Dr. Wulfric—you were having all of my calls forwarded to you, personally tapping into my line. I went through your call log, and saw the messages from Mr. Kalispell. I know you were ordered to eliminate me if need be. Tonight. I should have killed you outside, but I didn’t. I wanted to give you a last chance—a final chance to redeem yourself, be the man that you once were, back when you had honor.”
“Get over yourself. I was giving you one last chance to redeem yourself, be the man that you should be now, and do the right thing.”
“Do the right thing? Christ, look at yourself. Look at what you’re doing! Look at what you’ve become—look at the monster that you’ve turned yourself into!”
They circled the room, the gun in the middle, both men fully aware of each other’s formidability.
In a blink of an eye, they both leaped at each other, meeting in the middle and crashing to the floor. They twisted, grabbing at each other's throats, eyes, ears—punching, kicking, kneeing.
Iain got on top of Michael, his forearm wrapped around Michael’s throat, and he pulled his body back, his legs wrapped around Michael’s torso. The air and blood traveling between Michael’s head and body stopped, and he felt as if his head would explode.
Michael bucked his body, pulling forward with all his might, and he threw Iain off. They both scrambled to their feet, facing each other again. Iain’s nose let out a trail of blood that soaked the front of his disheveled shirt, and Michael took a deep breath of air into his lungs. Blood trailed down into his eye. He must have been cut, but he felt no pain.
They were both out of breath. They weren’t as young and limber as they had been in their army days. Iain began taking off his suit jacket with deliberate moves, and Michael did the same. They circled each other all the while, eyes locked, tossing the coats to the side, and loosening their shirt cuffs and ties. Buttons were already missing, and Michael’s shirt was torn down the side.
Iain lunged first, going for Michael’s throat, and they locked up, still standing, grabbing, pulling, and pushing with all of their strength for an advantage. Michael slid his hand in his pocket and removed a cylindrical device, trying to keep Iain’s eyes away from glimpsing the shimmering metal near his face. It was the syringe. Michael had lied about throwing it in the woods, and now he used all of his strength trying to press the sharp needle into Iain’s neck, but Iain’s arms were locked with Michael’s, and he was pushing him back formidably.
Their faces were close enough to touch, when Michael suddenly head butted Iain at the bridge of his nose, hitting him with such force that Iain saw a flash of bright light, and blood poured from his nostrils. The needle jumped forward, missing Iain’s neck, but sinking into the flesh at the edge of his forearm. Michael pressed the plunger at the same time, unaware that the point of the syringe had passed through the skin to the other side, sticking out in the air.
Iain let out a roar, twisting his body with all of his might, throwing them both against the front door. The door broke off its hinges, and they crashed to the ground outside. Michael fell heavy on his back and rolled, the air knocked out of his lungs. The needle broke and flew off in the grass. Iain got to his feet and ran back inside to grab the dropped pistol.
He turned, pistol in hand, and fell to a knee, grabbing the doorframe for support. His vision was vivid and pulsed in concert with the quick beating of his hea
rt. The darkness all around him seemed brighter. His arm was warm with blood and covered with wet heroin.
The needle … must have gotten some … in my blood …
He rose to his feet. He was on the verge of total disorientation and was trying desperately to stay conscious. There was a lot of heroin in that needle; he had no way of knowing how much made it into his body.
When he got back outside, Michael was on his feet, hobbling away from the cabin with a piece of splintered wood sticking out from above his right kneecap.
Iain aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The silenced pistol made a whooshing sound as it fired, but the shot went wild, thwacking into the ground several feet away from Michael. But Michael fell all the same, grabbing the leveled edge of an old tree stump for support. His leg was bleeding fast; the jagged piece of wood had gone straight through the fleshy part of his thigh and scraped the bone. He thought it might have hit an artery. He turned and tried to stand, but he fell, his back against the side of the stump.
Iain approached, his steps wavering and unsteady. He blinked long blinks, trying to shake away the flashes of light going through his mind. His head felt like a balloon that was rising into the sky, soon to get away from him.
Michael grasped the wound above his knee. I’ve lost. I tried my hardest, but I’ve lost. I’m so sorry, Ethan … I tried.
Iain stood over Michael, the gun so close that Michael thought he could reach out and grab it, but knew he shouldn’t try. The long barrel wavered before his face as Iain steadied himself, squinting one eye down the sights on the barrel.
Michael grabbed at his injured leg, squeezing the flesh above the jagged piece of wood to slow the bleeding. He felt something under his other hand, buried in the grass, heavy like a stick. He traced his fingers over the splintering shaft, feeling the cold-rusty metal at the end. He knew what it was, and without a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed and swung the old axe from his sitting position. The still-sharp blade crashed into Iain’s hand, sending the gun along with a chunk of Iain’s thumb and a part of a finger flying through the darkness. Iain could only stare dumbly as his drug-numbed mind tried to process what just happened.
The axe handle splintered in Michael’s grip. Pieces of the wood flew off with the swing, lost with the gun and Iain’s fingers. Michael pushed himself up on his good knee and swung the axe again in the opposite direction. The blunt end crashed into the side of Iain’s head making a sickening crack noise. The wood splintered completely and the metal head broke free. Iain’s body twisted in an awful and unnatural position and he stumbled backward, but did not fall.
Blood poured from various openings on his head and face, turning his features a slippery red and making him look crazy in the moonlight. Michael tried to level himself, but the swing had taken all of his strength, and he fell to his side. Iain’s eyes were wide, the blood dripping down his face looked black as ink in the night, and he was wild—insane. The adrenaline counteracted the euphoria from the heroin, and Iain’s left hand groped for something on his belt or in his pocket: a knife perhaps, or maybe that old Taser of his. Michael turned onto his back to face Iain. He probably couldn’t ward off another attack, but he would try.
Iain made a snapping motion with his wrist and a black-steel telescoping baton expanded in his hand. Michael looked at him. Iain was smiling—actually smiling—with blood pouring out from open wounds. This would be it—the end of the line for Michael Bennet. This smiling, laughing, crazy, drug-fueled man would have his kill. He would whack away, and the metal baton would break through the feeble piece of wooden axe handle Michael clutched before him like a shield. It would break the bones in his fingers, hands, and forearms, and then reach his skull, where it would continue to bash away on his face until the metal end hit dirt. Michael could only hope it would be quick, just a few blows until his arms were worthless, and hopefully, he would be unconscious as Iain continued to slaughter him.
Iain stepped forward, his grip on the baton tight—when the unmistakable crack of a bullet echoed.
It happened so quickly that Iain didn’t even know what hit him. His body twisted and crashed to the ground, looking as if a car had slammed into the side of his body.
“Jeeesus!” Michael’s voice scratched out. He shielded his face with his forearm, hoping that would be the only shot. He pushed himself up on an elbow and saw a ragged man in the doorway of the cabin, clutching the wooden frame for support. “Ben, is that … is that you?”
Ben’s hand went limp, and the pistol fell to the ground. It was Michael’s own pistol, lost when Iain had punched him in the jaw.
“Stay right there, Ben.” Michael’s throat was still constricted from being choked, and his words strained. “Don’t move, Ben … I’m coming.”
Michael pushed his back against the old stump, using the broken axe handle for support. “Ben! Stay with me Ben.” His breathing was fast and labored. Ben fell to his knees in the doorway then toppled over sideways.
“No! Stay with me, Ben! Stay with me!”
Michael got his butt on the stump, and sat there heavy for a minute catching his breath.
“I’m coming, Ben,” he said. “… I’m coming.”
Chapter 25
There were footsteps coming down the hallway.
After spending two hours alone in silence, Michael could easily make out the slight creaking of floorboards and the shuffling of shoes against carpet as the man stopped before the door and slipped a key into the lock.
A moment later the man was inside, closing the door to his office behind him and locking it.
He didn’t see Michael right away. First, he turned on a light switch, illuminating the room in a dim, tranquil light. The man was halfway to his desk when he saw Michael out of the corner of his vision. He stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to face him.
Michael was sitting on a leather couch on the side of the room. Mr. Kalispell just stood there, his briefcase swaying in his hand, his suit freshly pressed, and his hair and face neatly groomed.
His expression was hard to read, but Michael was good at deciphering the tiny nuances, the micro-expressions, in a person’s persona. Mr. Kalispell was at first frightened at seeing someone in his locked office, although he did not react. Then he saw Michael, and being the smart man that he was, his mind immediately processed why Michael was sitting alone in his office, alone in the dark. Michael knew he wanted to ask, ‘What are you doing here? Where’s Iain?’ but he knew the answers to those questions.
Instead, he nodded to Michael and said, “Good morning, Michael.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kalispell.” Michael gestured for Mr. Kalispell to take a seat.
Mr. Kalispell went to his desk, put his briefcase down and loosened his tie. “So, here we are,” he said.
“Indeed.”
“I suppose it would be of no use explaining to you the consequences of your recent actions.”
“You would be correct in your assumption.”
Mr. Kalispell put his feet up on his desk, leaning the chair back as far as it would go and let out a deep breath. Involuntarily, Mr. Kalispell’s eyes flicker to the middle file drawer, only inches from his hand. When he looked back up, Michael was shaking his head. Michael had already searched the desk and found the Walther P22 pistol tucked in the back.
“So then,” Mr. Kalispell said. “Let’s talk,”
“Yes, let’s talk. Would you like to go first?”
Mr. Kalispell shook his head. “You already know what I’m going to say.”
“All right then.” Michael sat back in the couch, crossing his legs, careful not to bump his stitched-up thigh. “Let’s go back, back a few years, to when Lucy was in development. Back when we recruited Ethan Moore. The boy was troubled, quite troubled. He made some bad choices, and the consequences of his actions were detrimental, to say the least. However, there was a time, before his actions went too far, that you were willing to work things out with him—bribe him and let him go on
with his life.”
“Michael, if you’re thinking that’s even a remote possib—”
“No, Mr. Kalispell, I don’t think a bribe is a willing possibility.”
“I would like to remind you that I have enough information connecting you and Peter Wulfric to this experiment that the authorities will have no problem throwing the two of you in jail for the remainder of your years.”
Michael shrugged. “At this point, jail beats many alternatives.”
Mr. Kalispell’s forehead furrowed. “Excuse me?”
“Sure, you have information on us. So be it. We’ve known that was a possibility this entire time. So, after you sent Iain to coerce Dr. Wulfric at his home, the doctor and I came up with a plan.”
“And what plan was that?”
“We gathered our own information; copies of every shred of paperwork, all the notes, experiment results, signed release forms—everything.”
Mr. Kalispell mulled this over. “Maybe so, but I had Iain sign all of the paperwork relating to Lucy. Hell, even this property is under a false company name. It would take more than just paperwork to tie me to the project, or to Ethan Moore.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so.” Michael smiled. “Here, I have something for you.” He dug into his pocket, producing a small USB flash drive. “Catch.”
He tossed it across the room, and Mr. Kalispell jumped to catch it.
“What’s this?”
“Audio recordings. You can keep that copy; I have plenty more. I made that one for you. Do you want to plug it in and have a listen?”
Mr. Kalispell was silent.
“I’ve been wearing a wire ever since you threatened Dr. Wulfric. I had a sneaking suspicion that if you were willing to eliminate Dr. Wulfric, you would also be willing to do the same to me. Was I wrong in my assumption?”
Mr. Kalispell remained silent a moment longer, but realizing there was no use in denial, he said, “No, you’re not wrong.”
The Experiment of Dreams Page 25
